The System is Collapsing

Hello there!

Powercuts in the ghettos of Delhi in a sweltering summer midnight rekindles the medieval memory when the monarch got nerds sewn up in animal hide and carried on a mule to Baghdad because they said earth was round.

And so here I am, sitting on my chair in my balcony, which stretches a few centimeters longer than the UPSC prelims answersheet, drenched in sweat and furious at this wisdom tooth which has been trying to emerge for about a year now. The darkness around me remains impenetrable. The strait-like strip of sky above stays stripped of stars. 

I can hear voices though. Students discussing nation’s problems. Couples discussing their own problems. Kids cackling at lame jokes. Babies blabbering incomprehensible phrases, and their parents responding with wonder and encouragement. The clinging of utensils. The whooshing of flush. The cacophony at a distance. And even farther, the blaring honks of vehicles zooming on Delhi roads. At this point, someone plays loud music and all other sounds vanish, and I feel even more pissed. Because one, it’s a song about some guy promising some car to some lady, clearly mocking my multidimensional poverty; and two, when it’s pitch dark you need heterogeneous sounds just to remain sane. That seems like an assault on my fundamental rights, and I feel like invoking 32. 

But I don’t want to pick a fight because I can’t see, and verbal cursing is something I am trying to avoid these days. Because once it gets on the tongue, it develops an organic relationship with you. You begin to think in terms of curses. 

E.g., B#*&$ the system is collapsing. 

For UPSC, you have to think differently.

E.g., There are persistent and systemic issues, but with the synergizing efforts of government, organizations and people, swift and substantial transformation can be achieved. 

Okay, a half naked man just appeared on the opposite balcony with a torch, and we briefly looked at each other, our unclothed bodies emitting cavemen vibes. He had a slight paunch, but I resisted myself from recommending him a healthy diet. Once I had tried giving suggestions to a lady in JNU, to which she said she was body positive and that BMI indicators were Eurocentric. 

Anyways, it has been a frustrating day because I slept for hardly 6 hours, spent the entire day struggling to gather myself up, couldn’t finish the essay because my brain stopped working, Crimson called and demanded I met her, the cook didn’t come in the evening, Crimson made me wait for over 30 minutes and then harangued me with the petty problems of her life. A junior called me up and asked for my prelims result. After all this, I ate a loaded burger, breaking my vow to stick to healthy options only. And now there is power cut! Could it be any worse? 

Yes. My flatmate said he’d come next week. So that makes it one full month of me talking to myself, and the cook and Baba. Conversations with the cook involves she asking what to cook and me saying whatever’s in the basket, and usually there’s poverty in the basket. 

Conversations with Baba….actually we have stopped talking. He sees my face and takes out a pouch of toned milk from the fridge. I scan the QR code and pay 25 rupees. Occasionally, when it’s too hot, he says B#&$@, it’s too hot, and I agree with him. Baba always smokes beedi these days, and I can’t ask him to not do it, so I don’t linger about much in his shop. 

I have plenty of time and yet I can’t study efficiently. I sit on the chair while my mind sneaks out of the window and flies like a bee. By the time it gets back, I have to get up to drink water, go to the toilet, take a walk because my neck hurts. Everyday, I plan out the next day. The plan begins with me waking up at 6 am. Then some Black Swan event happens, and it’s 8 am when I open my eyes the next day. Sometimes it’s too hot and there is power outage. Sometimes it rains and the drops fall on the broken down AC with the thud of a hammer. Sometimes I just can’t sleep. 

Everyday at 8:30 am, I also go for grocery shopping because there’s no fridge to store vegetables. And I need milk for protein. Everyday, I walk past those fast food joints and the confectionery, and oh the aroma!… it takes an effort to control my greedy self. 

At this point, I am tied to 60 rupees a day budget, monthly expenses excluded. It’s stressful. 

When I am on the table, I oscillate between subjects and themes. While reading history, I want to read geography all of a sudden and when it’s geography time, maps make my eyes bleed. I try writing essay, and I feel I am not prepared, and when I try to prepare for essay, I wonder what’s there to prepare in an essay. I can’t increase my writing speed because I can’t think fast, I can’t think fast because I can’t mug up, I can’t mug up because it’s painful to read the entire syllabus again, it’s painful because I have difficulty in retaining things, I have such difficulty because I can’t sleep on time, I can’t sleep on time because of such midnight power outages. B#*&$, the system is collapsing. 

During the day, I took some pain to prepare a chart, another addition to a long dynasty of charts on my table, about things I must do this time. With every aspect of preparation covered in excruciating detail, the only thing now left is to act. 

I need to tame myself. Study using stopwatches. Force my hands to write. Fix my arse to the chair. Memorize points. Draw diagrams. Do it like a ritual. Make it into a habit. Turn it into a necessity. I need to embrace the monotony of weekdays. I need to cuddle with editorials and caress my notes. Give myself daily targets. Promise myself a reward. Be unperturbed by outages. Be focused on the goal. Think of the future. The suit, the salary and the system. The far end where lies the elysium. 

Journey Ends, and Begins!

Hello there!

I am the regular UPSC aspirant you find in the unfeeling streets of ORN. Potentially genius, temporarily unemployed, perpetually trapped in this soul enervating loop of failures. I walk with a bag of books, expectations, disappointment and self-doubt. I want to beat the odds, reach the front page headline, wear the suit, be the hero, get the girl, and change the world. I endure, sweat and toil for that far fabled harvest. I fail, I try, I fail, I try, I fail, I try – in the hope that at the end of this purgatory lies the elysium. This undying hope resurrects me from my ashes- like a Phoenix, I rise again.

Okay, that’s enough poetic stimulation. Now let’s come to the point. I FLUNKED PRELIMS in my first attempt, the attempt for which I had my topper’s speech prepared and rehearsed in front of all four dingy pink walls of my room and the four dingy pink walls of my flatmate’s room. For effect, I had drawn on every wall two dozen stick figures representing enchanted audience. In hindsight, the sheer amount of time I invested in modulating my voice while uttering the heroic tale of my travails was the time I was supposed to revise mundane provisions like Mandamus. Now that the unholy pdf is out, I am too embarrassed to look at walls. The stick figures are jeering at me. So I am looking at the ceiling instead…well trying to because it’s dark and the ceiling is not visible, pretty much like my roll number in the pdf. 

I have failed before. Quite regularly. Actually ALL my Maths unit tests after std X. And failure hurts. But this one hurts deeper, in corners hitherto untouched by sensations of pain. Because I had slogged for this, killed my passions, developed back ache, sacrificed joy and neglected friends. And I couldn’t even get to a stage where I could be rejected by humans. A heartless machine ate my mcq answersheet and burned 365 days of my life into soot. 

Rumors were rife that results would be out in a day or two. I already knew I was not getting in, but everybody around me was expecting a miracle. I downloaded the pdf and searched my roll number. Two people made it from my dreaded center- a prehistoric settlement with two kurkure shops in the middle of Atacama desert- and I was not one of them. So it finally downed upon me- another term of hard labor with no furlough. My heart sank, but there was a sense of relief that it’s over for this year. No miracles this time. 

I began contemplating how to break the news. Not that my parents are hangmen, but they had spent their hard earned money for nothing. If I was a mutual investment, my father would have pulled out, no pun intended, ages ago. I gathered up some courage, watched Harshit Dwiwedi consolation video and wrote on WhatsApp group in bold and capital. RESULT OUT. NOT SELECTED. 

Maybe it was the font, but my father instantly replied with motivational quote, as if he was already waiting for my tragic proclamation. Then he added another quote for effect. My mother forwarded a shayri about God, faith and courage, and I felt like weeping in her arms. I had missed the chance to give my parents a better life. A diabetic mother who doesn’t undergo regular medical tests because those are expensive. An old father who wears perforated vest to save on clothes, takes 3 hour bus in the mornings, in sunshine and blizzards, to cut transportation costs, and yet never denies money when I ask him.

My eyes welled up as I thought about them. In the time I worked and failed, they got older by another year. 

Yeah you could argue that my parents don’t have their economic priorities right, but the middle class experience shapes our budgetary habits. You could also argue that one year of hardwork is never a waste, and blah blah and blah, but the thing is, either you’re in or you’re out. Moreover, it’s my hour of lament, and I like to be left alone in my anger. 

But phone calls won’t let me. They could have texted, but I guess they were concerned. I wonder why. I never displayed any sign of mental health problems. Nor am I charming enough that people apart from my parents would care about. And nor do I have a spare rope in the flat. The consolations were pretty generic, as if rehearsed in front of dingy pink walls. And I welcomed them with clenched teeth and wide fake smiles. In the universe of adult people, calling people to fuck off is a tricky task. You have to be artful and ingenious to convey the idea, because you may need the same person later in life. 

I texted Apricity. She texted back. Enough consolation. 

I went to the mirror and looked at my face. Pulled up a smile, like Joker, and decided to go out and have great food. I also needed company, and since Crimson assured me I could cry on her shoulder, I went for it. 

“Here’s Buddha for you. It will keep you calm. “She said, handing over to me a little statue. 

“This is your second gift to me and it’s worse than the first. “I stated a matter of fact. I already had a life sized Buddha poster on one of my walls, and I was already contemplating converting to other faith. 

“Well, you have never gifted me anything. And I am the woman people will their properties to. “She stated a matter of fact. When people start stating matters of fact, I have observed, conversations turn volatile. So I decided to not pick up a fight. 

“I don’t earn. “I said. “When I start earning I will get you something nice. “I did not say this. Because Crimson may misinterpret things, which she is a master at, or worse – take my words literally, in which case I will be paying EMIs for her Spa sessions. The amount she pays as GST for a fancy lunch is my monthly rent, so I am not gifting her anything soon. 

Anyways, we walked into the Imagerunners, the famous photocopy shop, while she chirped about her latest milestone in CSAT study.

“I can solve division questions. In fact, I was elated until I forgot the table of 8. “

She really needed to work on her maths. But of course I didn’t tell her this. I gave the man at the desk the pen drive and told him to get the printed copies out. Since it was close to a thousand pages, Crimson got hungry midway and decided to eat light snack in an ac restaurant. 

She also wanted to shop some disposable clothes for just one day as she had to spend the night at a friend’s house. So we went to Karol bagh market for cheap clothes, the place where I buy the dress I wear to parties, that is if I am invited. After displaying shrewd bargaining skills, she was able to crack a good deal. Then she started checking other items in the shop, and when I pointed out that my mother does the same, she replied that all girls do it. 

“If you’re  a woman, you can always look for a nice discount anywhere. Just smile. And 25% off if you laugh. Want to see?”

Not really, I wanted to say, but being an adult is about letting other people have their say, so I pretended to be excited. We went to a vendor who was selling pants. I cracked an average joke and she laughed, and the shopkeeper seemed quite engrossed in her laughter. 

“I will pay only 150. “She said for a dress worth 200. 

“Okay madam. “He said. 

Now that got me excited. How human emotions work! 

We then went to this fancy place for snack, where they were selling something called “guava tea” for 165 rupees. 

“Are they running some kind of human experiment here?” I asked, looking at the weird tea flavors in the menu. 

“That’s what rich people eat, dear. “She said, and went on to order chilled water. 

“I have my water bottle. ” I wanted to say, but I had a gut feeling that this was not the right statement to make, especially when most of the people around us had ordered chilled water. 

The food took eons to come because the other cook had left the job. We got the sandwich and the maggie packed and walked to the Imagerunners. 

“Do I look fat? “She asked.

“Do you want me to be honest about it?”

“I want you to shut up. “

The copies were not out yet as the machine had broken down. The photocopy guy told us to come the next day. 

“Can’t you laugh and make the machine work?” I murmured to her. 

“When you know a spell, use it sparingly. “

We found a desolate corner and ate the food. It was so bad I couldn’t finish my sandwich and she couldn’t finish her Maggie. Then she started talking about her engineer boyfriend and the relationship which is in a bad phase, and since I have known her for a while, that she’s a complicated person with a tangled life, I told her to calm down and give the other person some breathing space. But she was concerned because she had started seeing the guy as a potential husband in the distant future, and he is not responsive. She wants to move to the UK. But she also wants to crack UPSC. She’s torn between her choices. 

“I think you are right. I need to calm down and get the focus back. Restart everything. “She said.

I walked with her to the metro station, and then we parted ways. With the Buddha in my bag, I lingered about in the unfeeling streets of ORN for while longer.

We are in the age where marriage is just five years away. We have passed the turbulent teenage, savoured the crazy college life but are yet to step into the monotonous world of working professionals. It’s a limbo we are trapped in. A time which is unrecognized in poems about stages of life, a time where you begin with a rhapsody and gradually spiral into disempowerment, a time when you are heartbroken like a teenager but can’t order a pizza or hurt yourself, because you’re not impulsive anymore. Every penny you spend is a budgetary allocation. Every moment you spend is a planned calendar. Every step you take is an unending marathon. Life, at this stage, is a mission, an infinity of infinite to-do lists. And the budget is really low. 

But I think Crimson will handle it. And so shall I.

We are the UPSC aspirants. We sail against storms. That’s our bread and butter. 

See you soon.