Professor Lajpat Rai was one of the likable profs at IIT-Delhi. He had been a part of the Indo-Russian LCA(light combat aircraft) design team and would often regale us with anecdotes from that stint.  This is a favourite from that collection:
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A standard problem faced by airplanes plying in cold regions is that of ice-formation at the propeller tips(the low pressure at the tips causing the low temperature). The ice so formed is sucked in and goes on to severely harm the propeller blades. The solution?  Heated oil. This used to be delivered to the propeller tip (and then taken back for reheating) through expensively machined concentric tubing along the axis of the propeller shaft(expensive, because of the precision engineering. Unbalanced forces don’t sit well with high RPM.)

Then one fine day, out of the blue, along came this great whirl of an idea. Or shall we say, little whirl? It was suggested that the tip of the propeller be made slightly eccentric. This would create local eddies that generated just enough heat to prevent the ice from forming. Simple, and absolutely brilliant!
 
passing thought : Could it be that our day-to-day concerns and apprehensions are in fact the eddies which keep the ice of angst & ennui from forming?

Standing in the ticket line at PVR(Priya, as it was called 25 years back)I became the custodian of civic propriety and was adroitly fending off queue-jumpers with remarks that weren’t entirely polite. Then along came this hulk. A man of sinister appearance who spoke from the northwest corner of his mouth. Obviously, I didn’t at all take offence to him jumping the queue. Ajju sniggered. Then to drive home the point even further, he asked me with feigned innocence “yeh pehelwaan aisa kya karey ki tu bura maan jaaye?”
That phrase went on to achieve folklore status.

Remembering Ajju this friendship day, I find his words ringing true in another, more profound, manner. As I grow older clinging to the friendships of my youth, I see myself getting more and more tolerant of them. And I realise that this magnanimity is for my own sake, not theirs. I guess I’m too lazy to start afresh. I’d rather spend my emotional energies rationalising acts that don’t meet expectations.
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Bhailog, Ajju theek hi kehta tha – tum aisa kuchh nahi karr sakte ki mein bura maan jaun.

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Those who’ve seen the movie would remember it for its brain intervention clinic, Lacuna Inc. This was a center where clients could selectively erase the particular memories they didn’t wish to keep. Needless to say, the procedure found its largest clientele among heartbroken lovers. But that’s not what made the movie interesting. What did were its insights into how our memory defines us.
As we close in on the 25th year reunion of our IIT Delhi batch, memory is made to work double shift. It’s difficult to keep pace with the frenzied activity on various social-media platforms. After all, twenty five years is a long period of time; and a brain addled in alcohol ain’t no reliable ally. So after going through a chat on a whatsapp group, I ask a friend to help me recognise a particular participant. The friend tries but his efforts are to no avail. Then he finally blurts out ‘याद कर, इसकी लाइफ़ में goggles के फ़ंडे थे।’ It’s a strange way to define a person, but what’s stranger is that the definition works. I instantly recall who we’re talking about.
The conversation then veers towards another guy we’ve both lost touch with.
‘Weren’t you guys really pally?’ I inquire, shifting the responsibility away from me.
‘हाँ...similar mausas/chachas, similar hometowns, similar pocket-money,’ my friend explains, thwarting a possible follow-up question, ‘उस उम्र में यही सब देख के इंसान दोस्ती करता था।’
‘और इस उम्र में क्या देख के करता है?’ I ask.
He thinks for a while before replying with a straight face ‘Entertainment, entertainment, entertainment.’
The ‘dirty picture’ frivolity is a ruse. Afterall, what entertains us - what’s capable of amusing us - is an integral and defining part of who we are. For Aristotle’s friendship of ‘goodness’ (the friendship he approves of) is in its essence also a friendship of ‘pleasure’ and a friendship of ‘utility’(the friendships he disapproves of).
Then, as the great get-together approaches with its memories of people’s goggles and their hometowns, you can’t help wondering whether this sort of subliminal baggage is restricted to acquaintances alone. Isn’t it probable that we’re carrying certain memories of our loved ones that aren’t entirely fair to them? And if yes, wouldn’t we want to do away with these aberrant memories? Or would we want to retain them because these aberrations are that oppositely charged nucleus which holds all the other stuff together. Who knows? Perhaps the professionals at Lacuna Inc. could provide guidance. This is, after all, a whole new customer base for them.
At any rate - aberrations or no aberrations- I guess it would be a worthwhile experiment to allow our loved ones a clean slate, i.e., to erase them from memory, and then bask in the pleasure of getting to know them all over again.
Here, then, is to true reunions! As Mr. Mahendra Kapoor would hum,
“चलो एक बार फिर से, अजनबी बन जायें हम दोनो...”

So when the guitar chords of the opening song from the original ‘Aashiqui’ fell into my ears, i was transported to a Delhi evening in August 1990. Ragging had just been declared over (fachcha night) and the freshers in Aravali hostel had been reimbursed with their human rights. Some 20 of them were now cycling down Africa Avenue on borrowed bicycles. Destination: Sangam cinema. Movie: Aashiqui. It had rained earlier in the evening and a cool breeze blew. Okay, perhaps it didn’t. But nothing wrong with creating a bit of atmosphere. Isn’t storytelling supposed to be about bringing order to imagination, as said Tom Hanks in ‘Saving Mr.Banks’? Yet breeze or no breeze, one thing is certain. The ambiance was positively electric (pun intended) with the energy and enthu(E&E) of the bike riders. So electric in fact that it took involuntary yells of arbitrary zeal to discharge those copious quantities of excess energy.
So what was it that lay behind all this E&E? The newfound freedom from ragging? Or – broadening the picture – the freedom of being by oneself in a big city. It also could have been the euphoria of having made it to a premier institution. Then again, more simply, the culprit could have been youth, along with all the beliefs and vanity that accompany it. The belief that all your life lay ahead of you and that everything is possible. The vanity that you possess the capacity to bring about that everything. And though all of those 20 guys have done well for themselves (with some of them actually exceeding their expectations), i’m not too sure that the E&E of that allegedly breezy evening has been replicated too often. The real culprit, then, is pointed out to us by Winnie the pooh. “i love honey’ says the pooh-bear, ‘but what i love even more is that moment just before i eat it.”
And to think that mere guitar chords of a song could take me to that moment!

​Mature adult behaviour, by definition, is not a hallmark of young lads on a movie outing; especially when the seat-row ahead happens to be festooned with a string of South-Delhi dames. Also, if a couple of those dames keep twirling their heads to browbeat the boys with a ‘you uncouth creep’ look, it’s only obvious that the boys will promptly assume that imputed role.
So, the movie begins, the starring is being played out, and one of the lads starts to read out aloud in a slow deliberate drawl, as if with great effort.
‘J..O..H..N..N..Y.....D..E..P..P’
‘W..I..N..O..N..A.....R..Y..D..E..R’
‘A..N..T..H..O..N..Y.....M..I..C..H....छोड़ यार, बोहोत लम्बा है’
Then after the titles have rolled out, there dawns the cruel realisation.
‘मतलब कि सलमान है ही नहीं इसमें!’
And then, after a brief pause, out comes this absolute gem.
‘मैंने पहले ही कहा था संगम में लगी है।’
Even the dames have to laugh.

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....memories of the Delhi winter take me to IIT days, two things sticking out in mind. First, that sweet aroma; the aroma which accompanies the onset of winter and which is most prominent during early evenings. I’m told that it’s caused by the composting of fallen leaves.
And second: the memory of Jackets. Now IIT is not a place renowned for its fashion quotient. So when things frosted down to the peak weeks of winter, most of us had only one jacket to see us through. And in this manner, winter brought along a sort of familiarity to the campus. Guys were recognisable from afar, from behind, and even when in partial view.
Come to think of it, aren’t these those same attributes that reunions are renowned for? Ravishing the smell of decay, and finding comfort in familiarity.

​College days. We’re shooting the breeze at the adda that is our hostel entrance when one more from the gang is seen approaching from the distance. There’s a spring in his step. It’s clear that he’s laden with gossip fodder, the lubricant which youthful camaraderie thrives on.
Our man doesn’t disappoint us. His smile - which has now become visible - is screamingly pregnant with news he can’t wait to deliver. Hell, he’s even drooling. The water has broken. ‘अबे सुनो!’ he finally exclaims, ‘तुम सोच भी नहीं सकते X के साथ क्या हुआ।’
‘रुको,’ Harjeet Singh cuts him short. We’re all aghast and peeved at the interruption. Hungry prairie wolves are not known for their patience. But Harjeet’s temerity turns out to be for good cause.‘मसाले लगाना,’ he solemnly counsels.
Harjeet’s instruction pays rich dividends and the evening ends up delivering its quota of entertainment.
Wise though the instruction may have been, it’s to be noted that it was meant for a young boy just out of his teens. The advice wasn’t aimed at national news channels. Indeed, those in the business of disseminating information of national importance may want to desist from ‘मसाले लगाना’. Then again, it may sometimes be too great a temptation to forego a headline such as
‘ख़बर है पक्की। Jinping है शक्की।’
(India TV)

अजर होतें हैं दोस्त।Age doesn’t get to take its toll on them. In any case, not the usual toll. So yes there’s the thinning and graying of hair; yes there’s the little paunch and some face-fat; and yes there’s also that whisper of an odd wrinkle. But to our deluded eyes, none of these changes appear integral or intrinsic. They seem more like cosmetic add-ons. It’s like a case of amateur photoshopping where the supplementary touches clearly stand-out from the originally picture.

I try to make sense of the phenomenon and an explanation eventually comes trickling in. It’s a simple sounding explanation which may really not be so simple. You see, we don’t perceive our own ageing on a day to day basis. Similarly - provided we’ve been in fairly regular touch with them - we don’t perceive the ageing of our friends.

Good for those old codgers then!

But wait, there’s also a flip side to this phenomenon of the warped-perception . I illustrate with an anecdote.

The incident goes back by about a decade. There I was, putting up at the residence of this very able ( and decorated!) officer of the GOI. He had some important field-work early in the morning and the previous night had been a late one. So not wanting to disturb me, he left a message that I was to join him whenever I woke-up and was done with breakfast.

I distinctly remember spotting him from afar as our car approached the designated meeting point. He was instructing a flurry of junior officers and appeared in total command of the situation. An aura of competence surrounded him and his very presence evoked an assurance for the safety of the city. Nothing could possibly go wrong. Batman was watching over Gotham.
And then something strange happened. As we got closer and I was afforded a clearer glimpse of him, Batman’s mask fell off. Suddenly, there was no officer to be found. All I could see was a youth who had a penchant for quirky dance-moves and witty one-liners prefaced with copulatory verbs; a youth who was prone to at first resisting participation in the outrageous plans his friends hatched, and then abetting those very plans with even more outrageous suggestions of his own.

No. I’m not saying that I’m not proud of my friend’s achievements. I absolutely am! In fact, while talking about him to others, I tend to subconsciously appropriate those achievements as my own. And yet, the tentatively obstinate wisecracking dancer tends to prevail.

हमारे रेगिस्तानों की कहावत है: No man is a hero to his valet. I guess no man is a hero to his good friends either. But yes, in that second instance, he gets to stay young. As I said, अजर होतें हैं दोस्त।

​The SOBA (Scindia Old Boys Association) page on my FB feed throws up this picture. I’m startled. ‘ग़ौर से देखिए इस आदमी को,’ I want to shriek, but since there’s no one around to heed my cry, I desist from airing the warning.
Friends, this here is the grinch who stole my sweet dish for an entire term. Okay, not exactly stole; he actually won it in a bet. The bet was whether or not a certain batsman would score a half-century in a certain match. Rohit won because the batsman we were betting on was him; and he indeed scored a half century. Call me a bad loser but I say this was match fixing.
So, there we are, Rohit and I, chatting after a gap of 30 odd years. It’s all smiles and laughter. Rohit says that it was great character on my part to stick to my word for the whole term. I tell him he’d ‘earned’ the prize , not won it by a stroke of luck. He offers to treat me to the best cake in town, next time I’m in Delhi. A sort of just desserts. And so it goes.
Then eventually, he lets it out. He asks me if the whole episode doesn’t actually bring back some bitterness in the mouth. The pun is unintended I presume. I pause to think and realise that if this buried memory has yielded anything, it’s sweetness. And this is where Rohit’s younger brother,Mukul, makes his entry. Now Mukul was neither in my house nor in my batch. Yet, whenever I was handing over my jalebi or fruit cream to his elder sibling, he usually made it a point to put up a resistance on my behalf. He sometimes even shared half his sweet-dish with me. I guess it is this thread of kindness, and not the strand of deprivation, that stands out in the whole weave of the episode.
The emotions that move us most are passions such as love, anger, or jealousy. However, their hold on us only slackens with time. What endures is the poor and humble cousin. Plain simple kindness.

​PROVIDENCE
Destiny. Will of God. The grand design. Called by various names, Providence is the ruse we employ to explain away phenomenon we have little control over. Tolstoy compares free will - the antithesis of providence - to a river depicted in a picture; broad where it’s viewed from, narrow in the distance. Likewise, says T, the present seems full of choices, the past seems destined. Of course, we all know that this is but an optical illusion.
Tolstoy is right(he usually is). And the reason he’s right is that mighty providence mostly employs only ordinary foot-soldiers. The biggest game-changing events in your life aren’t so much momentous accidents as they’re gentle coincidences. Eg., the wholesomeness of your childhood hinged upon the everyday affairs of your folks. Which college you attended depended upon the chance incitement that urged you towards it. The fortuitous ‘wing allotment’ on campus not only chiseled your personality but also influenced your career choice. Your being introduced to your spouse was a chance event too; as was the fact that both of you agreed to succumb to the match(this second chance event being contingent upon the circumstances that preceded the first). Why, even your genes are a chance event manufactured by the chance event of your parents agreeing to get hitched.
Providence!
But providence doesn’t always walk in through the big doors like the ones mentioned. It sometimes also sneaks in through crevices; through innocuous little cracks like, say, an annual day function.
So, it’s the big day and we’re a couple of drunks who’ve taken to the stage and are mouthing profanely inane and boorish stuff. The institute director and other faculty, who’re a part of the audience, are absolutely livid. A well wisher tries to caution us about the consequences of our acts but he’s promptly ticked off with a ‘mardon ne kab kab’ statement - a sentence construction wherein the MNKK prefix is deviously employed to vindicate all sort of puerile behaviour. Eg., MNKK job interview के लिए coat और tie का सहारा लिया है, MNKK अपनी शाम library में गुज़ारी है, etc. Here, the refrain is, MNKK डायरेक्टरों की परवाह की है(which, of course, is a statement not entirely true.)
In the strict IIT world, greater men have been shown the door for lesser offences than this. Then, if a professor of management, a policeman, two corporate honchos, and a budding lawyer were spared their careers that evening, the only reason was that another mishap in another part of the campus stole the limelight away from them.
As Samuel Butler says in his utopian satire ‘Erewhon’, “As luck would have it, Providence was on my side.”