They say you can only love once. Two years ago, I remember starting the familiar route on NH-58 from Roorkee to Delhi- inconsolable, 2 cartons of cherished junk (including a set of 10-odd bottles, the first I bought, the first I drank from, the one we had when I got my first job etc) and a now-married guy on the back seat. It’s a lot easier to fall in love when you’re 18, college does that to you. And when you’re in a long-forgotten town that’s just wonderland to the few that have the honour of studying there, the town can never let your heartstrings be. Graduating was inevitable, coming to Joka was not. True to the course offered, I always figured it would purely be a business transaction. I was going there to get a good job and a better girl, not necessarily in that order. Did I just hear a derisive snort quickly disguised into a cough?

This place was really far too hot. And humid. And what was it with all these characters who could swear, 3 hours into the campus, that all of it was just Too Cool? And Super Awesome? I remember listening to Early Days for the first time, and posting how I felt that the song suggested that people spent two happy years at Joka, and that a year from then, I’d like to be one of them. My head-over-heels moment was so unspectacular it would make the Texas Chainsaw Massacre seem romantic. It wasn’t JBS, or Samhar, or that-party-that-happens-during-Remni. It was just an inconsequential day when I was walking to OH from Tata Hall for breakfast. It really hit me then, how badly I would miss that walk, the lake on the right, the hostel on the left. How two years were never really going to be enough and there would always be people I would wish I’d gotten to know better. And most importantly perhaps, how worshipping Sachin didn’t mean you couldn’t have a United flag on your bedroom wall. The Roorkee umbilical cord being what it was, it was to a friend there that I made the call. Not to talk about the profound realization, but just to talk. Because that’s what I do best.

I would have quizzed anywhere I went. I could possibly have won Nihilanth from another campus. But it was only here that poetry could have spouted as readily as Salman Khan discarding his shirt, and only one board that could have claimed verse to be better. This very page was as much an accident as anything else. It was Nagaraj’s witty ppt that brought me to the JT dinner and one of the wisest men I would have the chance to meet that kept me there when, half an hour into it, I was wondering why I’d turned up in the first place. A phone call from Belgium was what made me truly realize what placements did or did not mean. A mundane gtalk chat led to the creation of the Masked Manager, a name I’d thought was silly until the girl I was chatting with felt that it had a nice ring to it, and her artful persistence that kept the odd article coming. The new much-appreciated look was all thanks to the guy who’s writing prowess far exceeds his footer-god claims, and I’ll never really figure out how he got a lazy been-there-done-that slob like me to actually call meetings. Joka does funny things to you. And in case you were wondering about that girl I was going to meet, Sautele suddenly became what the Farmhouse had been in Roorkee. The guy who said a leopard didn’t change its spots really did know a thing or two.

The craziest part is that this is just one story. One of 400 that make up this batch, which in turn is one of the 47 and counting that make up Joka. Some of you would find it co-incidentally similar to yours. The rest would have closed the tab by now and opened cricnfo to check the score. However, readily, hesitantly or unknowingly, we’ve all been seduced by the wily old spirit that chuckles every time a pair of fresh young feet take the left turn from Diamond Harbour road and goes on to become an inextricable part of them even up to the day they accompany their own set of fresh young feet 25 years later. Cunning and lovable as the fellow is, time is more than a worthy adversary for all. The quill must cease, the mask must be grudgingly taken off- one day it shall perhaps be rediscovered and like the Watchmen, spawn a new era of heroes. Till then, au-revoir Joka. As I said two years ago to Roorkee, it can never be good-bye.

So thank you for finding inside a skeptic 21-year old, the student that had been hidden for the better part of 4 years and the bowler that had always suspected he could swing the ball. Thank you Joka, for the n things, some similar, most different, that each of us will most dearly recount to remember you by. Thank you for the opportunities, the elation and the magical moments that being part of you has mandated. Thank you Joka, for accepting me as one of your own, for making me not stay but belong. And thank you Joka, for life after Roorkee.

They say you can only love once. But then, they also said you couldn’t place a batch of 400 in 5 days.

-MM/Saagar

“MM- my dear fellow. You guys really have it too easy,” my friend from the dry campus opined, eyes furtively darting to the JD khamba that adorned my bookshelf. “You don’t say?” I began, consolation mode firmly launched after having shot down my first peg and having made the monumental decision of whether the next one should be with coke or on the rocks. “You guys don’t have it that bad either. Your veg food might compare favourably with our non-veg fare. Your city has lookers, ours has hookers. And who’s to say which Modi is better or worse?” His response to this magnificent display of wit and eloquence was to pour himself a large and sigh contentedly. Rain, it is said, has a similar effect on a desert.

It was in that familiar inebriated state that I decided to do the impossible- dwell on all that is not rosy and er, pinky, in Joka. The whispers started doing the rounds- the Masked Manger is about to crib. An eerie wind blew, heads rolled in shock and Stevie Me paused midway through his dive. And then I sat down to write this column.

First of all, I fail to comprehend why an activity that forces one to revise all concepts of probability, that tests courage, analytical ability and powers of memorization apart from being a perfect training ground for the traders of tomorrow, is discouraged from being practiced in public. Honesty, it was said, demanded that you put your cards on the table. Not any more, apparently. The flops, turns and rivers along with the pairs, straights and quads now have to be surreptitiously restricted to hostel rooms. The mess has to be replaced by its literal version, beds groaning under the weight of 20 players grimacing to sounds of “My name is Geela” emanating from the vicinity.

Then, on the 27th of Feb, I was going to navigate my way through 101 crows and an equal number of traffic jams, credit for which will no doubt be equally shared by the rise of Didi, the fall of Dada and perhaps the extinction of the Dodo, to get to see God in action against the blighters. The other fellow who’s sometimes also known as God somehow confused this Eden Gardens with the one that had seen the Original Sin and punished mankind all over again. Jeetbo had long been discarded, it appears as if Korbo is going the same way. Curses be upon your six artificial packs, Essar ke.

I’d go home to get away from it all, but the taxi fare that the drivers at the gate charge has finally managed to exceed the return airfare to my hometown. My valentine date is going to be the Dalai Lama, who will also ensure that the Chinese I-bank which was going to give me that eight-figure offer stays at bay. Winter made its presence felt for all of two days after which it was back to “Sweat, child o’ mine”. And in a matter of months, my association with the land of 7 lakes will be limited to yearly days in Joka at best.

Lastly, I wonder when we’ll change our admission policy enough to witness some girly days in Joka.

-Masked Manager

Co-incidentally, one week now stands between you and that particular tryst. 7 days; 168 hours; multiply above figure by 60 minutes and that by 60 seconds. Any words of advice ’ere would fall on ears advised beyond their years. Yes, the days ahead are long. Yes, there are miles to go before you sleep. Yes, there are n books to be hit and even more answers to polish. But from my own masked countenance, all I can offer, before you get that coveted offer, is that it’ll all be worth it. And it is these hours that you’ll be signing off when you declare on that priceless scrap of paper, that XYZ is out of the placement process. After all, haven’t countless wise men, and more recently Harvey Dent, declared that the night is always darkest before dawn?

There are always questions raised about why we don’t let professionals do this job. The debate can go on forever- each side has some pertinent things to say. And again, all I can contribute is that 6 months ago, as I watched some of my seniors who’d  been of immense help to me during my own interviewing days, suit up, sweat it out and get the top recruiters in the world to offer them a place on the team, the part of me that was offering water, getting food ordered for recruiters and recruitees alike and generally doing all it could to make itself useful during those intense moments, felt as though it too had played a part, however, inconsequential, in bringing about a quintessential happy ending. Academically, it was one year since I joined Joka, yet I felt that it was only then that I truly become a part of it. For nothing unites us like summers and placements. And this year will be no different. One week from now, more than 300 of you will suit up and conquer the world, and more than 300 of us will be there to make the conquest that much more memorable. Once again, Joka will unite, and once again, India will watch. And applaud.

I can’t claim to have had the most ideal of Day-Zs. Yet, I’ll never forget how, as I sat with drooped shoulders in the auditorium, my cell-phone informed me that I was getting a call from a private number. It was a senior calling from STEP in Europe, someone I’d only met after coming to Joka, asking me how the day was. It hit me as I poured out my sad story- you really couldn’t say life sucked if someone who’d only been an acquaintance a few weeks prior was concerned enough for you to make a call across the seven seas.

More than anything else that day, or the days that followed during the process, I’ll remember that phone call. I’ll also remember how it was the same wise man who remarked to me during Remni that it couldn’t be a co-incidence that all the alumni who came to relive their wonder years on that weekend, were right up there in their respective organizations. The mark of Joka endures long after we leave the campus. And if there’s anything that I’d like for you to remember after you’ve finished this column, closed the browser window and got back to your books, it is simply this.

The die has been cast ages ago. Now go out there and seize the day.

-MM

Moving on to more pleasant things, the year so far has had 2 very notable things about it. One has been a certain ‘fab’ulous lady from that college across the state border failing to impress on more than one count. The other, of which the first could actually be considered a subset, has been the degree to which sports have played an important role so far.

It all started with the FIFA World Cup. As the Behalas and Belgachias of Bengal bore the banners of Brazil and venom was spouted by anti-European football ‘true fans’, the managers decided to partake in the festivities themselves and donned their own favourite jerseys. It would be going a step too far to say the TV rooms were packed to capacity, but even games like Honduras-Chile drew spectators in respectable amounts. Throughout the tournament, the ‘correct’ gender ratio of ~1:10 that has been deemed respectable by the institute was not for a moment violated by the audience, with only the finals threatening to play spoilsport. Tremors were felt in the Financial world, the Fan world and least of all the football world as Switzerland upset Spain. It was practically a wonder that Joka, the capital of all 3, did not collapse under the huge earthquake as the Sensex dropped by 2010 basis points (one basis point is one hundredth of a percentage point), hearts broke and bookies Muhuhahaha’d. Iniesta’s decider in the 116^th minute in the finals was a great relief for guys starved of goals and girls starved of bare chests.  A despairing sigh could be heard by the males as the ladies present chose not to mimic the goal-scorer in his celebrations and a bigger one by the ladies in the relief that the 2-day old gym-enthusiast also chose not to play Iniesta.

While the insignificant cup had moved from Italy to Iberia, the more important IIMC-XL trophy was to stay put. That’s not to say the other team (insert puns on Excel or jokes on Labour depending on which side your loyalties lie) didn’t try. Men’s basketball was a keenly contested affair, with the Joka captain just about managing to outscore the XLRI squad. And while the drab record books would show the ladies of Joka as having won practically all of their events, everyone agrees that the real winners were the kudiyaan of XL, who yes were very very smart, haye meri tauba tauba. For 2 days, cellphone cameras discretely er… flashed and as the visiting contingent departed with one last lingering look at the trophy, and the managers saw them depart with many lingering looks on their ‘trophies’, another sporting extravaganza drew to a close. (A special mention here for our own Gregory Ipe Kuriakose, under who’s able guidance the IIM-C football team won 4-0).

By now, the Premiership had started, and happy days were here again. Fantasy took a whole new meaning following the XL meet and even die-hard United-haters would sit and hope that Rooney, their captain, would score 9 goals only to be beaten by the other team’s 10. Cries for a penalty had become few and far between, with the said act involving the deadly sins of whistle-blowing and finger-pointing. In the background, the respective Inter-wing footer tournaments also kicked-off amidst cries of ‘Too much’, ‘intention was there’ and songs reminding one of Popeye the sailor man. (A special mention here for our own Gregory Ipe Kuriakose, under who’s able guidance the whatsitsname wing won the OH edition).

The cricket fans too got their fair share as our Men in Blue took on those other Men in Blue. Again. And again. Toddlers in and around Joka started saying that the captain of the Indian team was Kumar Sanghakara. The lines between Muttiah Muralitharan and Murali Karthik were fast obfuscating and forced the former to follow the latter’s steps towards retirement. And just when someone from DMK and/or its AIA counterpart started demanding why Dlishan didn’t use the Dilscoop as often as he did for Delhi Daredevils as when he played Ranji for Tamil Nadu, Suresh Randiv had to go spoil it all by showing rather literally that he didn’t have balls. The outpour began, the distinction between the shades of blue was made and our 22-man squad was sadly halved.

The games will continue as we play host to our partner students from abroad and the nation too prepares to lay out a $103bn red carpet for the Commonwealth Games. Rumour has it that some of the incoming STEP students were under the impression that a visit to India would involve umbrellas worth Rs. 2000 and are offended that the same have not been offered to them as protection from crows and clouds alike. To end the post, I’ll just quote a first-year who I happened to hear wondering if the upcoming ManComm class could be shifted in lieu of Jayanta Talukdar, Rahul Banerjee and Tarundeep Rai taking on their opponents in the Archery Men’s Recurve.

(The views expressed by the author are personal. That is why s/he chooses to be anonymous. And a special mention here to our own Gregory Ipe Kuriakose who allows him/her to remain known only as the Masked Manager)

-MM

As we, the batch of 46/16 completed a job well done and hummed June mein hum… on our respective ways back to our alma mater, there was that palpable feeling of regret as the realization that many familiar, admired and even revered faces would no longer be there to greet us, finally sunk in. But the wheel of time is a juggernaut that even Joka bows to, and we did concede that the time had come to form new bonds, to foster new friendships and to shape bright new sparks to meet the ever-rising expectations of that wily, demanding yet lovable genius- the omnipresent spirit of Joka.

It is to you, the chosen 300-odd who can proudly claim to hold admission offers from IIM-C for the 2010-12 academic session that I speak now- you’ve done your world proud, let that be a sign of what you achieve in ours. The shoes left for you to fill are gargantuan; we expect Bigfoot’s hindquarters to pale in comparison as you outgrow them. Joka will give you the world, use it well to build your own empires. As the day of your arrival to this venerated 135 acre campus draws nearer, it is with a song on my lips, with love in my heart, with arms wide open, with my mask firmly intact and on behalf of my brethren here at Joka that I greet you. Welcome to the kingdom of 7 lakes, to the land of magnificent managers. Hostels where the Malli Mastan Babu’s of the world began their journey to the seven summits await you, classrooms where the Indra Nooyis once sat beckon. The BC Roy Library, which a certain Ramachandra Guha once occupied in person and now continues to do so in the form of embellished letters on paperbacks, lays its infinite resources at your disposal. Even the rain gods seem to have conspired to offer showers of blessings when you arrive.

The moment is solemn and my attempts to pen it in mere words can best be described as futile. Let me then just repeat the simple yet memorable greeting that the flamboyant young man, now in a corner office in some corner of a foreign field, gave to us on our own momentous early days in Joka- “Ladies and gentlemen, I welcome you to IIM Calcutta.”

And the thumping shall remain loud and clear forever.

-MM

It is one of my theories ““one that I have developed in the many hours of leisure that were afforded to me post the summers process (always feels nice to say that, huh), that fests are a way of prolonging your madcap childhood days. It is well known that to hold on, or to not let go, is one of the most primitive of human tendencies, and what could be more precious than some of the most cherished years of our lives. Sitting in the auditorium today listening to one of the bands performing in the Armageddon prelims, I couldn’t help getting pangs of old age when the vocalist said- “This next song is about breaking the rules. We’re all teenagers here, we’re all rebels.” Time might have put paid to the teenager in me, but the rebel continues to rule the roost. And what better place to give that rebel room than this particular weekend- Carpe Diem. You know the madness has begun when, amidst huge banners of Axe reeking of capitalistic consumerism, the performing band comes up with an insane number extolling the leftward path and draws tremendous applause from B-school students who will soon be the pillars of profit-making capitalist society.

The weekend looms large and promising in front of me, in front of all of us. Each second holds the allure of unexplored possibilities. I never thought I’d hear an amateurish name like Evil Conscience, or was it Soulful Death, once I’d left college. I never thought I’d headbang like there was no tomorrow until I heard the Unknown Artists’ guitarist. But in those 2-3 hours that I spent at the audi, I realized that I never want these festivities to end. Each step that the cute model in Razzmatazz took, each reverberation that was made by the drumset tonight, each question that will be asked at the quizzes coming up, each movement that is to be executed by the dancers, each thought that is to be articulated at the debates and each note that will be created at Symphony- they all form an indelible part of the youth that I wish had never turned 20. The coming weekend, in however unsuccessful a way, will be a sporting attempt at rejuvenating it. There’s always an occasion for one last hurrah after all.

Carpe Diem. Seize the day. And then cease it.

-MM

I’m about to answer the n-th growl of my stomach when I find myself drawn like a moth towards the huge flex in front of the tennis courts. Magnificently lit up, placed very strategically right where the road curves and with a design that is reminiscent of classic Prison Break photography- it’s a wonder how I missed it in the morning. I’m bang in front of it now, staring the sponsors face to er… logo. The list is impressive, very impressive- one that most of my friends who’d organized fests during college days would have given my arm and leg for, and then some of their own too perhaps. Intaglio, thankfully, is different from those 3-day affairs. There are no posters of telecom service providers at every nook and cranny, so that you’re never in doubt whether you’re attending a fest or a brand promotion. There are no over-zealous freshers around to swear that the budget is not a cent below 1 crore and how this is so awesome because that rival sister institute fest’s budget was 80 lacs. More thankfully, there are no cynics either, ready to brush Intaglio off as a no-event, just like Life, the Universe and Everything. This is the Asia’s biggest after all, and thankfully, we’re treating it like premier B-school students should.

A rustle, pitter patter bird drops and I’ve taken to my heels. Olympus is just days away and while I look forward to hearing the views of the best in Asia regarding the many challenges that await us, I wonder if even they will be able to do something about this particular challenge. Maybe it’s a job for the Consulting Knights then. Another must-attend event.

Back at my room, I start checking out what else lies in store over the weekend. The online build-up, which was substantial in its own right, seems to be nothing when compared to the culmination. I see Joy Bhattacharya is going to be on campus very soon, Addict promises to be a fun event and if Corporate Catalyst wants to make me an I-banker, who am I to refuse? There’s something for the less frivolous of us too- Modulus for the would-be traders, Marketplace for the marketers, State of Affairs for the Ops folks and Curiosio for, well, me (Grinch-like grin goes here).

Intaglio- 8 letters that’ll be etched on our minds over the next 3 days. 8 letters that form a word that few of us would have heard prior to coming here, but will not forget for a long long time. Rumour has it that the very first Intaglio head was exceedingly fond of his underwear and hence chose to bequeath the fest with a name that was an anagram of Langotii. A more credible rumour has it that the writer of this article was by now, getting rid of ideas and filling up lines with a demented brand of creativity.

To get some answers in this uncertain world, I turned to my goddess Wiki. Imagine my unbound joy and the strong sense of pride, when after reading the inane definitions and variations of the word, I saw:

Intaglio may also be:

• Intaglio, the annual international business school meet of the Indian Institute of Management, Calcutta

Amen to that. Intaglio 2010 Aandozzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

-MM

It is therefore fitting (symbolic would be too symbolic a word here) that one of the most sacred ceremonies at IIM Cal takes place around this season. The word itself is just perfect. It is indeed time to reminiscence, not just for the returning heroes, but also for the welcoming hordes. To look back at the time that has been and look ahead at what lies in store, while doing what you can to define it. The last week has seen 60 of our revered Elders return and take centre stage once more. They, who had left the alma mater with eyes that shone of promise and a will to scale new heights, returned to the place which gave them the gifts to do exactly that and more. A simple look at the brief snapshot of each one of them is ample testimony to their more than impressive achievements. For one memorable weekend, we watched in awe as more and more of the newsmakers of those yellow pages that are delivered to our rooms every morning filled the familiar landscape. We witnessed in wonder, the curious case of all these Benjamin Buttons as time flew backwards, putting 20-something souls into 40-something bodies. And we observed in admiration, the 25-year old camaraderie, that once defined the soul of this place and forms of which continue to do so, take shape once more and become increasingly palpable.

As we made sure that Reminiscence 2009 was a reason to remember, the symbolic season entered our thought process and we tried to get a glimpse of the next chapter. As the new year, and with it the new decade, loomed tantalizingly in the distance, we wondered what our own homecoming would be like. 25 years after we leave the portals of the land with the 7 lakes, how much of what we have taken will we be able to give back? 25 years will see us establish ourselves into the transition that is about to begin soon. We will start ahead in the rat race that the real world is supposed to be, and battle to stay ahead of the pack. There will be 2 battle-lines firmly drawn within us as well- the expanding waistline and the receding hairline, and we wonder which battle will be easier. And then the ring of yet another Blackberry brought us back to the gala night and as we saw the owner pop it away to continue his precious discussion with another of his ilk, we realized that we had some enormous shoes to fill. And then we reached for another helping of the delicious fare.

25 years later, bonfires, bulbs and our own anticipation will light up this southern suburb of Calcutta once more. Amidst deafening thumps shall we walk again on the metaphorical red-carpet and go about separating the old comfortable familiar with the new and exciting unfamiliar. Climate change might have taken place, leaving environmentalists among us bemoaning while the more athletic of us firmly strap our ice-skates on. The promising new profs of today, bright sparks in the present’s vast floodlight, will by then have become the legends that constitute the yore of Joka- the wonders that the excited newbie calls to tell his friend about, scarcely believing his luck at being taught by such distinguished academics. New and more sophisticated hostels will dot these everyday grounds, but somehow, our own hostel shall remain the best. Footer-volley will kick off again, although the legs that do so will have lost considerable agility. 25 years later, as the age divide disappears, obeying its annual custom, and we, along with the then-students, make merry along the crackling bonfire; as the young and the old revel together as the Children of IIM-C and as all worries are forgotten for one brief, yet unforgettable winter evening, the spirit of Joka shall rise once more. And its silent joy shall be audibly shared by one and all.

-MM

So now that we know each other, let’s talk about the matter at hand. Getting into an IIM, they say, is difficult enough, but getting out is no cakewalk either. It was keeping this in mind perhaps, that the founding fathers of our soon-to-be alma mater decided to lay the foundation stone at a spot some million kilometers away from what was then a metropolis. But a wise man has been known to remark- if Mohammed cannot go to the mountain, then the mountain must come to Mohammed. The managers decreed, the once-Metropolis agreed and Kolkata came to Joka to make the process of getting out both easy and enjoyable. Weekends amounted to double figures, Tantrics of old returned with venom and high spirits could be observed. It was somewhere along this point that we celebrated being in the City of Joy rather than a dry state. It was also somewhere along this point that the Masked Manager decided to leave low blows to the Joanie Laurers of this world.

I wish I could say that things were hunky dory, and they probably are, but being a self appointed guardian of the student community, the responsible voice of an elite fraternity etc, it becomes my duty to play the Devil’s Advocate and point out the clouds in the silver lining. Determined to take something away from the terrific nature of Joka, the powers that be conceived of a way to keep unbound celebration within imposed limits. Breaks between terms became a joke, true to the name of the place, and the entire process of beating off the exam blues, going crazy and getting the essential mental rest before the grind of the new term had to be accomplished within a week-end. Disappointed but unfazed, we managers shrug our shoulders, recall the words of the other (or was it the same) wise man who said that what cannot be cured, is not Raj Thackeray, and must be endured and hence made the most of those 48 hours.

On such a weekend, it becomes fairly impossible to tell any of the theatres in South City Mall from the lecture halls of nearly the same size. Park Street seems to become the diamond that we secretly harbour from the rest of the city. Unfortunate situations sometimes arise though, and even in the most red of states, there emerges a class difference between the blue-blooded or the haves, and the bourgeoisie. “˜Gents or Family?’ is the veiled question, “˜Are you a bunch of losers with the X and Y chromosomes equally divided or have you got substantial X-factor?’ is the undisguised one and haves stroll in, reminding us that even in this day and age, utopia is still far away. For the leftovers, things get a bit tricky. Peter’s Cat refuses to purr, Marco Polo is engrossed with King Khans and their Queens and Mocambo khush nahi hota.

Already deprived of the company of women, this particular lot turns to the only place which guarantees the best, well..’chick’en in Calcutta- KFC. Zingers, Hot and Crispy Buckets and Original Recipe helpings come to the rescue. Life, they say, is good. Finger licking good is what they forget to add.

And so begins term 3.

MM