Here are some excerpts from the book "Joker in the Pack - An Irreverent View of Life at IIMs" Read it and see if you belong in that cut-throat world!!!
Interview at IIM Ahmedabad
By the time the IIM A date came, I felt reasonably confident and felt I was, in cricketing terms, "peaking at the right time". I had a reasonably good GD, which was a case discussion on the Indian education system. However, oblivious to the concept of "stress interview", I was slaughtered like a lamb by the 3 interviewers. I was asked questions like the breadth of a railway track (narrow gauge and broad gauge) and full forms of obscure abbreviations (at least I had never heard of DMPOT, no matter how shocked they seemed at my ignorance) while one of the professors kept blatantly ridiculing me as a worthless piece of trash irrespective of what I said. I fell for the obvious trap and went on the defensive. From there on, it became an India-Zimbabwe ODI where a rampaging Tendulkar, in the avatar of the aggressive professor, hammered the hapless Henry Olonga, represented by me, into submission.
Life at IIM
In my room at 11, after dinner and another round of dancing and cursing to the whims of PGP 2s, I finally began to wonder if it was worth it. Would the money that came after a life like this ever be enough to make me happy? I hadn't slept properly in days, had work that I could not manage, and had no friends to share it all with. Anoushka seemed to be a distant past in just a week's time. The other PGP 1s seemed just as hopeless, but at least had formed cliques of their "types". Trouble was, there was no one here of my type – no one here had done their graduation from a 3rd rate college. None here had raised a victory sign for scoring the lowest marks in the class. It seemed as if everyone knew exactly what they wanted in life and how to get it. I felt I had somehow made it by fluke and did not belong here. How else could I explain my inability to cope?
Life after IIM
The call came at 10.15 pm – "Good evening Mr. Verma, your car is waiting outside your home. Have a nice trip." I took the two huge suitcases, my handbag, and the laptop out to the waiting black sedan. The uniformed chauffeur took the bags and proceeded to stow them into the boot.. I bade my goodbyes and as a gesture of humility amidst all this pomp, touched my parents' feet. I sat in the car and we left for the airport. The chauffeur asked me where I was headed. "New York", I replied.
We reached the airport in just half an hour as the roads were deserted. The chauffeur got a trolley and unloaded my bags onto it. I tipped him Rs. 100 and went towards the business class check-in counter.A pretty young employee of the airline approached me and asked whether I would like a frequent flyer membership. I did expect to be flying a lot over the next few months, if not years, and gave her my details as she filled out a form. The check-in proceeded smoothly and I was escorted to the business lounge to wait for boarding. It was a far cry from the sweaty, smelly steel chairs I had slept in waiting for buses and trains. And from the uncomfortable chairs I had waited hours in, without food and water, for my discount airline to be finally rid of technical snags. The lounge had leather seats and comfortable couches and a bar and buffet catered by a five-star hotel. I tried to appear casual and "used to it", and somehow, I did feel that way.. All my life, I had known I belonged here.
When I landed in New York, there was a uniformed chauffeur waiting with a welcome sign that had my name on it. Finally, things started to sink in, but I still tried to act normal. I casually followed him as he pushed my luggage cart towards the waiting limo. I sat inside and read business magazines as I was driven to my home though it was getting hard to concentrate.
We reached Carlton Towers at 235, Lexington Avenue in about an hour. I went to the reception. The well groomed concierge was very polite as he handed the keys to my apartment. I took one of the four elevators to the 40th floor – the highest in the building – and looked for my apartment. Standing in front of Penthouse 105, I finally let out a sigh and shook my head. I turned the key and stepped inside the apartment. It was a beautiful apartment, fully furnished and stocked with every appliance I needed and didn't. A huge basket laden with fruits and breads was kept on the dining table, decorated with a red ribbon and a card that read "Mr. Verma, Welcome to New York".
I walked to the huge French windows and looked out into the clear blue sky. It had been cold outside, but now seemed sunny and pleasant. I could see the Empire State and Brooklyn Bridge in the distance and Macy's across the street. The building's swimming pool glistened in the sunshine about 30 floors below me. I seemed to be taking it all in with each deep breath. Another sigh escaped me and I turned to bring my luggage inside. At age 22, Shekhar Verma had finally arrived.
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