The happiest day of my life...

In class, we ask students to write a short essay on the happiest day of their life. No, we do not run a psychotherapy clinic. The aim is twofold. One, of course, is to introduce them to writing, particularly the formal writing that is expected of them both during the admission process and later, when they are at a B-school. But the real reason we ask them to do this is to ferret character traits from the exercise.

During Indian Institute of Management interviews, one is often asked to enumerate strengths and provide explicatory examples. "Hardworking" is the most common answer that students come up with - and also one most likely to put the panel off. I don't blame them. Who isn't hardworking, especially if you are one of the top five per cent who have made the cut? Similar positive traits that do not stand out, such as academic excellence, are not worth mentioning.

How then do students arrive at their strengths? Writing the happiest-day essay is part of that effort. Students might write about receiving a prize, or making their folks proud, or even performing a death-defying feat. It could be anything but if it makes them happy, chances are it will throw up a few behavioural traits that can be counted as strengths. We ask students to not just write the happiest incident, but describe the day from start to finish.

Once done, students read aloud their essays before the class. I jot down on the white board the central idea. "Birth of my niece" sits above "Won a dance competition." "Solved an inextricable issue at work" is next to "Grandpa emerged hale and hearty after surgery." Different students, different stories. Some are about personal achievement, others about team success, still others revolve around friends and family.

One student refuses to read his essay. "It's too personal, sir," he says. As an instructor, I don't grant any student privileges and such requests are normally shot down. "Don't be shy," I tell him, "we are all friends here." "No sir," he persists. I consider applying the stick but stick to the carrot. "All right," I say, "show it to me after class."

The other students discuss how their happiest moments dovetail with their strengths. One girl, who wrote about nurturing a class of dyslexic seven- and eight-year-olds in her free time, speaks of empathy. Another, who volunteers at an old-age home, focuses attention on social responsibility. Still others show enthusiasm for sporting and extra-curricular pursuits - smaller, individual achievements, but no less important for that.

The student who refused to participate is beginning to feel left out. Everybody is talking of their personal experiences with ease and felicity. There is little inhibition as students exchange notes, and the class develops a gentle, pleasing thrum.

"Would you like to share your experience?" I make another effort.

"Yes sir, I think so."

He begins to read and everybody listens in. The happiest day, rather period, of his life was when he undertook Paryushana, a Jain fasting ritual which is undertaken for eight to 10 days. It is a rite of passage for all Jains and the first Paryushana that a youngster undertakes is considered auspicious and life-affirming. My student describes the anxieties of his parents at having him undergo this tough ritual and the encouragement that he received from the close-knit community.

Once he is finished, I ask him: "Did it affect your health?"

"A little, but we look upon it as cleansing."

"Why did you not want to talk about it?"

"It's too sacred to boast about in public."

One of the things I picked up in B-school is to get more "real". Fewer inhibitions, lesser rose tinge. It is impossible to survive the experience of an MBA without fighting for survival. Nobody has the time to indulge your genteel self. It's not about an absence of niceties. It's simply a way of life that stresses on outcomes over etiquette. If you want to wait and let the world come to you, well, you can wait forever.

I explain this to the class. I narrate my own experience of realising one morning, with the clarity that intense loneliness bestows, the need to reach out and meet the world halfway. "I was damningly insular before I went to B-school. It took an entire trimester before I made friends and participated in events. If I hadn't - if I had waited for people to come indulge me - I would have lost my mind," I tell them.

"And therefore," I continue, "do not be bothered too much about protecting yourself. Take chances. Expose yourself a little. You would be amazed how resilient your sense of self is. You will not lose it, trust me!"

When the class ends, the hesitant student comes to me and says: "Sir, I am sorry if I upset you."

"Oh no, you didn't," I reply. "I just think you didn't have to worry about speaking up in the first instance. Especially when your story was so inspiring."

He says Ok and leaves. I feel strangely elated. My students provide me my own happiest moments.

The author has switched too many jobs in the past and hopes he can hold down this one