Hook, line and stinker.

I've only ever endured the misadventure of going fishing once or twice in my life. Notwithstanding the environmental affronts to the "philosophical pastime" which array themselves before someone who by design or compulsion has spent his whole life in Calcutta, I found out very early in the exercise of baiting a fishing rod, configuring tangents of pivot and the general good feeling of standing under the beastly summer sun of West Bengal that I wasn't particularly suited to such pursuits. Never mind the fact that I was desperately overcome by clumsiness each time I'd to cast the rod, the simple fact was (and remains) that I'm extremely unlucky in these ventures, as it were. I've never caught fish in my life. Thus, I've never had curry.

Therefore, for those astute readers pondering how this impoverished blogger shall sustain his quest of retaking tests, ordering 50 sets of (undergraduate and graduate) transcripts, pay application fees and mail supplementary materials, don't think that that's a headache which doesn't consume many afternoons of thought. When one needs something close to a hundred thousand Indian curries, even the paucity of good fortune isn't a strong enough discouragement from going fishing again.

I already had the hook, though. During my sojourn last year, it was recommended that I apply for a well-regarded internship. The line was drawn in that I had, for whatever my beliefs are worth, excellent credentials. But after applying and waiting on it for quite some time came the stinker. I got a mail last night, which read:

"Unfortunately, we are not able to offer you a position. I wanted to let you know that your application was very good; you were very close to being a finalist. So I hope that you will keep the program in mind for the summer of 2008."

Thank you very much. One thing though: I did think that I'd kept the program in mind for the summer of 2008!! Fucking idiots, using year-old form mails. And I'm not even good enough to get in there.

And just a footnote: the money from the internship would've paid for my ticket to ride on the RTU. To manage the significant setbacks this accrues, I'll have to import yet another change to my character and become something I've never been: stingy. Don't me get wrong, I hardly spend on myself except when indulging in books. But based on my calculations last night, I'll have the benefit of $10/month for the rest of the year, if I get a raise in May. Jeez, reel me in already!

A moment of panic.

With what has now become a characteristic second second-thought, I almost applied to an MA program at the New School for Social Research. I figured that with one quasi-Marxist-approaching-Hitler already occupying the basement, I might as well carry the fight to the same turf. Right on cue, Pink Floyd played on the radio and a Kantian turn infused reason into my noumenal self which had been momentarily Earth-bound. So, um, Dr. Hobswam, I've gotta give you a miss for now.

I hate this. It's March of 2008, and I'll be biting my nails till the March (April, even) of 2009. I find myself constantly thinking about this nonsensical process of having to prove my academic potential to a committee of clueless, overworked, dreary-eyed objectivists, who'd play it safe by relying on GRE percentiles. I'm not saying I'm something like the best thing to happen to moral philosophy since John Rawls, but I'm an honest student of politics: I debate without provocation, I listen without hesitation, I read without prejudice. I think from things. Or, at least, I used to.

The last few days have been an exercise in trying to will my concentration to last longer than that fleeting second, in evaluating and re-evaluating my readiness and competence in doing doctoral work, on jotting down ideas/thoughts so as not to forget them (yep, it's that bad) and dreaming of a time when I'll be reading these words and smiling to myself.

In reality, I think it'll be easier for me once I get into a program - I got sick as balls just to pass outta high school, had to make my pet cow climb trees to get into college, but once in there, I made progress. I learnt things. Subsequently, I was swept into my MA program by the general inertia of things happening around me. I'm not suggesting that gradschool shall be a breeze, but for me, I believe it'll be the getting in (a.k.a. me throwing off the yoke of negativity which I've left hanging around myself for far too long) which'll be more difficult. In any case, it shan't happen in a moment of panic.

So it begins.

Well yeah, I've always wanted to quote Morpheus' famous middle-of-his-life words. (If you don't know who he is or when he said this, it's a good indication that you shouldn't be here. Avast, freshwater swab!)

Yesterday I received a rejection from Brown. In the process, I struck out for the first year of my PhD applications. Duke and Brown - yeah, apple and orange - both didn't want any more of yours truly than an application form. Goodbye, blue sky. :-(

I'm now at a point in my life where I'll have to do what I've dreaded for the last three years: make several applications, take tests, fill out forms, e-mail professors, write my proposal/SOP several gazillion times, make hundreds of photocopies of inconsequential papers (and some, absent-mindedly, of my butt) and haggle the oh-so-considerate folk at the holy grail of human niceties i.e., the administrative building of Jadavpur University - and all in a few months' time. Oh, fuck me silly!

Let's face it - everyone wants to go to Harvard and brag about it; to be taught in a group of five by Michael Sandel or be advised by Stephen Walt and then go home to mesmerise a crowd of young 'uns with stories of oak-wooden lecture halls and air-conditioned dorms. I'm one in the crowd. I'm taken in by all the hogwash, regardless of how poor the job market in political theory is, and without care for how hot it'll be in India when I've to return after six years with nothing to show for the time but a degree soaking in my sweat. Yes, let's face it - that PhD is surely the road to unemployment (RTU).

On my journey to find the RTU, I shall take with me the unfortunate reader of this excrutiatingly artificial and painful blog. (The self-disdain and mockery works for me. See if my blogging doesn't improve by the next month.) When I'm there, I shall continue as your humble correspondent, reporting all the unserviceables in lieu of the payment of my taxes. Right now, I must conclude this confused first post. Ta!