Aaloopuri

Why does school feel like prison? Perhaps because everyone is dressed in uniform inmate cloths? Need to give a headcount every hour? Don't even have the liberty to use the restroom at their own convenience?  Few of these inmates are provided with differentiating blazers for cramming propaganda infused syllabi enough to fall into an arbitrarily imposed quantitative criteria. In the setting of a supposed classroom, a tyrant exercises their arbitrary prerogative over the bodily functions of lowly miniscule creatures. Seniority justifies abnormal behaviours of hurling abuses and baseless allegations towards younger individuals. If they dare to retaliate, they are deemed a clear case of insubordination. The miniscule creature's futile effort to safeguard whatever little sense of dignity they have acquired are labelled instances of indiscipline. While some experienced players in this regard shrug it off, others are scarred for life post public humiliation.  The tyrant at this point ...

 

  This music I once dreaded and it's glottal lyrics have gradually made their way into my heart. This wholesome dusk, spent deciphering a capricious assembly of couplets by Farida Khanum is a reminder of my latent appreciation for an elevated poetic form. 

 

I gauge the jitters in the hall, rendering all my attention to this exam for the next 3 hours, regardless of whether I cruise through it or struggle with it. Every passing minute makes my hand cramp into an undecipherable writing, switching between a fogging brain to going 7K RPM. I outpour this piling anxiety by restlessly moving my feet while being at war. Sweating in the minimal apricity falling through the window, I rest my hands once they go numb and observe how calm everything on the outside looks while I sit in this chamber of distress. Nothing seems more tempting than leaving the exam hall at the moment. For a second, I compare being at the mercy of a pouring hourglass to everything outside these four walls. As I delve on this floating thought in my head I reach a conclusion that being at the mercy of a ticking clock implies the end of distress and misery once the time is up. Likewise, all misery is at the mercy of a ticking clock, bound to fade away. If not completely, then to...

The morning today has a certain charm of hustle yet tranquility. I pull my diary out to capture this moment, not through the lens of my camera but through the lens of my eyes, my mind. I read the newspaper about halfway, I'll save the rest for later. As I sip my warm coffee, I gaze out the misty windows of the bus. The city is awake, headed downtown in the peak morning hours. Slow moving cars make way for my bus like a shoal of fish on the arrival of a whale in the sea traffic.  The streets, damp from the drizzle last night and still trees watch us go by to the office buildings waiting for it's dwellers. The floors of skyscrapers slowly lighting up for another busy morning. Yet I find a certain comfort amidst this hustle, which perhaps city rats are bound to.