So normally I'd mock an autobiographical piece, malign it and consider myself above such blatant self-expression. Normally. And just remember that. = ) . This will be long, very long. I suggest you read whatever -heading- takes your fancy.
Hansraj College. There is nothing in this latent Haryanvi town of manicured lawns, affluence, ostentation, red cars, miniature castles and Punjabi infestation that could have prepared me for the last few months. College. Suddenly and without warning, every sappy teeny bopper movie I've had the conceit and the superciliousness to disparage is laughing at me, doing a little victory march, with drum rolls and confetti showers. Its a race between them and me. I'm second, they're last but one. =)
-The course and more-
With what I believe is an abysmal lack of information and knowledge about the English language, I've irrationally decided to spend the next three years trying to master it. I'm 18, its allowed. Teachers with their excessive name-dropping and a queer illusion that ewes fresh out of school know who Holmer and Browning are, the first month was one adorned with discovery, disappointment and ennui, at least on the academic front. Then Victorian poetry happened. And Tagore happened. And I'm building myself a monument for the mother of all good decisions. My status as the walking Dictionary has once again plagued me and I'm hating it just as I dd in school. You see, I'm no longer the idiot who used long words to hide the lack of substance. Touchy nerves? Touchy nerves. =) Evenso, messages at 7 in the morning asking for word meanings still hold the capacity to turn my day around.
-Eristics, debating and stuff-
The third week of college introduced me to debating. Ladies and gentlemen, I'm such a hot-shot because I did MUNs in school, no really, medals and trophies in my honor, I own all butt and more. NOT. Ever been humbled to a degree where everything you've believed about yourself starts ripping at the seams and you're left with the ashen remains of delusion? I hope not. Its restive, and makes your skin crawl with unease. I'm getting better at it, I'd like to believe. The whole winning-a-grand thing might be to blame, a tad wee bit, but what the hell. But that's just debating.
-The DebSoc-
The debating society is an entirely different story. After my village, where reading in the recess is blasphemy, Sigur Ros is "what? a candy?", and I'm Meha Kapoor's cavalier, arrogant sister who looks like butter won't melt in her mouth. You get the gist. The DebSoc, and for Yogi's benefit, no, the debsoc isn't a hot bong boy, is what makes college, college. Not just the on-going wonder of meeting people who know what I'm talking about, but sheer admiration. They talk about AFSPA in one breath and dissolve into quiet reveries about the scorching hotness of Robin in the next. In very plain terms? Fun defines it. Fun, so much fun. Take it from the racist village girl whose idea of a comeback is to put her hand in your face. Its fun!
-Hosetlhostelhostel!-
I'm missing a very important part here. My hostel, and those of you who're still reading NEED to know about it. Yes, you do. Ever lived in a room with five girls who're as different from each other as Satyricon is from Iron and Wine? Heh. There's a shrink in every room, I have four wardrobes to choose from everyday and who knew there exists a wondrous world of facepacks and uncooked maggi. I dance secretly to Justin Timberlake while getting ready in the morning, but don't tell anyone. Anukriti, Ishita, Shubhi. Three short months and I have friends who watch my back. Friends who listen to incessant tirades about a certain crush that refuses to go away, yelling friends who put up with the pig sty I've turned the room into, who make my bed when I'm down, coerce me into doing something about the lack of erm.. ass-ets(?). Its like being parachuted into alien territory. Like winning a lottery you didn't buy the ticket for. The singing ball of scintillating wit and humour, the cribbing, pretty girl who doesn't know it, the genuine Ajanta-Ellora who couldn't hurt a fly.
-Men, dating, bleh-
You know what else college is about? About dating and men. The world is dating and I don't quite know the meaning of the word. Come 10 and every second girl in my hostel sneaks behind the covers and starts loving on her cellphone, whispering, giggling, being generally homosexual and endearing. School was about complacency. Dating literature and music is quite a ride, and being surrounded by jaats who speak and you die a slow, painful death was a lot easier. People here, in this strange strange land have shed all illusions of romance and courtship. Dating is mechanical, convenient and often, a product of boredom. I've been told that a date and a shared rickshaw ride aren't any different. A first date apparently is no cause for excitement. =) And there lies the discrepancy between college and the sappy teeny bopper movie. In my rural mind, dating is about dressing up, long phone conversations, retarded grins, nicknames, and little puddles of mushy ew. Blame the severe lack of experience. A week-long escapade that ended before it began doesn't teach you much. Makes you wonder where you screwed up, makes you wish there was a way to fix it but doesn't teach you much. Ah well. Maybe sticking to books and music isn't such a bad idea after all. =)
I hope for your sake, that you aren't still reading this narcissist piece of self-recapitulation but if you are, my condolences and apologies. It isn't everyday that I abuse writing space with self-obsession but I'm allowing myself this one luxury and writing it off as a weak failing. To summarize though, muh lyf ryt now pwns maja ass nigguh! ^.^
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