The immediate reaction to the title might be to classify me as a catamite. Thankfully, my more jolly friends have spared me that embarrassment. Also, I just noticed that ‘catamite’ is not a registered word in the WordPress dictionary. And, as usual, MS Word fails me.

Besides discussing about such colourful words (ah yes, American English), I do have something to say. First, we had our convocation. A few of the old crowd turned up, but most left with their pockets heavier by the Degree rather than lightened by parties. Plus, some of them had serious issues, so we basically saw studies in desperation. She did show up, after a candid statement that she won’t spend a cent. While I did contemplate blackmailing her, the plan did not fall true, and, true to her word, left with a full purse.

To move on, I’ll be giving the Common Admission Test this Sunday. It’s over three years since I last gave a competitive examination (not counting the cut-throat TS’s and End Sems), so while I don’t feel any jitters, I am a bit skeptical about my preparation for the same. Hours and hours of examinations, practice questions and day long discussions have marked the lives of those dedicated to the cause. Me, I’m just looking for backup. Without a solid base to balance my future on, I am grabbing at every falling slab. Mind you, I am a good grabber.

The CAT differs markedly from the GRE. The latter is boring, dull, repetitive. The CAT does offer some challenge in this respect, but after a while you find out that it is just as dull, boring and repetitive, not to mention scarce on time. In the beginning, you are a kitten playing with a ball of wool. And when you find it unravels into a single string, you lose the fascination that gripped you before. It is just another damn paper, as pointless for the purpose it states itself to serve as a piece of paper to that grain of dust right opposite to the longitude that passes through Timbuktu.

Oh well, a job taken must be a job well done. I guess I’ll have to bear with the excitement of other prospective candidates for the next six days. Then I can give them all the boot. Avast, killjoys! And then I can relax…..till the End Sems, which shall be short and swift, and shall give way to the daunting prospect of getting a job. By job, I mean ANY job. I’d love to be a grad student. But I’ll settle for something that actually pays.

Now we know how Jerry feels as Tom stands guard at his hole.Here’s to the mouse.


Tummy Calls

There are few things on Earth more depressing than being a vegetarian amongst non-veggies and good boys. The former habitually leave you stranded in a mess, and the later have the sense not to accompany you, and are always ready with an excuse to execute their rescue plan.

Not that you are a religious messer, but it is nice not to spend hard earned money for a single meal. And so, you set out, bidding the mice luck to pin the cat, and accompanying the fair-food friends along the common path. And that’s when you hear that sacred organ, the Stomach, speak to you directly.

“Sacrilege! You, a priest of the higher order of fooddom, have blasphemed by agreeing to sacrifice base food for the pleasure of your Lord, the Stomach!”

Your friends having pushed off to where their own gods might take them (including one who suddenly changed his faith), you stop dead in your tracks, gulp down in fear of upsetting the diety, and are struck down by hunger. You weep inside, knowing how you almost turned to the dark side. You walk towards the gate to salvation, but that’s when your significant other pops up.

“To hell with the Stomach. You know what? All those bills may look green and rosy now, but come tomorrow, you’ll be short” says the Brain, who has forever been your friend and companion, and has enticed you to doodle off these very words. And then, you are afraid no more. Yes, it all makes perfect sense. Why would yoube in the pay of your Stomach? Is not gluttony a sin? Is not half the world starving? You’d be indulging while that poor kid in Ethiopia cries for a single kilocalorie of nutrition.

With these fortifying words, you stay true, refusing even to see the inviting gate. If there is any sin, it is this, you say to yourself. But then, the Stomach’s wrath falleth upon thou, and hunger bites ever harder, and the stench of the mess turns you away more effectively than the ten plagues could ever do. You run, run faster than a gazelle can gallop, passing cycles and bricks and God knows what, crying “I can’t do it, my old friend. I am true to my faith. His judgement cometh, and that right soon.”

And so you satiate the Lord with offerings from the canteen, meagre and devoid of resplendence though they are. As penance, you gobble junk, trying to relish each moment while you know that the Lord will punish. And then you retire until the next dinner, hoping someone else pays for the sacrifice that must be made.

Now you know why annadanam is thought so highly of.