But then, before it gets to an actual trial and the like, I’d better update my blog.
The last few weeks have not by any means been bereft of incident. They have been the most hectic, tiring, and in a perverse way, enjoyable, coupla weeks of my life. I visited Pune, Bangalore and Bombay, attended five GD/PIs, have already been thrown out of SIBM Pune and done lots of other things.
The Pune trip is old hat, so I guess I’ll probably write about the long trip that I had undertaken this last week.
MICA was holding its interview at IIM Bangalore, which was thankfully a stone’s throw from where I stayed. Dressed up nattily in a pressed formal shirt (that I’d purchased recently, deciding that Camel Shirts and T-shirts which went ‘Save Milk Drink Beer’ wouldn’t pass muster with the prudes who conduct these interviews), formal pants and (choke) tie.
IIM Bangalore’s campus is big enough to accommodate three B-schools, and I had half a mind to invoke the urban land ceiling act on them. After walking around three hundred metres, one takes a dekko at an entrance that leaves one rather awestruck.
After walking another three kilometers, I arrived at the tail of a huge queue. What struck me – apart from the irritation I feel whenever I witness evidence of India’s overpopulation – was that people were dressed in t-shirts, jeans and kurtas.
I began to feel rather the fool, dressed up more like a traveling salesman than anything else on earth. I decided to ask the chap ahead of me the reason for his rather unusual attire.
It was then that I realized that my voice, which was conspicuous by its absence early in the morning, was still on strike. I opened my mouth to speak and all that would come out were squeaks and growls. The rather inconsiderate bloke dressed in jeans began to laugh – his voice strong and clear as a bell.
My voice began to return to work, much like how our government servants walk in to work every morning – one at a time, starting at 10 am. By the time it was 11 30, it was clear enough to be heard by the person next to me.
After registering with a professor wearing a t-shirt and sporting a pony-tail, I walked in to write the MICA entrance test.
Talking of the MICA entrance test, its one of the weirdest exams concocted by the mind of man. Its full of questions I couldn’t understand the purpose of. There were questions where I had to rate (on a scale of 1-15) the kind of qualities I’d like to see in a prospective wife. I’d like to know what the psychoanalysts at MICA would possibly figure out by knowing that I’d prefer ‘a highly educated, high achieving middle class woman’ to ‘a rich woman, who distributes herself evenly among lots of others’. (DAMN! There were no options which read ‘Big tits’. X-()
The GD was what I would term strictly okay, mainly because I could hardly make myself heard after having started the GD. That was primarily thanks to my voice, which chose the wrong day to go sightseeing in the Himalayas. It was an interesting case study. A tall bloke with glasses appointed himself moderator and did a pretty decent job of it. He however had the feeling that he was also the boss, and leaned back on his seat, one leg over another (and kept shaking his legs incessantly, something that got on to my nerves like nothing on earth) and had encouraging, uplifting and patronizing remarks like ‘Wonderful!’, ‘That’s good!’ and ‘yeah, good, I guess you can go with that’ for every one of the remarks the rest of us made.
As for me, I managed to put in a few points whenever there was a lull, and hardly anything at every other point in the GD.
Then started the long wait for the PI, a wait that lasted several hours. However, it was a wait made interesting by the fact that I got the opportunity to converse with a candidate working at O&M. He gave me great insights into the ad industry, and was definitely among the more erudite people I’ve seen.
The gaggle of aspiring MICANs also had more than its fair share of pseudos. By pseudos, I refer to girls who stretch their fingers full, drop their hands daintily, giggle, smile fake, lip-stick stained smiles, talk with an accent that gives me the heebie jeebies, think they speak the best English on earth and that every guy on earth is just waiting for an opportunity to sleep with them (not too far off the mark there, I wager LOL), and yeah, most unbearably stink of perfume. One can, of course, not forget the male pseudo who may be classified as a species who hang around female pseudos with grins plastered on their faces, speak in heavily accented English in equally fake deep voices, and laugh softly at things a normal human being would never find funny.
Note: if you think you can turn into a male pseudo, please note that the most important criterion for joining the club is to have a very deep wallet
Talking for five minutes to one of them who was drenched in enough perfume to drown China was rather an interesting experience.
Ms. Pseudo: Heyyy…. You’re goin’ in nexttt?
Me: Uh…what? Oh, yeah, I guess I’m next.
Ms. Pseudo: Ohh…I’m sooo scaaareed, y’know
Me: Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about that. Its pretty cool here, from what I’ve seen so far
Me: I’m a Malayali, but I’m from Chennai. So depending on what exactly the question meant, you can choose the answer you desire.
Ms. Pseudo: Ohhhh!!
Me:(Oh wow! You’re like soooo cool babe! You lived in BANGALORE! Why are you talking to a villager like moi, who actually is exactly a Malayali?!) Er... that’s rather interesting. Er..anyway, I’ve got to go right now, I’d like to grab a bite to eat before my PI (read: I wanna barf, the perfume’s suffocating me, goddammit!).
Ms. Pseudo: Tah-tah. By the way, my name’s (*^*&Y. And you…?
Now the reader will probably ask me, “You hated her, you couldn’t stand how pseudo she was! You found her perfume appalling, and her attitude too oojah-cum-spiff. And you think she thinks half the world wants to sleep with her, which disgusts you! So would you want to do it yourself?’
Me: Hmm…good question, young man/lady. Very good question. Er…hmmm… oh hell, who am I kidding!? Obviously, yeah! ;-)
P.S: Its a different matter altogether that I’d probably get a chance in 3000 AD, but that’s beside the point anyway, ain’t it?
P.P.S: I’ll tell you about the PI some other time. This seemed more interesting.