Previously on “The Big Fat Tamizh Wedding”
The quintessential tam-brahm wedding has a few key features – nosy aunties adorned in bling weighing a few hundred tons
There are some keywords that are bound to arouse any respectable tamizh woman from a respectable family. IIT, Siligon valley, YummYes, Sun DeeVee, 24-Carat and Palag Pannneeer reci-bee.
IKEA burst out with the noble intention of imparting geography to the simpletons surrounding her, “Roorkee, isnt that the place in Orissa with the steel plant”?
“No, it’s near Haridwar”, mother corrected.
Bad move mom, bad move…
Upper class tamil women are like Soviet Russia: you don’t chide them. They chide you! Clearly miffed at my mom’s audacity and general lack of social manners, the noble lady arrived at the only possible logical conclusion: my mom had raised me up in a terrible manner and that I needed professional help.
“Surely, your son plans on doing an MS abroad? Masters means more dollars.”
“Actually he wants to do a PhD.”
“Surely you must be joking? I bet this is yet another of his silly whims. My son wanted to pursue robotics after watching Rajnikanth in Endhiran.”
“Actually he has decide…”
“Don’t be silly ma, he’s just a child. What does he know? When a kid sees a vendor selling pani-puri on the road, he’ll obviously want it. It is our duty to protect them from their own innocence and stupidity. Besides, a PhD will result in a complete waste of atleast five years and by the time he’s done he’ll be totally bald and no one will want to marry him”. Blood Pressure shooting up, mom just nodded praying that the counselling session would soon come to an end.
“Infact, you remember Savithri’s son, don’t you?” Savithri who? “That young man completed his masters from Univ-of-some-obscure-corner-or-the-other-in-Iowa and immediately secured a $6000-a-month job in Krowgle Inc”. And then she went on, and on, and on. And then a bit more. The rest of her eloquent speech has been snipped in order to preserve of the sanity of the readers, if at all any are left at this juncture.
Deciding my future, it seemed, did not provide this woman enough stock to gloat over her own brilliance and she proceeded to pounce on my sister, who was probably discussing the applications of fantasy in real-life and the genetic feasibility of mythical creatures (read Twilight, Edward Cullen) with her friends. “Surely dear, you want to follow in your brother’s footsteps.”
As much as my sister would have loved to scream “Noooooooooooooo” in her best possible Darth Vader imitation, civil manners dictated that she say “No, I want to become a teacher” instead.
Blank stares. These fine women had enough experiences in life to fill many a megaserial, but nothing and absolutely nothing had prepared them for this. “Teach what dear?”, another woman asked in the most derisive of tones. Now one must take a moment to appreciate the potency of a middle-aged woman’s sarcastic tone. It is said that there are only three sounds in this world more distressing than the same. Namely
b. Wailing Banshees
c. Future Ted Mosby with his “Kids back in the fall of 2009”…
“I want to teach school kids”, came the reply; voice quivering. That was the last straw. The wolves were about to pounce, the lamb about to breakdown and my mom about to violate all known rules of social conduct and swear at these ladies and just then, the gates of the dining hall opened. Voila, the aunty gang ever so eager to not miss the first round of hot food, disappeared before one could even utter thanks-for-all-the-fish. Then, my mom went on to prove that my sagacity was in no way the result of some weird genetic mutation. She and my sister finished dinner (of course!) and quietly exit.
But… this was a Maddu* marriage and the concept of a quiet exit can never appeal to a class which would rather broadcast, “The inception had evolved from a mere fluttering of the human heart. Our beloved protagonist, the quintessential young male knew he had developed strong feelings for the girl. The taxonomy was perhaps not love, but definitely much more than just infatuation” than simply “The boy liked the girl”. A discussion of exit strategies is in order here as the probability of running into either of the bridal couple’s parents is very high and awkward questions then lead to awkward-er answers – no the elder one has JEE class and the younger one has a test tomorrow; no, the grandma has arthritis; no, our dog is grounded because he pooed on the carpet ,and so forth. My own extensive knowledge of such revolutionary tactics owes its existence to years of playing AoE. When your enemy whups your ass even before you build your first barrack and archery, these strategies are a must for survival. The most accepted method of exit is to create a diversion and leave silently while people are looking elsewhere. Three simple ways are:
1) Shout “Bomb, Bomb!”
2) Shout “Namitha, Namitha”. (This method is guaranteed to create a frenzy among all males above age twelve, and drive the rest into puberty.)
3) Hire a Chuck Norris lookalike to hold the bridal couple at gunpoint and run for your life before he finishes off the entire hall and comes for you.
Just as I had predicted, dear old mother was intercepted by random old dude and his nagging wife, and waitforit… waitforit… was gifted a free coconut and betel leaves in a paper cover. Ah! Free coconuts, what any self-respecting maddu family wouldn’t do for one of these.
She later explained over the phone, “The ironic thing about tamizh weddings is that you have a bunch of self-obsessed morons, constituting the so-called intelligentsia of our nation fighting with one another to exhibit age-old cliches”. Every wedding has these aunties (maamis), 99% of whom scale the price of their carefully selected silk sarees by a factor of 3.14, when asked. The remaining 0.98% are adorned in salwars and churidars and generally ignored by the venerable lot as being young and foolish. The final 0.02%, in all probability, US-returned, promenade in T-shirts and jeans. This lot is classified by the rest as being slu belonging to the same class as female canines. There are always these NRIs and their ABCD kids with the fakest of accents which people invariably find cute. These wannabe-firangs’ sole motive is cribbing about the state of affairs in India and comparing it with the united states. The NRIs can generally be found seated next to grey-haired, pan-chewing uncles, receiving advice on how LIC is the best option for financial investment during recession. And then there are the kids. Those annoying little brats – a few running around and knocking us elderly people down, the ones which managed to smuggle a tennis ball playing catch-catch and aiming the ball at various unsavoury parts of passers-by’s bodies and twelve year Casanovas flirting with girls under the umbrella of fraanndsheep. At times like these, one can’t help but subscribe to the juvenile neanderthal’s oxymoronic philosophy that every kid on the face of this planet ought to be chained up and starved for weeks to inculcate discipline.
“Times have changed”, mum lamented in a pensive tone. “A wedding is no longer just a union of hearts but a commercial affair, a show of status.” “Yes, Yes”, I cut her short with every intention of avoiding yet another of those Back-in-the-80s-son-things-were-so-different stories. “I am glad that I’m far away in Roorkee”, I added as an afterthought.
Truth be told, I am not glad. I miss the food. A lot.
*Maddu refers to the people who hail from the most awesome city on this planet. Yes, the one where Rajnikanth resides.
The day had all the markings of yet-another-bloody-saturday and would have probably passed for one had my mother not decided to surprise the world by gracing a wedding, an event as common as that of Ajit Agarkar not getting out for a duck. Against Australia. South Indian weddings are like Star Wars movies, unless you’ve already attended a few or read the opening crawl you won’t understand what’s going on, not that anybody cares. (*Background music for opening crawl*) The quintessential tam-brahm wedding has a few key features – nosy aunties adorned in bling weighing a few hundred tons, their equally annoying worse halves discussing issues of national importance such as the Re.1 price hike in Saravana Bhawan’s coffee rate, nosy aunties in silk, NRIs cribbing about Chennai’s excessive heat, haute girls of marriagable age making fashion statements that would have given Nirupa Roy and Paravai Muniyamma a run for their money, and did I mention nosy aunties? (*end music*) My dear mother, in what can only be termed as a momentary collapse of the entire cognitive machinery, as is so common with these aged people, arrived at the wedding hall a good hour and a half before dinner. The “Venakatachalam weds Jothilakshmi” banners had long given way to the more modern “Adithya weds Shweta”. Even before my mom could actually draw a chair, she was greeted by a high-pitched squeal that would have put Bianca Castafiore out of business. “Welcome! That red saree looks simply equiste. Surely you must have bought it in RandomSareeShop1768“.
We digress here to discuss the optimal wedding attending algorithm, an essential part of any operations research or optimization techniques course. Recent research has shown that for an ideal wedding experience, one must enter the hall precisely 12 minutes and 42 seconds before dinner is served. Attending a wedding well before dinner is not very different from reading a Chetan Bhagat novel, in the sense that both are utterly pointless. First, the entry must be furtive in order to avoid a plethora of awkward social situations (ASS for a good reason), ranging from the sixth grader and his mom who want to know how to get into IIT, to patronizing uncles eager to give out free advice and the dude from thatLocalEngineeringCollege you once hung out with, who refuses to let go. The remaining 12 mins can be summarized by the following steps:
1) Try cutting the queue with your best ‘I need to pee urgently look’. The good thing about hitting the queue close to dinner time is that the bridal couple would be so exhausted after meeting a million people that the average time per guest would have reduced exponentially.
2)The Gift, the most important part of the wedding. As much as the invitation may croon, “We only want your blessings”, nobody really gives two hoots to your blessing. Yes, now get over that! The gift cannot be a random item you picked in the flea market on the way; the price of the gift must be chosen according to the following equation.
is a factor depending on the MCP (Male chauvinist pig) coefficient of the family
closeness or degree_of_closeness is a number ranging from 1-10, one being the closest and 10, the farthest.
3)Give your fakest possible smile for the photograph. Putting your hands on the groom is allowed but frowned upon as most guests haven’t had a bath in ages, hands on the bride is a definite no-no. It is also important that you pull your chest up to hide that paunch. You don’t want little kids looking at the wedding pictures to comment on fat-uncle?
4) Run towards the dining hall at relativistic speeds trampling a couple of five year olds on the way to set an example for those dare to block your path. The same method however, does not apply to over-sized aunties. These fascinating women on the other hand, can be removed with the following 9 magical words “They are giving pineapple juice on the other side”.
Thanking Lord Ganesha and pineapple juice respectively for their parts in removing obstacles from your way, you go ahead and complete the ritual – eat to your hearts content and exit, stage right once again hoping to avoid those ASS’es on the way. Of course, my dear mother not having taken my wisdom all that seriously arrived at the wedding hall, sister in tow, well before dinner, blissfully unaware of the horrors to follow.
The middle aged ladies infesting weddings are primarily of two types – those who give you education funda, and those who sprinkle marriage funda; all for free mind you! Contrary to popular perception, the former, possessing the educational aura of an opposum, is no better than the latter. Stuck with I-know-everything aunty (IKEA for convenience), my mom probably understood how I felt in class everyday, an hour seemed like an eternity. After her dissertation on red sarees and every other shop in town, IKEA decided to move on to more irritating ventures.
“Shravan, your son, feels like a hundred years since I last saw him. Oh, he was so little then”. Liar, Liar. I clearly remember seeing this feminine menace a couple of years back and believe me, I haven’t grown a nanometre since. “What is he doing now?”
“Shreyas”, mom said. “He is in IIT Roorkee now”.
In what can only be termed as a curious case of reverse evolution, nature, for reasons beyond the scope of this post, saw it fit to bestow IKEA and her ilk with predatory hearing skills placing them on par with hawks, bloodhounds and owls. The mere mention of the magic word (IIT and not Shreyas!) was enough to bring the rest of IKEA’s clan to the spot. On hearing IIT, IKEA’s own eyes lit up. Now, there are some keywords that are bound to arouse any respectable tamizh woman from a respectable family. IIT, Siligon valley, YemYes, Sun DeeVee, 24-Carat and Palag Pannneeer reci-bee are of a few of them. Much to my chagrin, Rajnikanth, Chewbecca and 42 are not. Neither are IAS, B.Sc Sociology and gold-plated jewellery.
“Oh IIT! Our kids grow up so fast, don’t they?”, interjected another lady looking straight out of a saas-bahu serial, clearly having rehearsed this particular line around 6.023 x 10^23 times. My mom turned her glance towards the two unmarried, 25+ tanker lorries who happened to Avagadro aunty’s daughters. “Yes, they grow. A lot”, she concluded, the sarcasm missing the fine woman by a distance approximately equal to the radius of the earth (at the equators, not poles).
Not very pleased at having her flow broken, IKEA burst out with the noble intention of imparting geography to the simpletons surrounding her, “Roorkee, isnt that the place in orissa with the steel plant”?
It may be hard to believe but scientists predict that one day the sun will simply run out of energy, a day might come when Rajnikanth gets tried of bashing up baddies and a day when Master Yoda actually decides to attend grammar class. I am sure even on that day, IKEA would not shut up. “No, it’s near Haridwar”, mother corrected.
Bad move mom, bad move.
(To be continued…)
T’was, if my memory serves me right, the fall of ’00. Fall of course being a misnomer as far as Chennai is concerned. Despite senescence stripping from my memory most joys experienced as a kid, vague recollections indicate in ways more than one that I was in fact the rockstar of fifth standard C section. I had fulfilled the ultimate fantasy of many a fifth grader. I was in possession of a box full of Imation’s very best, 3.5 inch magnetic drives better known as floppy disks. That year saw my fame flirt with hitherto unseen levels. I had it all, the setup of QBasic obtained by coaxing the computer teacher, DOOM, Alladin, a million other DOS games, and virtually anything and everything that could fit under 1.4MB (Oh wait, I had the split software as well). My time at the top though, was extremely short-lived. Imation started manufacturing CDs and the morons who called themselves my classmates soon discovered that 700 is metaphorically a million multiplied with 1.4. I painfully watched the blessed ones burn their way to the top, literally! I was at their mercy, for Claw, for Visual Basic and mp3 files which had by then gained prominence. I patiently bid my time. Revenge, I promised myself, would be sweet.
2006, a million RAM and motherboard failures later, we decided to go for one of those sleek new AMD Athlons. I was a man with a vision. Nothing less than a DWD RW +- would satiate my hunger, I growled. “Smart young man”, the chap who helped us assemble the system patronized, with sarcastic undertones that went totally over my head. 4.7GB was still a lot. I even bought a DVD RW with a friend, promising to update it with the latest software, a geek repository of sorts. Blinded by the constant burning, I was totally underprepared for the USB revolution that would follow. ‘Flash’y drives, no bigger than my own thumb had pied pipered my entire school. After that, I could never catch up; always two steps behind. My own 4GB pendrives became obsolete as the world oohed and aahed at those portable hard disks. 320GB, they claimed. More space than you could ever hope for, inside your palm. The following summers were filled with woes, and vows. I digress.
This summer was memorable in more ways than I myself could have ever imagined. Unlike the Pahadi Shutterbug, the sole purpose of whose internship was to return with a few million photographs, I do not have the fortune of sepia to relive my summer. No relics but for two Digital Versatile Discs with tales from a galaxy far, far away. This summer, I also treated myself to a Seagate Freeagent Hard drive. 1TB (931GB to be precise) of zeroes and ones shall fill my precious. And very soon, I shall once again be in vogue. Life comes a full circle.
P.S: I know that 2TB hard drives are commonplace nowadays but what the hell, Bill Gates once said
640K ought to be enough for anybody
Imagine it’s almost nine in the morning; peak hour, and you are rushing to office. You are almost at one of the city’s busiest roads, a bottleneck if that is the term I’m looking for. As is the always the case, you have a detour. There is a narrow side route you can take. A longer path, yes, but it has the potential to take you to your destination in time given the present traffic conditions. It is also presumable that there are a few people on the same road as you who are not even aware of this alternate route. The question is: which one shall end up as the road not taken?
A normal person would take the side road thinking not many would attempt this route, and hence he can reach faster. A smarter person would postulate, “I bet everyone’s thinking of taking the side route, so there’ll be less traffic on the main” – counter-logic or reverse psychology as you may have it. Then there will always be the guy whose thought pattern will be along the lines of, “What if everybody takes the main road thinking that the others take the side route.”. And the guy who says, “It is plausible that people take the side route thinking that others will take the main road in the false assumption the the rest will use the side route”. True, but there will always be the guy who goes one more level deep. It’s strange how the simplest of choices in life infinitely recurse on to themselves. It’s stranger as to how everything has an application in everything else.
Chris Nolan, are you reading this?
The very best of mankind’s creations have one thing in common – they have all been inspired by nature. Even nine year olds know how the avians inspired us to build the airplane, someone wiser about how owls led to the bullet train and an elite few as to how Jar Jar Binks was probably inspired by Lucas himself. Biomimetics is just a fancy term for one of the few things we are actually good at, reinventing the wheel. In this light, the thought of modeling network traffic along the lines of swarm behaviour no longer seems a ludicrous thought. But of course as is always the case, revolutionary ideas take a backseat in lieu of other pressing issues, namely a few lines of code and a report. Research, I’ve realized is pretty much the same everywhere. Just when you start making progress, someone else publishes a paper superseding yours and you get to take out all your frustration on the gullible B.Techs. Can’t wait for my postgrad really!
An uncanny love for faltoo facts and arbitrary capitalization (refer to the title) made sure I was never popular company on the net or off it. I’ve been endlessly chastised and termed useless but did you know that the word gymnasium is derived from the combining form gymno-, meaning nude or bare (in ancient Greece, they did train with nothing on). Any networks guy is bound to be fascinated by torrents, in my humble opinion one of the greatest innovations of this decade. There’s everything and voila, there’s nothing! But having discovered their true potential only this summer, I am in the words of a wise person ‘A child, just learning to walk for the first time’. Torrents are also a voyeur’s dream. A world where you can IP-search and kick out your peers just for the heck of it. Last I checked, a random Korean was leeching a Rajinikanth movie off me. And then there’s a certain linux distro ironically named humanity. Ubuntu keeps chucking more problems at me than life itself and yet there is something so alluring about the terminal. She’s not the hot girl you fantasize about, nor the one who keeps hitting on you. She’s the quintessential girl next door; the more you talk to her, the more you realize she’s awesome. And you’re probably going to end up marrying her. sudo get me a life.
My daily schedule leaves nothing to imagination. Hot chocolate in the morning followed by a session with the president on issues of national importance, some tips to Xavi and co on how to improve their passing and research during the rest of my time. Publishing papers by the morning and hot girls swooning over me in the nights, nuff said… All that in a different universe though. In this world, I just have coffee, savour the kannadiga’s greatest contribution to mankind, some more coffee, hone my LaTeXing skills and go back to sleep. A life-changing decision this summer notwithstanding, no points for guessing that it is this universe I prefer. I guess everyone has to go through the stage where they wonder whether they would have been better off with the blue pill. Though I guess it would hurt less if all you can see is code and have a kick-ass (literally) girlfriend to boot and oh, you get to smooch Monica Bellucci as well. I digress. A thousand splendid ideas and here I am just where I started. Perhaps I need a break. Maybe I need one of those pensieves. Maybe I need a hard kick. Maybe, May be, I just need more coffee. All is well with the world.
Every school lives in the delusion that it is the sole beacon of light in the otherwise pathetic lives of its students. Mine was no different. Two years and two months ago, this school housing half of Chennai’s nerd-dom (the other half can be found here) organized a farewell, intended to be a soul-wrenching event of importance far exceeding the national elections and the release of Blu-Ray. It was by all means a morbid affair, boys dancing and girls singing (yes, and not the other way around), half-a-dozen speeches and few whatdyacall’ems which I seem to have conveniently forgotten. I do however, remember placing bets (remember kids, gambling is bad) with great passion and furious sadism as to which of my friends would shed tears and which ones would end up getting senti. Sentimentality is for losers, I had then opined, with wisdom that could be matched by none but the Pope and Joey Tribbiani. Back to the future, it is ironic that I have become the very ghost I had once mocked. Perhaps age does make you emotional, as the results of a recent psychological study suggest.
I had initially decided to christen this post “Sopho-no-more” – a tribute to a semester with a few unforgettable and a million forgettable incidents. So much to take home, and yet when I’m sixty four all the memories I’ll cherish will owe their existence to a sad white report card which shall further emphasize my cumulative fall from grace. (2,2) is probably R-land’s brilliant compensation for the sham(e)s to follow (read (4,2) ). I never thought a day would come when I would have no time for facebook almighty; this is precisely what this semester does to you. Countless night outs, sacrifices on the eve of the examination, getting beaten by a software whose makers thought having a chameleon as its icon would make it all the more happening, and disappointments, all worth enduring for just a couple of pats on the back. Among others, I wish to remember this sem as the one in which I finally got to watch “The Last one”, an episode which just about edges “The one which could have been” from the apex of the ten saddest excuses for F.R.I.E.N.D.S episodes. Watching Messrs Kauffman, Bright and Crane stoop (ascend?) to K-Jo’s emo-shunal level with the “They lived happily ever-waitforit-after” ending does make one wonder about the futility of life, forty two and all that jazz.
I attended my first DP a couple o weeks back, albeit as a mere spectator. Watching the usual suspects in a helpless state strangely transported me back to my first semester. For the naive fresher who had travelled a thousand miles, these were the ones who had it done it all, possessing infinite talent that one could only dream of, I had then thought. Pragmatism seems to have gotten the better of me today, but yet old adulations indeed die hard. One committed moron replaces another and yet in front of Dawggy-boy’s tree, I am a still a starry-eyed kid listening with rapt attention to a fat man’s cries for ideas. Another unfamiliar face shall greet me in G-27 when I barge in to drag the cheap chief off for a cup of kapi that I shall once again be forced to pay for. Gundas, air guitarists, Tigers and weirdos of all shapes and sizes who can claim the word velagiri to be their own, I shall spot them all in Rajendra next sem. And yet, when I return fulfilling the obvious prophecy by becoming a senior, Roorkee would be truly empty. Two days ago, they got me to trade my heroes for ghosts and I still don’t have any parting words, last-minute-jokes, or senti monologues. So it is but befitting that I end with a great man’s immortal lines (please do watch the video, I promise, it’s worth it).
We will meet.
I vividly recollect being sentenced to the gallows long, long ago for excessive usage of abusive language. (I also recollect furiously searching the dictionary under “O” for “obusive”, but that story I shall save for another time.) Yes, I had the makings of an epic badass way back in grade six. My favourite maths teacher (no doubt with the help of complex integrals and transforms) somehow decided that my constant references to the canine family were responsible for global disasters ranging from my 99 in the mathematics examination to stock market crashes to even Thalaiva’s only failure in the past two decades. It wouldn’t have taken me long to establish the merit of dogs and their ilk in a Big fight-isque scenario presided by the likes of Ms.Dutt, but as Murphy would have it, the news reached my folks and the rest as they say is history. Metaphorical aeons later, I found myself in the company of a few good men who were bent on proving that words other than the four-lettered one could be recycled and used as Verbs, Adjectives, Pronouns, etc. From Mothers and Sisters to Brothers-in-law to private body parts, nothing was spared in their ruthless endeavour to establish the might of desi expletives. The perpetrators always have the “It’s nothing personal, just good business” line in their defense but as Michael Corleone rightly pointed out to Hagan, “In this business, everything is personal”.
I’m not too sure I recall the time when the word “high” only meant flying on a jetplane. One of the few things I do recollect about aeroplanes is that the odd shape of the wings leads to the development of a pressure difference which in turn provides an aerodynamic lifting force. But I digress. I grew up in a society where a drunkard was always a bad man, where the cine villains always “high” and mighty (at least in the 90s, never mind the new age hero) and where an alcoholic was always a failure in life. It didn’t really help that my family went one extra step and labeled alcohol as “bad tonic” in Kannada; it was always referred to as “ketta aushadha” in family circles. Two years, some old and many new friends later, iconoclastic virtues have all been shed in favour of pragmatism. Hearing about the drunken revelry of an old chum hardly shatters any more glass, nor does being in the company of alcoholics anonymous. While the very thought of a period where I would have no control over my own actions is mortifying, the idea of cheap fun at the expense of an inebriated soul does seem tempting. The comparison between Churchill and Hitler is stuff of lore, and yet it raises pertinent questions about judging of character.
We at Morons Inc. have some inexplicable fascination for the world’s oldest profession. Before you get the wrong idea, this particular topic happens to be our stark favourite during debates and GDs, whose sole purpose as far as I can comprehend is to project the image of a group which is vela enough to discuss such issues of national importance. Two years and a million opinions later, I still don’t have an opinion. “Why do you care when the ones doing it don’t seem to themselves”, I had once argued just for the sake of giving the appearance of an intellectual. Inconsequential as it may seem to most, I have spent many a sleepless night pondering over the root concepts of good and bad. I have always had a bad habit of passing judgment on people. The guy who copies, the one who proudly pronounces himself to be another, and ironically one who is not as fluent as myself in the world’s most important language and yet might be infinitely more intelligent. As perverted as this may make me seem, what is the crime in flaunting one’s (god-given or sugery-given) assets to get things done in your favour? Any publicity is after all, good publicity.
An ardent devotee of elegance, I’ve always been smitten by dichotomy than taxonomy in general (though I’m sure some smartass would like to argue that dichotomy is merely a special case of taxonomy). Yin and Yang, Jedi and Sith, 0 and 1, nature has hinted to us in more than a million ways that there is no more to the world than a lazy scientist’s third law. Electronics has a taught me a simple way to classify signals; anything less than 0.5 V belongs to “Logical LOW” and greater, “Logical HIGH”. Till a while back, I used to apply the same to life. My NCERT-ish definition, “Anyone who does not indulge in activities that harm others or the society in general is a good person” once used to satisfy the thinker deep inside. I’m not too sure now. 16 Mutual Friends on facebook would probably agree with me. Any organizational setting has to exist in a framework of rules for its own sustenance. But at the same time, mere lack of conformity to social guidelines does not a bad person make. As corny as this may sound, and as much as I would not like to end a so-called profound post with this, when it is time to pass judgements, the judge would probably end up becoming mental.