emphatically static
… they loved me!
Some more than others, yes, but there was much love. And this wasn’t just in the open-ended questionnaires, the “objective” rating schemes hinted at the same thing too!
But, with the sycophantish nature of the exercise, was I really going to get tips to improve?
Oh, the nail-biting suspense builds!
… words thrown out of context.
The sheer number of students involved—well over 200—ensured a wide variety in points of view, and the artificial sense of anonymity they enjoyed resulted in a degree of candidness I was surprised to see; sometimes brutally so. It’s like they’d forgotten I’ve spent a dozen or so hours with them each week, and they’re really not nameless to me. Perhaps, their extremely-alike and hard to discern handwritings,
lured them into this fictitious sense of security. Oh, the poor, misguided young’uns. And, in case you’re wondering, GSI stands for Graduate Student Instructor.
Some of the responses were verbose,
while others were more wordy still,
some were terse,
a few, extremely so,
but the verdict was clear…
Another inopportune pause. Patience is a virtue.
… making sense of the cacophony.
Emanating merely from a fortuitous alignment of the stars—or an assiduously calculated scheme driven by my desperation to pay for grad school (one can never be too sure about this sort of thing)—I had, in the fall of 2006, a most fascinating and enjoyable experience helping teach a junior level material mechanics course: ME 382. The quasi-teacher’s hat that I’d just donned (apart from legitimising my absence from the lab) allowed me to interact with curious, eager young minds full of energy, and it was such a gratifying experience helping mould them in my little way.
(In actuality, the experience mostly involved walking the young’uns through their weekly homework and I was rather engulfed in its soul-destroying monotony, but this is my story and I intend on fully embellishing it. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you write your own story; one that’s filled with your precious facts.)
As is customary here at the university, toward the end of the semester, the students are given an opportunity to provide feedback on (and to) their instructors. Designed to help the teacher improve, this feedback is solicited in the form of a pseudo-objective poll and a more traditional questionnaire. Being that these evaluations were carried out a few months ago, and in the interim I’d moved on to other remarkably fun and stimulating tasks (there are a ton of those going around when you’re camped in graduate school), they had slipped my mind. That is, until I received an innocuous looking e-mail a short while earlier.
The importance placed on this feedback oozes from that last line.
“Who responds to these? I certainly don’t,” I muttered to myself as I began to tear open the large orange envelopes half-expecting them to be nearly empty. Much to my surprise, it turns out everyone responds to these things and don’t just treat filling them out as 15–20 minutes of freedom from their regular lecture. As I began reading through the copious brazen commentary, I decided it’d be a swell idea to offer the world a totally random (yeah, right) sample from this overwhelming pool. Why? I don’t know, I just did.
There is, however, the little matter of this:
Obviously, when questioned, I’m going to inform them that I didn’t know it was to be confidential even after I’d procured the envelope. And, with that out of the way, I think it’s high time we turned to the actual responses.
The amusement will proceed after this disruptive pause.
All the pretty girls I saw around town were walking around with the prettiest of flowers.
Ugly girls didn’t even deserve ugly flowers.
Then I became poorer.
Update: In case you were wondering, I believe that buying the lens will one day allow me to take candid portraits such as the following:
Because, you know, the scrumptiousness of a meal is purely determined by the pots and pans used.
… and it took less time.
A most curious thing happened to me a short while ago. But before I get into that story, I’m going to bore you with a bit of a back-story to set things up a little.
You see, after years of good use, a few days ago I lost my toque-like winter hat. While this might not seem like a big deal to most of you, you have to see it from the perspective of a little boy from a tropical place that’s usually 40° C (104° F) living in a frigid town that’s now -20° C (-4° F). With my torn clothes and my shoes worn sole-less, that little woolen headdress was the only thing standing between me and an icy death during my daily commutes. In its absence, I’ve been forced to chart my routes such that I spend as little time as possible outdoors, because I’m sure I’d look quite hideous if my ears fell off.
Though I’d been pretty meticulous about it (I’m alive-enough to write about it, amn’t I?), things went rather awry today. As I was heading home after a hard-day’s work, I thought it’d be a smart move to detour to my landlord’s office and pay my rent for the month. This wasn’t as bright as I’d imagined, and caused my under-clad self to be out in the cold for a really long time, and nearly resulted in me passing out before I finally reached home. Forestalling this, I stepped into an unlocked university building (after desperately attempting many locked doors) along the way, and rested a bit as I warmed my now-purple-turning body up.
It’s in this situation that the aforementioned “curious thing” occurred.
As I was cosily relaxing, a woman comes up to me rather tentatively and stammered something like, “Oh hello, were you waiting for me?” I looked at her quite puzzled, and nodded no, “No, I’m just trying to get warm, I’m not waiting for anyone.” (In the best homeless guy imitation I could muster.) And, nicely warmed up by now, I slowly rose and began to walk away.
It was then that it happened, her soft, expectant expression changed to one that was so miserable, and she instantly began to weep. I looked at her thoroughly confused as I was, but things started to make more sense a few minutes later. Between the weeping, I gathered that she was on a blind date she’d set up from the Internet, and I was warming myself up around where this guy told her he would meet her… thirty minutes ago. She’d mistaken me to be him, and worse, she thought I got up to leave after I’d seen her.
I explained to her that I would have done no such thing.
I lied. She was hideous.
I bought a hat a few minutes later.
One of the perks of growing up is that you can now give (and receive) expensive gifts. On a related note, here’s what I made my new phone do with some hackery.
I was to have bragged about this some time ago, but it slipped my mind. Ah well.
It’s probably one of those things you fantasise about your entire life—getting to sit up close to the one captivating woman you’ve not been able to take your eyes off since you’ve gotten past security and reached your gate. More often than not (every single time?), these sorts of hopes spawn and fade nearly instantaneously, but this time things are different.
An eleven-and-a-half hour long flight passes like it’s nothing at all. You’re paying tribute to and wishing the best for the ticketing agents and their families.
Only the next morning do you wake in horror and realise you’ve parted without scribbling down a means to keep in touch.
It’s a few A.M. and I can’t really sleep. I’m jotting this down as I stroll around outside my hotel room, almost as if I’m searching for another insomniac to alleviate the loneliness. Where, by ‘insomniac,’ I probably mean ‘sexually frustrated person.’ But they’re the same thing right? Right?
This would be a lot easier if I were curled up at home under familiar settings, but no, I’m stuck in some dingy hotel in what is (allegedly) the most happening city my country has to offer. You see, I’m here for a friend’s wedding, a sort of pompous “mostly north-Indian, slightly south-Indian tradition fused” affair; one which has actually been rather charming to experience. There has been much festivity over the past few days here, epitomised by the elegantly-dressed folk and their song and dance… and drink.
The wedding gift lovingly crafted by Crayola with my pictures over the past many nights was a huge hit; complete with phrases like “this is easily the best gift ever” and “I hope you know our kids and you make it to their wedding,” and culminated with my embarrassment on the dais as I was forced to accept hugs and laurels as I was presenting it.
Upon repeated explanation of the piece,
A clear-enough digital version to see some detail:
A crappy picture of the final product showing the mostly-transparent framing and size in relation to a couch:
I began to behave like this masterful story-teller on a book tour—pausing for effect when somebody was gawking wide-eyed, and overemphasising the corny bits I knew people were greedily eating up. While all this was rip-roaring fun superficially, I was furious deep down (What’s new, you say?). Apart from the usual anger triggers, I ended up having to deal with a bit more than I’d bargained for. Harping on specifics never did anyone any good, so I’ll leave you with a couple of unrelated observations:
Which brings us full circle. Good night.
For just a few days of my miserable existence, I don’t want some nonsensical thing or the other causing me extreme rage. I know I am not a happy person generally, but then again, I have little reason to be. For once, just once, I wish only nice, somewhat-happy events keep happening around me so I don’t feel like beating some incompetent moron down to a bloody pulp.
I really wish.
But are relationships harder?
I know you’ve missed me over these past two weeks, and you’re probably at a point where you’ve begun to worry for my safety… or something. But no need to fear, all is well.
And by ‘well,’ I mean ‘horrid.’
You see, I’m technically on a holiday—one that’s extended quite a bit more than officially sanctioned—but it doesn’t feel like one at all. There has been little, if no, rest or relaxation, and most of my days are consumed with activities I don’t care for and drama I care even less for. Forget being at a state where I can write, I am barely at a state where I want to leave my bed in the morning. Life is too frickin’ complicated, and it involves way too much work to navigate successfully.
In fact, forget successfully, it involves way too much effort to navigate, period. And I’m not even sure if it’s worth it.
A happy new year indeed. Bah.
(Ed. Note: This is one of the only posts on this journal that has not been written by me. Technically, it was penned by me, but it’s all a figment of Crayola’s vivid imagination. Actually, it’s more of a cross between her cutesy way of articulating her insecurities, and something of a test for yours truly—one that I expectedly failed miserably. It’s unbelievable how vulnerable one can be; even during restful pillow-talk.)
So there I was, stranded in an airport for what seemed like the millionth time. I braced myself for more of the usual: The pointless arguments with the airline people, the decidedly-crap, exorbitantly-expensive airport cuisine, the rarely-interesting sight of so many people bustling about, my sore body yearning for a comfortable place to rest… and much such negativity and perturbation abound.
I hadn’t the slightest inkling things were going to be so different.
Perhaps I should have realised it earlier, but from my first “conversation” with the sweet-old-lady in the airline counter, things were anything but normal. Through her ouis and her merci beaucoups, and my arbitrary nods as if on cue, I’d communicated the essentials to this stranger in a strange land:
I was heading home for the holidays, connecting via Paris. My original flight being delayed, I missed my connection and I was stranded for at least another day as I waited; painfully missing home. I wasn’t looking for monetary compensation. I wasn’t looking for a fight. I just needed a sympathetic ear, and wanted to go home.
While there was little she could do for me that morning, through her smiling and her empathetic nodding, she’d managed to guarantee my spot in the corresponding flight the next day—the morning after Christmas. She simultaneously—the efficient little darling that she is—arranged for a day-long French visa, so I could step out of the airport and catch a few sights around Paris. I would also get to spend the night at a ritzy hotel—all at the airline’s expense!
As much as I missed being home at the time (not really that much), I jumped like a little girl in a (pink) pony store at the chance to run around such a romantic(ised?) city, even if alone. And so, with a warm hug and my fair share of merci beaucoups later, I was out; out to have one of the most enthralling experiences of my life that crisp Christmas day in Paris.
but I’m someone’s child.
This has been a week that’s brought about some changes. For one, for the first time ever, I bought a coworker a Christmas gift. That isn’t news in itself, but it’s just spending so much time with her over the past semester and seeing how much stress she (and I, actually) was put through, I just had to do something nice for her. And it felt great to do so. Perhaps this will be a recurring theme in the future.
And, a couple of days ago, I completed a final exam for a math class. This is news because it completes the final requirement toward a mathematics master’s degree I was working on (as a slight detour along the way to the engineering and computing PhDs). Yes, I am now a master of mathematics. I know it isn’t kung-fu, but fear me!
I left the hall very relieved, but slightly saddened, for I realised this was probably the last ever class I was going to take, ever. This is a big deal to me since I’ve been going to class and learning things for over 24 years now. (Yes people, I am a lot older than I sound, and I am still very much in school.)
Another forthcoming change, since I have not really highlighted it enough on the journal, is that I’m heading home to India tomorrow. It was all decided kinda sudden, in that one day my mom randomly bought me tickets and e-mailed me the information. I most definitely am looking forward to some much-needed R&R.
And finally, I had a “haircut” yesterday. I didn’t really mean to, for I stopped by and explicitly asked for her to condition it, make it more manageable and just even things out a little. And before you know it, the Asian lady (my regular woman was out of commission) was all over me and Asianising my hair. God damn it woman, I am not that kind of Asian. I hate the fucking spikes you love so much.
Oh well, at least she is easy… to amuse. “Would you like me to blend your sideburns with your beard?” “Beard? What beard? Oh no, there is no beard, I just haven’t shaved in a couple of days.” At which point, she’s laughing hysterically going, “You’re so funny!”
Was it funny? No. I told you she was easy.
Anyway, about the crappy haircut, I think my problem is that I only follow one Golden Rule when it comes to fashion sense / style / appearance opinions in general: Ask the woman in the room. She most probably knows her stuff, and isn’t shy about sharing it. Besides, even if neither of you know what you’re talking about, at least you’re aligned with the one who cares about this sort of thing.
The problem with the Golden Rule is when the only woman in the room is this dumb Asian lady who has an unnatural obsession for anime characters. But hey, at least it gives my parents a focal point to yell at when I get home. That way, it’s just so much easier to compartmentalise!
Not to sound narcissistic or anything, but sometimes I just wish that the world would pause and revolve around me for a little while. You know, genuinely be aware of how I am doing, or what I am going through, and care enough to offer me some comfort.
I believe—and this is only because I’ve been told often enough—that I am a decent human being who’s quite compassionate and generous. And, while it’s all well and good to be unselfish and kindhearted, it’s dispiriting to acknowledge that perhaps the world doesn’t deem you worthy of reciprocation. I say this because I’m exhausted by constantly having to work toward having my basic needs met. I don’t want to try anymore. I want to sit back, calm down, and have something just given to me for a change. You know, without me having to try for it, or work toward it, or fight for it… just given to me. I know the nay-sayers in the audience are going to get all up in arms offering me such gems of advice as, “But if you don’t work hard toward it, how will you really value it when it’s there?” Trust me, I will value it if it is there. Just give it to me, you’ll see.
Some things, I believe, are fundamental and should be handed to you; even if only on occasion. I don’t think I am asking for pity; all it is… is some love; without having to constantly scrounge for it.