Wordsong

Words heave, tease and rumble,
running beneath furrows of my skin,
under folds and cracks and pores,
arcing through bone, lining my vacant eye with shadow
like crystalline shorelines, metamorphosed
from emptiness into being.
The space between us
breathes like flame swept on a wind
to lick, lightly caressing its tongue
on the coarse, damp fabric of existence,
which, upon realisation and affirmation,
calls itself to awakening.
Do words dwell within this space?
Like pollen or fairydust or speckled sunlight
or rather reminiscent of thought, not yet formed
but conceived in essence and form,
animate, pulsing, dimensionless.
Do words flow like memory?
To the tune of currents and streams,
channels and corridors,
fabricated within, but radiating outward
like spiral arms locked in embrace,
interwoven strands engendered
by the collusion of our convergent fates.
Ours is not a story wrought from myth
nor from nascent imagination nor fantasy;
but instead, forged in realms beyond the waking hour;
where, under the watchful hands of time
our minds are stripped free of pretensions
and order is restored.
Your hour is now, sweet love,
don't resist the swirling tide, curled at the lip,
for swept along under summer skylights together
nestled between solstice and equinox
we shall pass, the way it was foretold.
And onward lies the raucous din of eternity;
a tumultuous roar that is,
has always been and is still to be.

Reflections on gaining the Rhodes Scholarship in 2004

The Rhodes Scholarship interviews are deceptively intimidating: if you approach them even with the faintest degree of self-awareness and self-assuredness, you're capable of turning them into a deeply intellectual conversation in which you remain, for its entire duration, thoroughly engaged and involved. What better way of representing yourself, in all your pomp and splendour, to the gatekeepers of the worlds of possibility and richness that lie ahead of you? This is one of those rare challenges that makes getting out of bed in the morning a worthwhile affair. To an even greater degree, it's an opportunity to seek your future and to accidentally discover yourself on the way.

The Entrails

The crux of an application to the Indian Rhodes Trust is the Statement of Purpose (SoP), which constitutes your best chance of standing out from your faceless rivals. A good SoP cannot be superceded by a good CV; there's no comparison for a lucid and concise appraisal of oneself, written with languid elegance, honest objectivity and lively wit. The remaining application procedures are minimal and not worth getting into a tizzy over, but what must be kept foremost in mind before the interview is this: if you can back yourself to the hilt based on what you perceive are your strengths and your grey areas, and be resolved not to flinch at any signs of trouble, then it's all chirpy birds and sunny skies. You have other factors working in your favour as well: you have the power in that shadowy room to control the flow of conversation based on the length of your answers. It doesn't always pay to be brief and concise: it's up to you to present your full face to the wider world, and if your CV supports your unwavering confidence with hard fact, you've nothing to fear by telling a detailed, well-constructed story about yourself. In fact, they're dying to know all about you - they're ready to engage you in an exchange of ideas within your academic field of specialization, they want to get a sense of the experiences and events that have led to you being in that room, and they're looking for YOU, The Real McCoy.

There is one preliminary round of interviews in November/early December, followed by a final interview to cap things off in the last week of the year. The night prior to this last interview presents a tricky yet interesting obstacle: a formal dinner, Oxbridge-style, with the finalists and the selection panel mingling and conversing, sharing polite pleasantries and awkward silences. This is social anthropologist heaven, for the inscrutably complex dynamics within the room are fascinating to witness and infinite in possibility. Each finalist will approach this night with a unique gameplan: one will choose to try and "promote" him/her-self to as many panelists as time may allow, shifting allegiance every five minutes or so, while another will hold on to one or two big catches for the length of the evening, trying to ensure the advantage and hoping to have made an impression on an influential committee-member. Personally, I favour a minor variation of the latter option: locate and zoom in on the one or two people on the committee who are experts or have know-how in your field, and use that as a fulcrum for displaying your intellectual mettle. That particular choice comes down to two simple truths: firstly, the number of finalists far outweighs that of panelists, and so your chances of engaging in a one-on-one verbal duet with a selector are slender. A proactive approach is the need of the hour and an aspiring Rhodent should have the initiative to decide on a specific target. If this principle is not rigorously obeyed, the odds are that one of your closest rivals has decided to close in for the kill, and you're left stranded in the middle of the room with a plateful of bland food and no one to talk to.

The second truth owes its happy existence to the mammoth emphasis in Cecil Rhodes' will on choosing academically superior and intellectually-inclined students. After all this is Oxford that's up for grabs, the Higher Seat of Learning, spanning centuries and rightfully laying claim to a sizable chunk of mankind's intellectual property. It definitely isn't for everybody, and the laws of natural selection will ensure that only the best remain after the sifting of the sieve. Therefore, it definitely pays to reinforce your scholastic strengths by playing your trump card at the outset, before the panel potentially make various unglorious and fruitless attempts to eat you for a snack the next morning. One can then use the actual interview time to elaborate at length about extra-academic achievements, while not forgetting to remind them of the conversations that transpired the night before.

'I think, therefore I don't'

That said, even the certifiably brainy will feel the pinch in those first few weeks upon commencement of Michaelmas Term in the first week of October the following year. The academic structure there isn't in-built with a buffer that'll cushion your impact on first hitting the books, and I've personally known Indians there whose only recourse to sanity is their amazing ability to endure long periods of academic hibernation; closed to the world at large, tucked away in bedrooms and libraries and classrooms, studying to survive and surviving to study. The madness is complete unto itself, and justifies its own means and ends. For many Indians, the pervasive sense upon entering Oxford's hallowed confines is one of concealed despair, an expression of a dire inability to cope with the routines and demands expected. The blame, if there is any to be apportioned, would fall squarely on the not-so-upright shoulders of our derelict education system. It seems more and more evident to me upon returning to home shores that tuition and teaching in India follow a conveyor-belt approach, wherein various second-hand parts are appended to the child's cerebral development over the years before a haphazardly-arranged drone ends up wrought, crippled and broken at the end of the assembly line. Highly reflective of that exemplary work ethic we're so proud of. Blame, however, isn't really a tangible weapon for those who pursue reform.

One's studies at Oxford require a constant effort to elevate one's mental processes in order to digest the sheer bulk of information that must be imbibed. Lateral thinking, virtually unrecognized and closeted in Indian institutions, is highly prized and worth its weight in grey matter, and is the only solution to many of those seemingly impenetrable problems that tutors set their charges. This heuristic and knowledge-driven approach to education serves to inculcate a sense of self-sufficiency and independence from being spoon-fed, and logically breeds intellectual curiosity and cognitive reasoning. A student caught doe-eyed in the headlights can only expect swift retribution, for the self-study and research involved demands unwavering focus, with only the pale consolation of an occasional boozy and debauched evening out (at least by desi standards). Simply stated, adapting to this new life requires thinking on higher planes, exploring new avenues of thought, and in the process, landscaping the passageways of one's own mind. This represents more than mere culture shock to Indians: in our country at the student level, our minds are as unfamiliar to ourselves as anything else. We just aren't taught to think. There is a direct failure of all systemic machinery, stemming from the horrific expectation of students to learn by rote without comprehension, questioning or rationalization. Teaching is viewed as a mind-numbing chore, examinations and studying in general seen as obligated purgatory; dual-way interaction in classrooms is pitiful, instruction involves little more than repetitive regurgitation, and textbooks are often wildly inaccurate or at best, shoddy or snoozeworthy.

The phrase 'pants in an uproar' comes to mind. It is indeed easy to see through the crackling walls, into the darkness of the abyss, and criticize unabashedly, but in order to bring about change, infiltrating the beast from within is a prerequisite condition. Armchair anarchy is a gala show but its achievements are few, its triumphs hollow. Therefore students themselves (since the system is supposedly built for them) must be allowed to voice their disapproval of a barely-functional structure of learning whose central nervous system itself is unsynchronized with today's reality. The reservation issue demonstrated the stark disparity in mindsets and dislocation of rational thinking that have begun to make themselves prominent in public consciousness of late. The real stories get preemptively overlooked and trampled upon time and time again by our sagely and self-righteous decision-makers. As all those in opposition to the government's proposed policy proclaimed in displeasure, it's time for a fresh round of public scrutiny into our flailing educationalism and to bring about change. But change has to be purged from within, by digging and boring deep down into the very structural essence of this crumbling relic of Olde Worlde Thinking, and re-examine what corrective measures are imperative. All it needs is a lateral perspective.

Static Fiction

Meanwhile, in the very country that spawned our woes as a nation, life is a strange eccentricity, full of moments that you can't believe you're locked into. Oxford seemed to be initially, at least going by the brochures, arcanely medieval and rather uptight about a lot of things; but then, don't judge lest ye be judged. Bizarrely, Oxford finds the knack to live up to the cliché of old academics mumbling through deep intellectual conversation over cups of tea, examinations and formal ceremonies conducted by all in Harry Potter-like school robes, and a generally clenched-arse approach to everything; but I was pleasantly surprised, for these idiosyncrasies are only the outer vestiges of its true self. Behind the opaque veil are layers of multifarious, shifting realities, always in flux and purposeful in motion. It is a tiny microcosm of immense complexity, and sucks you in completely - it isn't even as though one has a choice in the matter. My two-year stay there saw many zeniths and many hellish depths, culminating in several rich and defining memories that all too often just dwindle away slowly into nothing. From having coffee and muffins with Benazir Bhutto at Starbucks one spring morning, being in Hyde Park for Pink Floyd's reunion concert, and backpacking across the most dazzling countrysides and seascapes (the latter two aren't really in Oxford at all, but merit a mention nonetheless) to periods of great introspection, meeting the best of one's planetary contemporaries and celebrating birthdays in pubs on cold winter nights sipping hot chocolate generously spiked with brandy; the experience is complete.

Lurking in the shadows, however, lie stories which aren't so easily forthcoming. These stories are of searing loneliness on a chillingly bitter night, lying in bed huddled and shrunken like a foetus; of aching realisations of just how alien a place this is; of India-pangs, or just the longing to see a familiar face in the bustling streets. This stark picture explains why many Indians, upon reaching the UK, resort only to the companionship of fellow countrymen. You'll often see large clumps of desis glued together, a completely isolated social entity, remaining aloof from the wider student community at large. This apparently peculiar phenomenon is completely justified in every sense: after all, the yearning for the familiar and the comfortable - everyone can just be themselves with other Indians, there's no need for accents or any other pretentions, and one can liberally spew gaalis and know they're being understood - must be satisfied. All I can suggest to aspiring students, at the end of this inane analysis, is to resist the urge to stay desi, and to try and homogenise oneself with the global crew. There are people dwelling just beyond our nationalistic confines, people with wider perspectives and broader cultural backgrounds, who will guide you through new experiences, divergent channels of reasoning and the myriad personalities inside your own head.

Perturbations

Whether you're at Oxford for two years or three, the nature of time itself will gradually begin to change itself for you. The many thousands of fractured moments, snapshots and freeze-frames of life in this corner of the world start to merge into one another, condensed and compressed into neat little boxes, while reality speeds up continually till you're left breathless in sheer bewilderment. Term-time especially just races by, for it's often necessary to submerge yourself in work, steadily paddling onward without distraction (although a perfect work-play balance is achievable, or so I've been told). It is so easy to submit oneself to the onslaught of experience that the future thunders into sight all too quickly, leaving one nauseous, unprepared and frazzled out of one's wits. It's therefore imperative that students plan their life-decisions for post-Oxford, or at least set the wheels of thought in motion. Many subversive factors do seep into the equation - as a word of caution. The idea of staying on in England is just dandy if one chooses to opt for an academic ethos and pursue further studies beyond one's scholarship (assuming monetary funding of some sort, which is a dubious and unreliable proposition in itself), but if you want to land a wankerish corporate job in The City of London, then you've got a problem. Work permits are notoriously and absurdly difficult to obtain, and desperate first-hand experiences with many dozen companies at the fag end of my time there have only consolidated in my mind the view that despite contributing so much to British life and culture, Indians are regularly brushed aside as third-rate citizens. Hostility based on racial prejudice in the UK isn't rife by any means, but it's definitely palpable - in fact, since it isn't overtly stated but instead covertly covered up under a suffocating blanket of political correctness, it's all the more devious and subliminally isolationist. Our expanding migrant workforce is a blatant threat to certain pockets within British society, and in some cases, is viewed with a kind of sepulchral intolerance that sporadically rears its ugly head in the form of hate crimes. This simmering countrywide sentiment makes it particularly hard to break the mould and integrate oneself with the machinations of British bureaucracy, specially within the job market (the UK no longer permits Indian doctors into residency, and alarmingly and inexplicably sources medical staff from impoverished African nations where AIDS and malaria are rampant, and the need for qualified doctors is desperate). It is, however, worth noting that there are a few schemes, instituted by the Home Office and entailing bare-minimal eligibility criteria, that allow certain students and migrant workers to procure a temporary visa or work permit with relative ease (SEGS, the Science and Engineering Graduate Scheme, is one such). All these considerations must ideally weigh heavily in the mind of a student in preparation for life and times overseas.

Nor were my run-ins with British 'bureaucrazy' restricted to prematurely aborted job-hunts. I was

(un)fortunate enough to witness and experience in first person that oft-mentioned red-taped, tight-collared and stiff-necked British approach to governance and The Law. One fateful summery morning post-final exams, I received notification from the University that my B.A. Project (an extended essay carrying roughly 12% of my overall mark) was being investigated under suspicion of plagiarism. This would mean an interview with the Senior Proctor of the University, followed by a University Court hearing if deemed trial-worthy, garnished with a possible nullification of the whole B.A. degree if held culpable. Clutching and clenching my stomach to hold down the bile, I tumbled headlong into the pit.

What transpired remains to me, without comparison, the strongest validation and recognition of the fact that justice always finds a way to prevail. However, this realization was accompanied by the worrisome discovery that a significant number of students happen to encounter the same torturous ordeal, in universities abroad and often in unwitting circumstances. My case was resolved at the court hearing, wherein 75% of the marks for the essay was deducted for 'incorrect methods of annotation and referencing'; this, oddly enough, was the best possible result I could have hoped for, given that the prosecution had argued for a complete wipeout. The same maniacal law enforcement makes itself evident in the cases of several international students (especially from India and the rest of Asia) who are guiltless scapegoats in a larger witch-hunt to locate the truly bad seeds within the academic fraternity. Attempting plagiarism can be an extremely hazardous endeavour, and the baying wolves are quick to close in on a perpetrator; indeed rightly so, for stealing someone else's work and passing it off as your own is a cowardly and dastardly act. There is, as a result, a fair price to pay for all this lunacy: several occurrences of students being caught in the net not because they plagiarise, but because they do not satisfy the University's code for referencing, annotating, punctuating and formatting. There are numerous regulations and articles in place, found in department handbooks and legally binding, that describe explicitly certain norms which must be strictly adhered to; a failure to recognize their significance is seen as flouting the rule of law and a very grave offence indeed. Students inexperienced in writing reports, essays or theses must therefore get firmly acquainted with the precise methodologies involved, unless they fancy a trip to Nowheresville.

'Of all elaborate plans, the end'

At times, it's hard to shake off the feeling that life is make-believe, sometimes a sadist's lucid dream, or on a good day, a highly sentient superbeing's acid trip. The past two years of my life have reflected magical and almost illusionary moments which, despite ebbing into nothing, leave behind their burnished essences. Oxford's wizardry is unique and brilliant, and it unleashes itself upon its inhabitants as a riotous orgy of sensory and meta-sensory stimuli. The gothic stone tapestries and medieval cathedrals that line its cobbled streets; the serpentine Cherwell and Isis rivers that make for magical summer afternoon picnics and punting expeditions; the crusty, chiselled hillscapes that stretch to the horizon; French markets and delicatessens, Evensongs and Christmas snowfall, street performers and bikerides through open meadows; karaoke nights and college socials (or Bops); experimental theatre and pantomime parties; lawn croquet tournaments and whimsical Sunday mornings spent over pints of cider and ale... I could wax eloquent for several pages more. I will, someday - a memoir or a paean would serve as an ideal tribute - but in the meantime, all I can offer is the unflinching guarantee that Oxford holds a wealth of experience for those who eventually do make the cut. I encourage students to apply without second thought, and even if the Rhodes application doesn't quite turn out like you hope, there are other scholarships like the Inlaks and the Felix that could launch you into the great beyond. Do the needful, trust yourself, and then hold your breath...

A Secret Garden Within

July 2010 was fabulous for the following reasons:

(First ever experience of the seamless relationship that self-made videos and self-made music can engender)

Sanctum

A post-cerebral screenplay written as a tribute to short Shakespearean skits with a malicious twist:

SANCTUM

A Screenplay

Scene: INT - The Protagonist's Bedroom - EVENING, PRE-TWILIGHT

The room fades into focus from blackness, as it undulates, the walls seemingly a moving viscous object. The camera pans slowly across the bright copper vase that shivers on the mantelpiece, littering the frame with streaks like streaming Christmas lights; strains of a song playing from a laptop tinkle to the rhythm of heavy breathing. Dancing pinpricks of light careen across the floor and ceiling, and the camera tilts downward gently to give a vertical perspective of the protagonist, face obscured in shadow, sprawled across his bed. Vapour trails from cigarette smoke hover above his face as white wisps of heat bubble and froth with his every breath, and pallid yellow beams cast speckled shadows on his quilt which partially drapes around his feet. He dares not move lest he disturb the sanctity of his sensory pirouette, a perfect balance of touch and sight and sound. The space in front of him pops as little perforations, holes in the fabric of his being, flit in and out of existence as though in a game of hide 'n seek.

Camera begins to slowly zoom in on him, capturing his silhouetted profile as he lies supine. The drugs have already taken hold.

VO: Who am I? I am an arbitrary squiggle on a blank page, stretching beyond memory, yet compressed and condensed into this one solitary moment. I am formless, looking in from without, and bent in on myself to turn myself inside out. I am everywhere you've ever been and everywhere you've never seen. I am the observed and the observer all at once. And still I am no one, for the true nature of identity can only be gauged by its pertinence to the present. NOW...

Camera cuts to a momentary flash of his eye, retina black and large. Beginning at sporadic intervals of 2-3 seconds, flashback slow-motion frames from his life with Her intersperse themselves as repeated flashes, as the camera returns to a vertical shot of him from a height, gradually zooming in. The rate of flashes begin to accelerate, as does the zoom-in, until a full close-up of his sweat-soaked face is revealed, and his eyes and mouth simultaneously spring open as he gasps for air in a desperate heave. He pauses abruptly, sharply, momentarily after inhalation:

VO: (A child's voice) Just let go...

And he does. He's falling, tunneling past walls of colour and sound that surround him. Greens and reds and neon hues rush past him in frenzied rivers, like cascading starlight trails. Shapes tango in tune with music, coalescent and fleeting, until everything gradually fades to black.

Scene: INT - The Protagonist's Bedroom – PRE-DAWN

The black silence is only punctuated by his breathing. The visual slowly begins to resolve itself, and her face swims into focus.

She: (mouthing softly) Awaken, and cast your gaze upon me.

She smiles weakly, with a glint of caution in her eye. She sits by his side on the bed, her back arched, her head bent down low over his face. They are silhouettes.

She: (whispers) And what incumbent thoughts fill your waking dreamscape tonight?

A candle on his bedside table flickers, giving pause.

He: (eyes closed shut once more) What utter savagery of reality, that all of one's life is spent trying to eke out a meagre living in lonesome mediocrity, when transcending wanton need and desire is a place of unequal beauty, dwelling within the cavernous chambers and corridors of one's own inner sanctum.

She: There are worlds underfoot and spaces in between, blackly mirrored in each other. You were always yours to create.

She rights herself, choosing to perch herself by the edge of the bed, now facing away from him. His sullen silence makes her statement self-evident.

She: (in complete earnestness) So, where are we?

He: (sighing heavily) Where we left ourselves the last time we spoke.

She: (choking slightly) I'm losing you, aren't I?

Silence hangs heavy as a pall. She twitches to one side as he sits upright. The music has picked up tempo now, rhythmically pulsing in swift motion. He looks her in eye, except that behind his pupils lies nothing but emptiness, a vacancy that she's never seen before in him. It jolts her, and she snaps back and onto her feet, turning to look past curtains out through the window. Her profile shows a lone tear coursing down her cheek, as a light gust of wind teases the hair that runs down her nape. She is the picture of beauty.

She: (wistfully) Is it the sky pushing on the sea, or is it the other way around?

She stares at the moon as it shimmers low on the horizon, throwing speckled silver flakes upon the placid ocean. He strikes a match to light a cigarette, and with a whoosh of his arm extinguishes it.

He: Sometimes, we need to let go of things in our lives, and trade them in for memory.

She: I cannot be where you are, for you have chosen a point of vantage beyond my reach. A heartbeat away from you I lie, and yet silence hangs upon our senses, lukewarm and heavy to the touch. Look, look at this part of me in you, to understand who I am. You conjure me up in thought, only to dispel me to the farthest reaches of your consciousness. What are these merry games you play in circles, like winding threads and beads, flung against the fabric of your feelings?

He: Feelings are like neonsplattered streaks of light, running and spinning and humming endlessly, restlessly in motion. We can never know where feelings lie.

She (trembling): Then our self-deceptions betray our vulnerabilities. And our feelings will be unveiled by hindsight. (pause) I can only hope that your indifference is bred in sorrow, and not in contempt.

He: (unflinchingly) Sorrow encrypts the eye with nothingness, and martyrs the mind, leaving it in desolation. I have learned to withstand these forces that crawl from beneath and beyond, boring deep into the soul.

She: (trying to conceal her anguish) Then I am truly lost to you, and our time together will be no more than a mausoleum, forever sealed.

He picks up a T-shirt that lies atop a chair, and throws it on in one swift, fluid motion. He takes a few tentative steps towards the door, and turns around.

He: (with a weary sigh) It cannot be any other way.

She (imploringly): Then I leave you with this to dwell on: that you, in all your grief and solitude, are the one person you will never meet, walking down the street.

He: (emotionless) Nor that I would want to.

He slinks out the door, leaving her sitting perched on the bed, with a glazed and remote blankness colouring her expression.

Fade out.

Scene: EXT – A street – EARLY MORNING

He strides forwards purposefully into the womb of early daylight, down a narrow street waking up to the sounds and sights of people beginning their daily businesses; his face wears a resolute mask of emptiness, except for his eyes which are narrowed, sharp and piercing. In slow motion all around him, people walk past him, heads bowed down low, their features cast in grey stone, weighed down heavy by the burden of routine. He turns his gaze toward them, surprised to find himself in communion with their sorrow.

VO: I am the sound of a fluttering heart, wearied and hollowed by its own existence. I am the silence that follows a piercing cry of pain, and the rumble of time as it listlessly drifts past the light of mo(u)rning. I am the wandering eye that seeks replenishment of the soul, and the vision of all things to come. In this bright daylight moment, I am complete unto myself.

He approaches a newspaper vendor, who sits crosslegged on the pavement with a paper stack by his feet. He picks up a copy, and flicks the pages to a section boldly titled ‘OBITUARIES’. She stares at him from the centre of the page, her lips curled into a breathtaking smile, warm, friendly and trusting. A little note, an eulogy, fills the space below the snapshot. A prolonged moment, he longingly gazes into the page; then looking around himself, he self-consciously tears her out, tosses the rest of the paper to the ground, folds and pockets the obit, and resumes his lonely stroll down the street.

Fade out.