2. Its all waste

i didn't understand the finality of my descision until I was comfortably strapped into my seat on

the twenty-hour-long flight from new york to bangalore with a stopover in paris.

'That's it,'I thought as the flight took off,'no turning back now.' And surprisingly,i found myself getting into the zone of not caring pretty quickly.

I usually get into that zone when things are neither definitively good nor bad:Thet just are.

NOw,for instance,the good (excitement at going to India,escaping the monotony of my life in Manhattan)

balanced the bad (a risky, directionless career move,the prospect of two wasted years).

But there was so much noise in my head that it genuinely didn't ,matter any more.

to hell with it, I thought ,you get one life ,and everyone is allowed a couple of mistakes.Who can predict the future and in the broad scheme of things,does it really matter anyway?

Do what you feel like and hope that it sticks. If it doesn't, throw it again.Maybe it will stick the next time round.And if it doesn't ,who cares?

it's just one insignificant life wasted in the vast ocean of lives all around.

Whatever floats your boat, whatever cranks your tractor,whatever melts your butter,whatever humps your camel,whatever sizzles your bacon,whatever ticles your pickle...

I was so spaced out by the time I was on my connecting flight from paris that i broke my rule of not swapping life stories with the guy sitting in the next seat.

No good can ever come of that.At best,you walk away feeling thankful beacuse you met another fucker in the vast cosmos whose world is even more screwed up than yours;

at worst,you meet a self-satisfied prick who makes you doubt your life's choice.Unfortunately,it was going to be the latter this time.

;Are you out of your mind?'asked the young Indian software engineer dude sitting next to me on the flight.He wasn't being facetious.He seemed genuinely agitated by my descision to quit Wall Street and go to India for an MBA,

with the typical Indian gift for immediate familiarity, he had quickly dispensed with a pleasantries and probed into the intimate details of my life.

He now felt compelled to pass judgement on my choices.

He took off his glasses and squinted at me for a while.

Finally,he said, you'll be fucked there.'He breathed on the lenses and wiped them on his shirt Before putting them back on and continuing , 'look, I don't mean to sound insulting, but you are what we call a"coconut"in India–brown on the outside, white on the inside. You have grown up in the US and can't even begin to understand how screwed up our Indian education system is.'

He immediately dismissed my suggestion that investment banking on Wall Street was not a cakewalk either.

'I don't think you are quite getting it. How do I explain this? The folks in the Indian institute of management, they are…how do I put it…crazy behenchods. They have dreamed all the lives of breaking free from the mythical iron hand of the Indian system that grips your balls the moment you are born into the great Indian middle class. There is no place for Yale's "balanced perspectives","broadened horizones","work-life balance"and other oestrogen-boosting "let us help you get in touch with yourself"stuff at the IIM. There is only one perspective there: get the highest-paying job. People work like dogs, backstab, front stab, side stab—whatever it takes to achieve that. Every year there are cases of suicide.'

I could already feel a cold grip on my balls, but he continue relentlessly.

'look brother, if you still have the chance, just opt out . Live your high life in Manhattan. Save this self discovery for another life. It is all Maya anyway,the chasing of an illusion. How far do you want to travel to realise the decsatisfaction is the nature of existence and unanswerd questions the only real answer?'he said, ending on a surprisingly philosophical note.

The chance conversation would come back to haunt me ad various times over the course of the next 2 years in India. How far did I really need to go before I realised the futility of my journey ?

For now, though, there was no time for second thoughts, or first thoughts for that matter, considering how little time I had invested in this decision. The flight had touched down. I was in Bangalore already, the outsourcing capital of the world and the subject of recent frenzied worldwide debates as it threatened to make the US work force redundant. However, if the same technology cal boom had caused any change in living standards, it was not apparent. We were greated by the customary delay at the airport as multiple flights arrived simultaneously and the immigration queue got longer and longer.

'bastards! Why the hell is it taking them so long to check the papers?'grumbled my engineer who wants to immigrate to India illegally anyway? Bangladeshis is only! And will they arrive from New York on an Air France flight?'

More frustration as an immigration officer decided to leave for his mandatory cigarette and tea break, exhausted by they unexpected exertion that the night had ****** upon him. Expletives filled the air:'Saale sab haraami kaamchor hain','everybody is a ******* bastard.'

'See,for you, all this must be charming. The authentic Indian experience that you are seeking in your quixotic trip . However, I promise that if you stay long enough, this kind of stuff will start messing with your head. How can we keep caressening our balls with stories of globalisation when even our most basic infrastructure is so hopeless ?'ranted my bitter friend.

I did not find this oft-romanticized sight'charming'in the least. I was not Paul Theroux or Mark Twain or even Patrick Swayze, out here to experience the city of joy and pontificate on the plight of humanity. I was just another ordinary traveler on un-heroic journey; one more lost soul in the sea of lost faces around me, how to fill a known void with an unknown one. But I did not mention this to my friend who was closed to breaking point anyway. He seemed to be waging his own private war against the system and chair up after scowling at the immigration officer who checked his papers. He offer to give me a right to the Indian institute of management.

'my car is outside. It is horribly expensive and unsave to keep the car Parked there during a long trip, but I have an arrangement with the parking lot guys. They watch it and don't charge me the full rates. In India, everyone has some kind of arrangement or another', he explained. 'you stay here, I will be back in 1 second.'

Waiting outside arrivals, it feels like I did stepped into a riot. I did forgotten what it felt like. A cacophony of sounds, people everywhere as for as the eye could see, stale air smelling of automobiles smoke, industrial exhaust and strong tobacco, blaring horns, a swarm of frenzied taxi-drivers descending on me to Bags away, more shouting, screaming and cursing. A taste of India, I thought, would I really be able to survive 2 years here away from the creature comforts of the US?

Soon enough, a small bride red car pulled over. My friend got out to help me load my bags. As a squeeze myself in beside him, I immediately detected the sweet smell of marijuana. Then I noticed the dreamy look in his red eyes and the conspirational expression on his face.

'need a joint whenever I get to the airport, man, otherwise the traffic gets to me', he explain it apologitically. 'don't worry, it won't impact my driving. I have a couple everyday in the morning before I drive to work'.' Was that supposed to make me feel better?

I wandered weather I should get a cab instead, but dad's words came to mind. Much to Ma's dismay, he had relinted to give me some rare fatherly advise just before I felt:

'now that you have decided to go, beta, here is my only piece of advise. Learn to let go in India. Succumb to India. I always filled that America makes you very soft and self-centred. India will make you a man if you allowed it to.'

I decided to be a man and entered his car.'would you like to have a joint as well?'he said. sure, why not? That is why I did just left my quarter-million-dollar Wall Street job. To smoke marijuana in India, be driven along the madness of Indian roads with the stone a driver whose hands trembled as they gripped the steering wheel, and possibly end my inglorious pursuit before it even started.

I am speeding truck, a stoned driver, both passenger and driver killed instantinously—it was probably a typical Indian story that would not even grace the inside pages of the local newspaper.

'yes, of course,'I said aloud. I am going to make you very proud today, Dad.

Soon we wear flying, and I revelled in my friends acute observations has he drop the car at formula 1 speed over narrow roads. I concentrated on looking straight ahead, into blinding headlights.

'it is all a waste,'he said.

'what is?'I looked around, wondering if I had missed something on the road.

'all of this!'he shouted, agitated at my every ******* inch of removed both hands from the steering wheel and waved at the passing world. The car nearly swerved of the road.'lies, hypocrisy, sleaze; it is all around you. They teach their kids to bomb airplanes but won't let them write **** on the walls.'

'Okay,okay,got it,'I said hastily.'you are right it is a waste. Everything is.'

We drove in silence for a while, racing big SUV's, all inexplicably white, when suddenly the road became very bumpy indeed. The seat belt was broken, so I had to hold on tightly to my seat to avoid hitting the ceiling.

'fitting,'he said.

'What?' i asked

'this is the approach to road to the IIM. It is falling apart,'he said slowly.

'what is fitting about that?' i asked,puzzled.

Hitler is head back and laughed. The car took another dangerous turn. It is metaphorical allegorical, whatever.'

It did not make any sense, but I said nothing, worried he would lose control of the car.

'the world. It is falling apart,'he said suddenly after a long silence, As we pulled up at tall, imposing gate.' we live, we breathe, we pay mortgage, we die, just chasing wind and trying to catch the I wandered what had inspired this outburst. The entrance to the institute looked harmless enough—-warm white gates, an Indian institute of management sign lazily perched on a spire, and a lush green approach to the main building.

'best of luck, man,'my friend said as he dropped me always remember, nothing matters. It is a cosmic conspiracy.'

Buy now, the Dope had hit me as well. We both gigad histerically. I bade him farewell, delighted at the fact that we had not even exchanged names during the past 20-24 hours of knowing each other. Nor e-mail addresses, telephone numbers or promises to meet again. There was nothing fake about our encounter. And I was finally ready to live my own life. I giggled again. This was India, things were probably real here.

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