It’s cutoff season in India. This season is characterized by severe cutthroat competition and soaring cutoffs and a back-breaking admission-marathon. In ancient India, this used to be the season when people ate Mangoes, however, that’s history now. Admission fever has eclipsed everything else. In fact, there’s so much of mayhem, you might wonder if the country is going through some major upheaval. Or some kind of psychological epidemic. I’m quite sure that, right now, half of India’s population has taken a shelter in Delhi. Every next house here is crammed full of relatives with their kid/s who are all geared up to find their names embedded in the final selection list of prestigious universities. Butbutbut…a majority of them, including me, are most probably going to get eliminated and will have to do with inferior colleges bearing names like Bhagwan Bharose College of Commerce, which certainly lack hot and intelligent girls, and also placement facilities, or Lootera Private College of Technology, which accept fees in either cash or kidneys.
I’m one of the rats in the race. I have been living in Delhi for almost one and a half month now, without my friends, and books, and TV, and everything else a seventeen year old needs to have in order to survive. Moreover, Delhi has a severe water crisis. I am given four mugs of water to bathe, and I swear to God it’s the worst compromise I’ve ever been thrown into, even worse than getting friendzoned everytime I find a spark in whatsapp conversations. Plus, life is so sedentary here, I end up either listening to Red FM fourteen hours a day or watching Mato Jelic’s videos on YouTube till my eyes begin to hurt. And to crown it all, it’s so hot here, you could roast chickens under sunlight. And then, I have to take evening strolls with my mother where she buys herself freaking expensive saffron-topped, sugar-free ice cream with crushed almonds while I get to lick the cheapest chocolate flavored stick of the lot. Isn’t that tyrannical? I’m not allowed to buy novels because my mother believes novels are supposed to be borrowed from libraries for ₹10 a month and not purchased for an amount thirty times bigger than that. But, since Palazzo pants cannot be borrowed, she buys one every four days. She is the only creature in the world who listens to Osho’s sermons through a pair of
– freaking three thousand bucks – headphones. My dear mother!
These are only the small issues in my life. The bigger ones also loom above, leering with their evilish desire to consume me. I’ll tell you about them too.