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Friday, December 28, 2007

The Junior College Jamboree

Pseudo-graduation from my tenth grade was ostensibly one of my most sought after goals in life, after a whirlwind tenth standard where I battled my abominable transition from Dubai’s IGCSE to the humbler, more embryonic SSC—all this coupled with Gujurati as a subject ( I am one—but never formally learnt how to write it) and the deplorable Math—a fairly competent seventy-two percent was what I had to contend with.

It did price me out of the Holy Grail—the assiduously dandy South Mumbai glam capital colleges, however, I wasn’t ending up in a shady ghetto either—so hope was not lost.

MMK College in Bandra was where I had cruised in through the first list, and that was where I was staying—the other lists hadn’t been to kind on me.

The first day in itself was a stimulus to what lay in the dark, dank and myriad pathways of my pocket-sized college—the very feeling of walking to that classroom, packed to the rafters like a can of sardines—somehow—somewhere—it seemed that this feeling is not alien, nor was it euphoric, it was deeply recollective like a bad déjà vu.

It felt exactly like school. Ditto same.

Where was the emancipation? The maturity? The rock-n-rollin’ kamikaze pseudo-intellectual jholawhallas that the fabled tales of yore have so overtly glorified throughout the annals of time.

Was this the institution that was going to induce a metamorphosis of the very endoskeleton of the personality that I was going to be? Chances were slim—but like every experience—this would leave its indelible mark on me as well.

Before I had walked into those hallowed classrooms, I wasn’t as self-assured in a situation where I had responsibility shoved down on my narrow shoulders—in college things changed within days; I was immediately thrust into a class-representative (CR) election for which I notched up a rather rich and rousing speech (promising a plethora of things I knew I’d never be able to organize, from Counter Striker to Rink Football to what-nots)—my class bought the kibosh and I was CR.

What seemed like a golden seat with powers bestowed on you rivaling that of your teachers, it took little time to know that a ringmaster and a CR have very similar job profiles.

Instruction 1—the class is psychotically imbalanced and hormonally dysfunctional, oneirodynia is a common ailment amongst them.

Instruction 2—In your CR meet, you were shown a mirage that you are a pseudo-teacher, but in truth—you are merely a titular Xerox-copy-churning entity and if you try and wrestle some discipline into the classroom, they will conspire against you like third-grade infants, charting reports of misbehavior to higher authority.

In short—you are wearing the modern Crown of Thorns, albeit one with two kilograms of pure RDX dangling from either side…it takes great skill to master this crown and still not get hurt in the process—it takes a mythical and difficult skill—diplomacy.

And not only that, this crazy political-minefield cum classroom teaches so much more if you don’t want to fizzle and get immolated in the glory of your own idiocy, the various sects, classes and tribes of ‘studentfolk’ that hound your terrain, everyone has their demands, everyone a different manner of handling, if you want to be everyone’s apple—chances are your will mangle, twist and wrangle with your inner beliefs, principles and fundas—flexibility, something very few go through during their earlier years, the ability to be malleable in a multi-faceted environment, once you deal with this heterogeneity of people, and in a world that is only an amalgamation of your classroom—seeping through in fluid motion can only be useful.

As college passed on, and days grew into months, a new breed of excitement surfaced in the form of college festivals, Malhar, Umang, Kaleidoscope and other various names were being bandied about, the whole smorgasbord of enchanted sounding fiestas filled with merrymaking beyond the wildest dreams of the starved beast in the small college seeking jocularity, mirth and ‘chicks’ beyond the capabilities of their own confines.

But then again—like college itself—college festivals have a dour affinity for turning out to be overrated, overtly complex and rather lackluster and monosyllabic events for which people come from the corners of Mumbai and stand in lines, getting verbally abused and shoved around by the obloquy-happy security, after which you get inside, looking around for events and events so unprofessionally planned out that if you’re planning to take part or watch a lot of things—better hire a PA and buy a PDA, otherwise handling your timetables inside these fests is nigh on impossible.

Or maybe I just lack college-fest-o-mania, the ability to assimilate yourself into the masked revelry and the FBI-esque detail given to strict conduct.

Contrary to belief, where studying levels drop in college, mine’s—ironically skyrocketed, for the first time in my life (I, the guy who picked his books a day before the exam)—suddenly chalked out schedules for studying and intrinsically got high on his skyscraper-esque marks—it was behavior for which chubby, Lokhandwala-based acquaintances of mine’s giggled, and guys labeled me a nerd, fairy, geek and various other things unsuitable in print.

But the constant public eye as the luminary, in the pantheon of the college’s top ten students—it was infectious as well as addictive, much like intoxication, and that is where I reckon shades of arrogance, pomposity and the feeling of being higher than most your colleagues crawled into the nooks and crannies of my cranium.

Or was it that they were just a bunch of worthless crabs, seeking to pull me back into that abyss of counterproductive youthful behavior—I think it was me being too good.

College I must say changed me into a much fierier person, a lot of adjectives that go today with my persona and aura were forged inside that very institution, my world-famous-in-India vitriolic sense of humor, the razor-sharp wit, the sheer mental segregation of people whom I must be with and whom I must not—an almost culturally racist sense, the ability to lead anyone and everyone (albeit not fully convincingly), the friendly, and ineluctable ability to make people laugh (99% of the time by poking fun at various third parties).

I’d be lying if I claimed I had a gala time in college, but it wasn’t all bad I must say, and a lot of facets to whom Subhash Gopal Dawda is—is just because of college.

4 comments:

Demitrius said...

off 2 a gr8 start but you must provide us with a dictionary my frnd..hehe ;)

Unknown said...

Was real fun to read your post early in the morn,boy oh boy my dictionary sure felt wanted today,hehe.It's kewl that you documented every tedious bit of minutia filling your super-eventful life.Why haven't you mentioned anything about Bhavan's,the place where you've witnessed what butt-licking can do.LOL.Another post exclusively about your ordeal in Bhavan's is coming up,I reckon.

Mannn,Subbie even I wanna write a blog,but any kinda typing apart from that when I type while chatting on IMs,kinda pisses me,I get sooo pissed that I feel like sawing my arms off...Oh god..I just slammed the door shut on some kid's nuts..just kidding..I think I should stop now..bahut footage khaa raha hoon.Keep up the good work my boy :-D

P.S:For those who ain't verbal connoisseurs,this should help.

http://www.thefreedictionary.com/

Nitin Pai said...

Use colloquial language yaar :) nice blog btw!!!

Sneha said...

amongst d best blogs ive read in recent tyms...keep up d gr8 wrk dude