Time in Passing

This semester seems to have passed by swiftly. For all that the days have dragged on with the monotonous lack of concrete goals, I could not honestly tell you where the weeks and months went. For all that the return to Pilani felt like waking into a hazy dream, the prospect of a future when I leave those gates for good is equally nebulous to me. While reading previous psenti-speaks, I often wondered what I’d write one day. It’s not like I have any shortage of gyaan to give, or the lack of skill (in all modesty) to put it to paper. And yet I find myself hesitating, abandoning lusciously-written paragraphs of honest, grade-A advice straight from the heart, rewriting sentences like an overzealous editor.

I remember, some three-and-a-half years ago, listening to some psentisemite seniors. They were, in the manner of seniors since time immemorial, waxing nostalgic about the glory days. Not necessarily the glory days of something, or someone, just yarning about the good ol’ times. The quiet first-year that was listening to them was decidedly unimpressed. He hadn’t had the worst time here in Pilani, of course, but certainly nothing to get this sentimental about. That person is now eating his words, and with a vengeance. People change. Or perhaps more precisely, we are all, always changing. And the realisation that you are no longer the person whom you thought you were can be disconcerting, striking as it does at moments of great turmoil in your life. It’s not my place to ask anyone to embrace or reject this—I merely ponder on this evolution within myself, wondering what others see.

In everyone’s life there are certain inflection points. Times where one takes responsibility for one’s life. I know people who chose not to—although perhaps chose is the wrong word—they were unaware of these choices. The moment you stand at the fork which makes all the difference—compared to merely drifting along—will come time and again. It may not be a momentous one, but for me, at least, these have been the choices I continue to agonise over. Not regrets—that implies some hierarchy in the options available—merely the what-ifs. 

The document I am writing these drafts in, is rather unoriginally titled “Ramblings”. And even as I ramble along, from topic after topic, there’s a funny futility to it. What I write about are my experiences, and how they have shaped me. And as I stop to reflect on them here, even as I type this at the odder hours, there’s a sense of déja vu, because I received similar words of advice year after year. The gist of what I would like to say, what I would have every person entering BITS know and understand, has been said a hundred times over, in a thousand different ways. What makes it so ironic is that this knowledge, even the understanding of it, is utterly meaningless. No amount of wordspew, no matter how beautiful, can prepare one for experiencing changes and choices: and in my opinion, all for the better. Like all of Cassandra’s prophecies, these paragraphs will only make sense in hindsight. So will the perspective that comes after it: the very thing I have been reflecting upon this year, and glimpse in its bittersweetness just now. This article, while no doubt fascinating, is less than a reflection of what life has up its sleeve – and it seems that its creation was all it was intended for: one last selfish soliloquy. 

It feels almost cheaty to end what many perceive as the final words of wisdom from seniors by saying that nothing matters, just live, and do, and no doubt laugh and love while you’re at it. In the end however, this is all that matters. If I have anything concrete to say, it is this: allow yourself moments of contemplation: your regrets and joys, the hectic midnights and the lazy NAB slope days, the past now beyond reach, and the future unknown. You can’t live in the present otherwise.

Notes:

1. The number of times I’ve alluded to time in these short paragraphs is frankly astounding. If I were editing this, I’d probably highlight something like “day” or “time” with the classic comment – “Repetition: use synonym”.
2. I really don’t feel capable of giving advice, the prospect is frankly ludicrous: I’m barely older than the people this is supposed to target, and it really gives off “let’s gather around grandpa for his final words” vibes.
3. I feel like the writing style of this psentispeak is the coming together of my classic era with the ostentatious language and lack of any coherent plot à la Wodehouse; as well as my post-EPC era, where I just want to clean up all the run-on sentences and also wax lyrical about life, as inspired by Prachett. I’m also quite impressed with how conceited this sentence is.
4. A curious thought I had while walking: we, who know the campus perhaps the best of all, the campus does not belong to us any more. It belongs to the people who are discovering it.