Srini's List

Srini was, very possibly, the most competitive loser in our batch at IIM.

I distinctly remember my first impressions of him – a tall fellow, with a big belly that clearly advertised his weakness for all things carbohydrated, a neatly combed shock of hair with a lock of it falling onto his forehead, a moustache that was never allowed to fulfill its potential and a prominent, out-sized bottom much like the stomach but in the reverse direction, which caused much merriment over the two years he spent on campus. Yet it was his voice that was the most distinctive feature. It was a scratchy, harsh voice, much like the drongo’s and more indicative of a rough barrel making its way down a road, a voice devoid of humour, with a flat tone that rose to an unpleasant pitch when his competitive spirit was aroused to a challenge. The overall impression of the man was of a bull in a china shop, albiet one with a rather sore throat.

An early indication of the competitive spirit was provided when the first party was hosted on campus. This was a getting-to-know-you sort of event, where we, the freshers, put up the usual stuff like Hotel California and the odd jamba. Srini was horrified (as indeed any true TamBrahm would like to be) and dismissive, and shunned it with the words “I am here to study, not to party”, words that immediately acquired cult status. This is exactly the kind of thing you don’t say on campus. The one thing that you are expected to do but expected to pretend that you never do is study. Such niceties were lost on him and this, we realised over the next many months, was typically Srini. He would not hesitate to speak his mind, most often saying precisely the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person at the wrong place or publicly dismissing those he saw as inadequate (in front of them, needless to add).

In class, Srini was intensely competitive, scanning the horizon for the brainy and the studious, the ones with a history of ranks and those in the ranks of history. If any of these folks asked a question, Srini's would be the next. When he asked a question, his mellifluous voice was much like the movement of finger nails on glass. The strong willed would clench their fists, most would grind their teeth and cross their toes. Presumably, the faculty felt the same way as they were (occasionally) human, so it was no wonder that his many queries were often answered in a tone of finality, with no second question entertained.

My paths with Srini crossed right in the first trimester, where a key subject was financial accounting. Now, I was at best an average guy at academics, reserving my hidden genius for such intellectual pursuits as putting up posters of events, imbibing midnight tea, practising for a future speech that I would make as a Chief Executive and the like (as you can see, I still don’t admit that I did study). Yet accounts was a forte, having done my undergraduation in it. When I did well in the first accounts quiz, Srini had me in his sights. I recall a moment one evening when I went to his room to pick up a handout and saw a list that he had put up on the wall. It was a neat list of the classmates he considered to be competition, with their grades in all subjects. My name, I was mortified to see, was on it. I went back to my gang of friends, in some agitation, for grades are confidential and about as personal as your toothbrush. The gang, having adequately dosed on spirits, was waiting for me to join them and the list became a subject of intense discussion; some of them suggested that we lodge a complaint against this restrictive and unfair trade practice. In the end, we chose to stay silent (while the next day’s hangover went away).

Interestingly, for all his competitive zeal, his hundred percent attendance, the copious notes, the determined use of the library and the relentless pursuit of past questions, Srini never really was a topper, though he was, I will happily admit, a darn sight better than I could have been. The more he saw himself as a loser the more competitive he became as I discovered when, sometime in the third semester, more by necessity than by choice, I happened to drop by his room again,

The list was there, of course. Some names had been added to it. My name had been neatly scratched out. If there was anything that could have caused greater mortification, intense chagrin and wrenching indignity than having my name on that list, it was having my name scratched out from that list. With my ego in terminal decline, I slunk back to the room determined to undo this affront, this inconvenient truth. My place on Srini's list was my only goal.
The feeling lasted for about a couple of hours after which I slept well and found the next day far too beautiful to spend on a text book.

Srini, of course, did not change in all the time I saw him on campus. Years later, when I thought I saw his form emerge from a chair at an airport, I stood behind a pillar with my head buried in a newspaper till the danger had passed and all was well. He works, I am told, with a large manufacturing company in New Delhi. Some classmates have allegedly met him at airports over the years (and not hidden behind pillars), and most reports indicate that the two protrusions on either side have only grown. Yet, frustratingly, no one has asked him if he still keeps his list on a wall; now possibly a list of potential competitors for the top job in his company.