Samksha Bhardwaj

Some Matters of Awful Xenos

I never really know what to say at these things. I’d brag about my accomplishments, but who cares? I’d apologise for all my mistakes, but who’s listening? I’d offer some advice, but then what is there I can say?

And honestly, it’s not even my psenti sem. I just like writing words. Sometimes they make sense. Most of the time, I would prefer they not.

So. Here’s what I do have to say. Listen:

Always make sure the lid of your really fancy pretentious orange ink bottle is closed tight. You’ll be minding your own business, making origami rabbits from old compre answer sheets, and suddenly a violent fold of paper will spill orange blood all over your table, staining the back cover of If On A Winter’s Night A Traveller. And then you’ll have to stare into the abyss the entire night while contemplating how everything we love is eventually taken away from us by the cruel, hunchbacked, shrieking harpy that is Fate.   

That ink was very expensive.

I painted a lot of Rorschach tests with that ink. Sometimes they made sense. Most of the time, I preferred they not.

Most of what I spilt was obsession. That’s kinda been the running theme throughout my life. An unhealthy obsession with reading, with thinking, with hoping, with lying, with falling in love and out of it. I wouldn’t say all of it has been insignificant – I think of myself a bit too highly for that. I do reckon some of it could have been avoided, and should have been. Luckily, instead of reimagining history without my faults, I get to flip through each of them in all their glorious details, meticulously chronicled by a melodramatic mind. People aren’t supposed to look back. You keep doing that, you’re going to get hit by oncoming traffic. It’s a serious problem, they have billboards and all warning against it.

So now, I have left with me neither my orange ink nor my numerous regrets. It certainly cuts down on the content I like to write about. Sometimes, I think it’s for the best. Most of the time, I use a different ink.

Vighnesh Hegde

As the calendar reminds me that I have missed the deadline for an article again, and as I type away frantically, one may be tempted to believe—for a brief while—that nothing really has changed. But things have changed, indeed. I am no longer the junior who follows instructions, or the senior who dishes out these instructions. I am supposed to be the wizened old man who is to write his final piece before it is curtains. And seldom does a wizened old man have any idea what his closing act must be.

This column has been used previously for many purposes – from shelling out advice to discussing psychology. I have still not decided what to use it for. Perhaps this will prove to be just another rant.

It is rather ironic how everyone’s primary purpose of joining college is to get a degree (or two), but the degree itself is typically not central to the memories one makes. We remember other little things.

Auditory memory, as opposed to visual memory, is underexplored by humans, even though the former has a longer lifespan in the brain. I have been fortunate enough to have each of my semesters characterised by some music that I composed and sang. The campus is a lovely place for musicians, in terms of the encouragement given by organised student bodies that practice, teach, perform, and demonstrate what amazing feats can be pulled off by people who manage their time on campus very well.

Time on campus seems to pass slowly, in contrast to the fast-paced life in the cities. Yet this life seems to have passed by very quickly for me. The eventful journey thus comes to an end, and the hourglass must now be turned. Much against my wishes, the bubble will burst and I will be thrust into the open.

I glance at the left-bottom corner and realise that the minimum word count has been crossed and I have said almost all that I had to say. But I could possibly go on for another paragraph. Should I finish here or continue?

Article is done.

Neither too short, nor too long,

Half a year sooner.