Randomness

There is something about randomness that fascinates me.

Each day I live seems to pass by at light speed; but then stretch forever. Each new person I've met is a friend one moment; but vanishes in the next. Sometimes I observe the swirls of smoke billowing past my lips engage in frenzied battle with the light breeze of a fluttering butterfly.

Then there are times when I look down at the earth, and watch little ants scuttle about leading their busy lives; and others when I look up into the deepness and vastness of space, and survey the infinity of billions of universes.

Tomorrow becomes today. Today becomes yesterday; but is yet tomorrow. Such is the way of the cosmic traveler, where day is really night and night is really day and both are same and neither.

I had this dream about numbers.

Imagine you are standing at a point 'X' which is the number '0'. There is a fence directly in front of you; let's call the fence number '1'.

Now I ask you to take 10 steps to reach the wall. Mathematically, to reach the fence you have traveled in the following sequence: 0 - 0.1 - 0.2 - 0.3 - 0.4 - 0.5 - 0.6 - 0.7 - 0.8 - 0.9 - 1

Now I ask you to walk from '0' to '1' again, this time taking 100 steps. Mathematically, to reach the fence this time you would travel in the following sequence: 0.01 - 0.02 - 0.03 - ...all the way to... - 0.97 - 0.98 - 0.99 - 1

Now what if I ask you to take infinite steps? Mathematically, you should never reach the fence.

My point being, if I were to play the number game and start counting from '0', breaking down numbers to the smallest decimals, I wouldn't get anywhere. I would never reach any number beyond my initial start point - '0'. Therefore, how is it possible that any number exists?

"I have measured out my life with coffee spoons." - T.S. Eliot

Magellan Tales

Sunday, July 31, 2011 - 12:07 PM

A typical, lazy Sunday. Woke up around noon, scratched my ass on the way to the toilet, brushed my teeth with the tail end of my toothbrush, scratched some more, and lumbered across the room to my secretary, Apple iMac. A triple-egg cheese and mushroom omelette and a steaming mug of coffee appeared by my side, courtesy my super-efficient and talented cook.

*Yawn* ... *Yawn* ... Safari: www.facebook.com; www.gmail.com; www.timesofindia.com, www.nytimes.com - one click and my day begins. I checked my email first. Gazillion junk emails of shady MBA programs advertising themselves from uninhabited islands in the middle of the Pacific to the Central African Republic. Delete All, *Click*. *Yawn*. Over to Facebook. The usual babble, dabble, gabble. Someone got engaged, someone else broke off. Some fool had sent me a bunch of requests to join Farmville. *Block*. I could have died of boredom. Through heavy eyelids I skimmed across the mundane and obscene whirl of text and color gazing back at me. And then ... Yellow.

The feed read (something to this effect): Mikhil Shah updated his profile picture. Bollocks. Photoshop. Yet, I was intrigued. *Click*. No tags, geographical information, comments, likes, dislikes, yada yada yada. Flicked through my BlackBerry Messenger contact list and found the joker who was responsible for destroying my Sunday morning lethargy.

Me: Dude, sup! Long time! :)

Mikhil: Nm, man .. U temme.

Me: Chilling ... just wokeup, got on FB and saw your profile pic. Wats the deal?!

Mikhil: hahaha ... ya man, just went for a ride with friends ...

Me: in india?! on that?! April 1st went by months ago *censored* !!

Mikhil: lol, nahin re, I'm in Portugal...

Me: oh! holiday?

Mikhil: no dude, doing my MBA ... in Porto ... bought the bike when I got here.

I sloshed my coffee (never mind where), dropped my phone in the process, and ran to the kitchen screaming my head off. Anyways, let's not go into details here. Portugal?! Mik was off his rocker. What happened to the good ol' United States? Jolly England? Spain, France, Germany? Even China was picking up these days. But Portugal?! I picked up my BlackBerry ... and Mikhil explained.

Sunday, July 31, 2011 - 4:26 PM

Mikhil had persuaded me to look at the program he was pursuing. 

Safari: www.egp-upbs.up.pt *Enter*

I swore at the alien language that popped up. *Google Translate*. Useful little tool. But still shit. The translation from Portuguese to English looked more alien than the original text. After 10 minutes of frantically waving at my arms in front of the screen and swearing at the ridiculous words in front of me, I figured out the tab for an English language option on the website.

I did have some idea of the whole MBA research process. I had scanned the websites of every Ivy League university in the recent past. Six years of being grilled and roasted in one bank or the other had me almost longing for a return to the academic world.

The Magellan MBA. *Click*. Have to be honest here. The course looked really impressive. On paper. Screen, rather. 15 months, Portugal, one week fully sponsored school trip some place abroad for an "International Week", mentor programs, teamwork and leadership offsite modules, and scholarships! Apply for Admission. *Click*. I love writing. Really. I do. But 3 application essays of 500 words each?! Suicidal. I almost cried. A yellow bike floated before my face. I started writing.

Tuesday, August 2, 2011 - 8:55 PM

Walked into my father's room after he got home from work, and a successful stint on the tennis courts at Wellington Club.

Me: Pop, I'm off to Portugal...

Mr Narula Sr.: What?

Me: To do an MBA ...

Mr Narula Sr.: What MBA?

Me: I applied for an MBA program in Portugal that a friend of mine from New York is currently doing and I just got the admission confirmation!

Mr Narula Sr.: Yet again I have to pay for my sins ...

It was déjà vu. Four years previously I had applied for, and been selected for, the Mountbatten fellowship programme in New York. It was a chaotic rush and I had left for the United States within a week of acceptance. At least this time I had three! Simple - week one, apply for visa; week two, party in China; week three, shopping and packing. I had no idea what was coming my way!

It took me a while to research and realize the centuries of history Portugal has shared with a small Indian state called Goa. In my quest to apply for a visa, not only did I learn that my city, Mumbai, did not have a Portuguese consulate; but also that I would have to endure the following (in order): fly to Goa, where Portugal naturally had a consulate (I begged if I could Blue Dart my application, and almost got laughed at), stand in line (at the mercy of the Indian rain gods) for an hour until I find sanctuary within the consulate premises, wait for another 3-4 hours until my token number is called upon (immigration application tokens get priority, not visa!), submit my application form along with my past academic records duly notorized and attested by the Home Ministry of the Government of India, fly back to Mumbai, fly to Shanghai, have a killer time for a week - eating locusts, grasshoppers, ducks and frogs, and drinking snake wine and Tsingtao (pronounced: Chin-tao - amazing Chinese beer!), fly back to Mumbai, fly to Goa again, collect my visa (after finding out that the visa issuing machine had broken, and hence they had to manually write my travel details and restrictions and duration of the visa!), fly back to Mumbai and finally book my tickets to Porto, Portugal. Whew!

Friday, September 2, 2011 - 4:30 PM

I landed in Porto at around 4:30PM, spent thirty minutes convincing a couple of burly Portuguese customs officers that I was indeed an international MBA student and not armed with empty bottles to pilfer vino from the Douro Valley. The taxi driver who drove me to Matosinhos was quite chatty, and even gave me his business card after I'd paid him - not for future business alone, as he explained, but also for an invite to a Goan rave for New Years Eve.

Lugging 5 kilos of clothes and another 25 kilos of my mother's finest homemade delicacies into my new home, I greeted my new Estonian flatmate, Eneken, like a typical Indian chap - reserved and formal handshake. And a small hug. I was yet to learn the Portuguese tradition of schmaltzy greetings.

A small welcome dinner was planned by the 2010-2011 Magellan class. I was exhausted; but decided to be polite and attend. The restaurant was called Cepa Torta (I think!), and had a nice variety of steaks and table wine on offer. Eneken had made plans for the next day to go to a place called Paipenela, somewhere close to the Spanish border, to eat a whole pig. 25 hours of travel and half a bottle of wine wasn't going to dissuade me from going - I hit the sack, snoring like a pig and dreaming about eating one.

Saturday, September 3, 2011 - 8:45 AM

Mêda is a municipality in Portugal with a total area of 286.1 sq km (110 sq mi) and a total population of 6,000 inhabitants. The city of Mêda has a population of 2,004. It was promoted to city in December 2004. (Source: Wikipedia) Keeping this in mind, I couldn't help but think that Paipenala would be more or less a ghost-town. I wasn't disappointed. It was deserted. But yet so exquisite!

The landscape was a treat to the eyes, and I wasn't disappointed with my first taste of Portugal either! The roast pig was scrumptious, and I knocked down 14 pints of Super Bock (the most delicious, refreshing beer ever) - not a bad start to my MBA journey! Plenty of photographs had to be taken, and Eneken was ever so helpful with her delightful poses.

I almost did a Bianca Castafiore ...

       

Monday, September 5, 2011 - 7:30 AM

Monday morning, first day of business school. I dressed in a suit - easy, confident and cool - and got into a limo waiting downstairs to ferry me across in style.

Okay ... who am I fooling ... I was literally shitting bricks out of sheer fright. And I had thrown on a shirt and trousers. The limo was in my dreams. A million questions crawled through my mind like hideous, clingy spiders. How would my first day go by? Would I make any friends? Would I even like anyone? Would I understand anything being taught? The first lecture was supposed to be QMM, or Quantitative Methods of Management. I had skimmed through the text book the previous day. A shot of vodka had prevented me from jumping into the Atlantic Ocean.

I glanced at my watch - 7:55 AM. I could hear Eneken screaming from the kitchen, no doubt trying to tell me that we were running late. Story of my life. Might as well make a grand entrance. I put on my jacket, and ran out the front door.