Of The Institution

I have been living in a rut for the past month or so. What with work having been put to stop by my omnipotent dad and the even more omnipotent college. I keep beating myself up, wondering what kind of insanity made me nod my head meekly to my dad's deriding “I’m not going to sit back and watch you pour my hard earned savings down the drain. Hah! Working and studying indeed. Why don't you try studying for once and we'll talk about working." So here I am going to college everyday and on the way I remember my boss's insightful words " Why don't you stop whining for once and just get your six months of college over with! " and I thought to myself she is right. I am never going to get to enjoy the little things in life once I start full time work. Like sleeping for as long as I want. Having absolutely nothing to do. I thought I can recharge, I can be creative with all the time that I have. Turns out I am not that creative or what creativity I had left in me, got lost in the hangover like feeling you get when you sleep for so long it's like someone took a sledgehammer to your head once you wake up. But I thought 'I will make the effort, even if others have to suffer for it!'
So here I am trying... trying really hard...to think of something I can write that at least makes sense to me.
What I come upon is... College!

Having studied in two different colleges in my life time, one after the other of course with one still going on. I'd like to think I am quite an expert on this subject.

Being from a middle class south Indian family, there were a million rules that had to be followed. It was quite an experience. Having joined a fashion institute instead of the ubiquitous engineering college, I was termed the rebel. I can still remember my mother's crestfallen face which made obvious to anyone willing to look at her face at that time and those disgusted looks which were saved specially for me and dad. But my dad on some courage spurt actually looked her in the eye and said, “You know we have no control over her. Let's give in gracefully and hope to god she doesn't turn into a hippy." But in all fairness to my dad he had done his research well and having satisfied himself that 'it's a good field to work in' he agreed to relieve his purse of that fat lump of cash. Also, the number of contingency scenarios he had planned for me was mind boggling! There was the reassuring " It's a B.Tech, so this is also like engineering" comment followed by everyone's covert are-you-kidding-me looks or the " She is going to be learning about production, so if nothing works out I could always get her to work in my factory" comment followed by My not so covert are-you-kidding -me look or the " She can always open a boutique in the house" comment followed by both mine and my mother's horrified stares. Enough-said, my so called journey on paths never ventured on before was fast turning into 'The Organized-Ville Horror'.

But all that changed when I walked into a stiflingly hot room bursting at the seams with teenagers of all shapes, colors and sizes, wearing the weirdest of ensembles and my dad gave me that grand opening of his 'one minuter', One minute he is standing next me mumbling something about ' Having seen everything in life' and the next minute he is jumping into his already moving car and begging the chauffer to drive faster. So much for overbearing parents!

And thus began the most eventful and fun four years of my life. And I wouldn't change a thing, be it the long push-shove-quibble train journeys followed by deliberately missing the overcrowded buses and then hurling abuses at the auto drivers and then hoping to God he doesn't retaliate or the lectures which always used to start ten minutes before we reached college or the canteen food from which we used to avert our eyes when it was being served by Attendant number 1 who didn't believe in baths or Attendant number 2 who had long nails painted with fuchsia polish and said " All the better to scratch my sweaty armpits dear" or those long pointless talks on the canteen stairs or in the vestibule leading to the teachers' powder room which was cool and windy no matter how high the temperature or those long weekend and nights when everyone would be grappling with those final edges which did not match or the ten millionth ripped seam only to stop and laugh at some ridiculous joke or to dance and sing along to some equally ridiculous song. Though it was not all laughs all the time, even those stupid fights and tears just bring a smile now.

Sitting here in my risk management class, still balking at my dad’s diabolical genius for ripping me off into doing an MBA, I know it will never be like that here. And I have to wonder, will I ever have the same wonderful experiences again? Will I ever find that awesome place which I profess to hate but secretly can’t wait to get to?

And you know what I realize?

I AM OLD!