“Choosing your wing for the following two years seems to be a skill that involves just the right amount of manipulation and melodrama”
‘Oh, No! Not her! Her voice sounds like somebody put a cat in a blender!’
‘We can’t take her either. She’s a total control freak.’
‘And this one’s a melodrama queen.’
‘Yeah. How about we go with the pink‐shoes‐girl?’
‘Uh‐uh. She’s super weird.’
While my male counterparts are debating whether to choose Gandhi or Vyas, the scene is a tad bit different on this side of the football field. Choosing your wing for the following two years seems to be a skill that involves just the right amount of manipulation and melodrama. The size or proximity of the washrooms; the floor; the side to which the window faces – These aspects come second at the time of making a choice. Grueling discussions, conflicting alternatives, callous betrayals and biased settlements are the key ingredients that go into choosing the “right” wing mates.
It’s 1653 hours. The wing allocation notice is out. People, who anticipate having me in their wing, tag me on the Facebook post. We could deal with this later. There’s still so much time and it shouldn’t take much of my time either. Let’s go for snacks, instead.
As I step outside, I see this huge group of girls in the corridor, ardently debating as to who their wing should comprise of. Amidst the chit chatter, there were a few who evidently felt betrayed by the alpha female’s choice of wing mates. It was a huge group, theirs. It had to be broken down. And along with it, would be shattered a couple of friendships. Though I did feel slightly guilty, for being amused by all that was happening, I decided to stay and see how it might unwind. Oh God, it was worth it. This one girl, who appeared to represent the vulnerable section of their “group”, put on the weeps. Her act would have easily given Kirron Kher a run for her money. You’d be right to predict that she did not just stop at that. She yelled at the others for being selfish and used a bunch of words that might not get published even if I did type it out. As for the oh‐so‐original climax, she stomped across to her room and slammed the door at their faces. Wow. I did not see THAT coming.
Never mind, let the yapping go on. I’ll just proceed. Wonder what’s for snacks on a Monday evening? I hope it’s not those yucky raw samosas.
Even as I navigated my way to the mess, I couldn’t help but notice how people had come together in tiny groups, plotting their conspiracies. The idea of how it could have been a lot simpler, if not for all these ego clashes and drama, made me smile.
Oh, sweet zombie Jesus, they’re serving samosas. I guess I’ll just go sit with the rest of them who’re eating. Why can the Mess never serve decent snacks?
As my friends reluctantly gulped down those samosas, I spoke about the incident that I had just witnessed outside my room. My Tamilian friend was so entertained by the idea of a chick fight that he began convincing me to instigate more of such disputes, or even better participate in one myself for which he could form the audience. Meanwhile, my other friend took the liberty of teaching me how to punch, just in case I’d have to defend myself in an argument gone rough.
While all of this goes on, I get a notification stating that the wing allotment has been postponed to the next day. More scope for drama, then?