Hard Luck - A tale of New TT's woes
Written on August 2nd , 2022 by {"login"=>"jcbphc21", "email"=>"f20181005@hyderabad.bits-pilani.ac.in", "display_name"=>"Journal Club, BPHC", "first_name"=>"Journal Club", "last_name"=>"BPHC"}With the dark, ominous rain clouds taking presidency over the campus, a shadow of gloom had also befallen its residents. After all, the goodbyes were exchanged, and cab doors were shut; only the New TT kids with unspoken feelings of separation and confusion (and some relief) remained behind. As they tried to celebrate and rejoice in the completion of their midsems (because we've all chosen to live in denial as a communal coping mechanism), they were innocently oblivious to what the rains would bring along with them.
To trigger the dominos of the set of events interrupting the students and their generic existence was a mini Covid outbreak on campus – mini enough not to stir much movement on campus, yet impactful enough to get relaxed germaphobes back on their toes and AUGSD to send another one of their inconsequential mails. But lurking around the corner, masked in the disguise of lovely, breezy weather and the echoey sounds of children laughing and getting wet in the rains, was another disease waiting to take over the campus by a storm (pun intended). As questionably colored water streamed out of the taps and you started hearing about one too many people staying in the rooms because they were sick with typhoid, students entered murky waters as to what the food and drinks situation would look like in the future. Cutting down on an already sad attempt at a menu, the erratic and unpredictable nature of ANC (like your last toxic partner), and being forced to bring your own cutlery (yes, the forks and the spoons rotting in the corner of your desk, that you promised yourself you'd wash last week) – stomachs rumbled with despair (and diarrhea). With the mess conditions imitating the treatment only hostages held against their will faced and the water turning different shades of opaque, like sick students' faces, it was time to take matters into their own hands. Giant 1litre Bisleri bottles lined up hostel rooms, and people began boiling water before consumption. People had to resort to the half-assed dishes from different outlets (the few that were still operating), and sick students in hostel rooms extracted orders from their friends like they were their own personal food delivery service (sometimes an extra delivery charge too, paid in cash or kind). However, these dinner plans too faced a huge blow when a campus-wide poultry and protein deficiency precedented – chicken, eggs, and even paneer, for god's sake, was just erased off the menu of not just the mess but also all other food outlets. Amidst the literal survival struggles that the new tt kids had to endure, many of them missed the upcoming compre that was tiptoeing about. Exam anxiety coupled with a growing sense of crippling isolation crept upon them. Almost ritualistically empty Sting bottles began piling up, a symbol of last-minute cramming and all-nighters. And although students were deprived of Yummpy's chicken noodles in the middle of the night, good old Maggi can always be trusted. The library, too began to see the faces (mostly tears) of visitors alien to its existence before and the crisp paper of unopened textbooks crinkled in the lack of touch.
Time has been relatively unkind and harsh to the new timetable, but it's in times of peril that real relationships strengthen. So as laughs and self-deprecating humor is exchanged over an eternally unfinished syllabus, we ring in the final set of compres before the next academic year begins in full swing. And anyway, compres lite, no?