Behind the scenes of the VK Wing allotment
Written on September 20th, 2022 by {"login"=>"jcbphc21", "email"=>"f20181005@hyderabad.bits-pilani.ac.in", "display_name"=>"Journal Club, BPHC", "first_name"=>"Journal Club", "last_name"=>"BPHC"}As the sun slowly descended below the horizon, the most anticipated night of the semester arrived. Crows cawed and cats purred, as the devil himself took a seat and watched the scene with intense tenacity. It seemed as if the entire world sat and watched, as it all unfolded beneath their gaze. What happens, when you give 800 growling barbarians the power to reorganize their barracks? Chaos? Mutiny? War? Sacrifice? No. Vishwakarma Wing Allotment, that’s what happens.
There was intense excitement in the air, as K and M entered VK on the eve of September 11th, a day that would soon have one more tragedy associated with it. They had been recently appointed to their new roles in the Journal Club, as the previous incumbents had mysteriously disappeared while working a case. This was their first assignment, and they were incredibly anxious to carry it out without any ‘hiccups’. They looked past the evil Superintendent's office to see a filthy guard beating up a beautiful dog that had sneaked inside the well-guarded premises. They had already seen plenty of that, and they were on the hunt for a much bigger fish. It was a Sunday evening, but not just any Sunday evening. This was everyone’s last opportunity to switch rooms and move to their respective wings, or else be banished from their social circles forever.
The formation of the wings was quite an interesting process in itself. Many schemes emerged, there were coups against alpha males, there was desertion, but the most prominent of them all, there was politics. Everyone had one motive: to make a wing that had all of their ‘friends’, that should be academically sound, but at the same time, there should be sounds of bakchodi trickling down the silent corridors at night. The alpha males were not much different from club managers, meddling with their rosters, exchanging players with one another. Everyone wanted to get their hands on the expensive cards, the ones which look good (but they’re single, ‘cause you can’t have your wingies start being jealous of each other now, can you?), who are sure to become the captains of some sports team or other (except the frisbee players, there were rumours that managers paid big money to others to get them off their hands), and who magically end up getting stellar grades. But there were only so many of them you could have before you’d create a power struggle. To counter that, team managers brought in the ghots, pawns to be antagonized by the entire wing when grades came out, and help create a unifying factor among the troops. Since you can’t have too many of them to ruin the wing’s ethic with their nothingness, you took two of them, but of the highest possible quality. Once you have your foundation strengthened, you go for the dumb kids who think that their ‘talent’ makes them different from the rest, ‘cause you need that artistic energy in your wing to balance it out with the people who have already started doing some vague internships. And on top of all that, there are people in the wing that no one cares about, those who’re unaware of the existence of an inner circle, one that involves everyone but them.
Once all of this was done, and ‘eminent’ wing representatives had submitted the forms, there came the nervous waiting period. No one knew what would happen, how it would happen. No one knew what the process would ask of them, and everyone wanted their wing to come to them, instead of the other way around. The students’ minds were drowning in utter chaos and confusion, and they blamed it as the primary reason for not attending lectures and club meets.
And then suddenly, the mail graces everyone’s parched inbox, and the unenviable thirst of the residents was finally quenched. The author was busy reading a novel in an Electrical Machines class, but he was observant enough to notice an audible discomfort spread throughout the students as they checked their phones to find out that they had been done in, in the most SWD way possible.
Aspirations of getting a wing on the third floor with an unobstructed view of the beautiful campus were shattered. Hopes of getting rooms facing away from the Sand Pit (QT) were demolished. Everyone was seemingly allotted rooms next to washrooms. Most would call themselves fortunate to get wings with all their wingies next to each other. Some, unfortunately (or fortunately), got their wings divided among themselves. It seemed completely random, and utter chaos ensued. Students started banging on the doors of the Evil Superintendant, and SWD mailboxes were overfilled with ‘constructive criticism’ (Kudos). Students were getting out of hand, and they were coming up with the most outlandish ways to jumpstart an Election Campaign for next year. Clearly, the administration could have done nothing to stop this train now, and it had barely left the station. It had the entirety of VK on it, hanging on for dear life. Those comfortable with the act of shifting watched in amused silence as the entire hostel was turned on its head. People who didn’t want to move started plotting, and room swap chains longer than the reader’s dm’s began to emerge. It was incredibly difficult to keep track of, and at one point, everyone felt that there would be no shifting, and the dark halls of Vishwakarma would echo in silence, forever.
But then, something extraordinary happened. Out of nothingness, a will to do something emerged within the residents. They rose, as phoenixes, from the ashes of absolute idiocy. It was ‘collectively’ decided that the best course of action to deal with the situation was to take ‘initiative’. The reader might nod at this with respectful admiration. The reader doesn’t know the residents of Vishwakarma. The students’ way of taking ‘initiative’ was to start sending ‘informative and detailed’ emails to each other. These so-called ‘mails’ usually involved not more than five words. It all started as a response to a resident’s genuine will to take the initiative, if that’s even believable. After a point, it was just rendered into a vast text chain, with people well-wishing each other with ‘kudos’ and congratulations. But merely this wouldn’t suffice, of course. There were feeble attempts at rickrolling as well, ‘cause the last thing you’d expect from our Batch is some originality.
As the calendar pages flipped and the deadline to shift started to approach, a tempest was brewing. Clouds had set in over Vishwakarma, and the darkest of times were on the horizon. Everyone could feel the anxiety in their chest; it was ubiquitous yet unexplainable. They feared each other, they feared themselves. No one could tell how their creed was about to react to this external manipulation, and react they did. New tenants started to make everyone’s lives hell. There was banging at doors early in the morning, enquiries on the packing status, calls at the strangest hours, and even threats to forceful eviction (finally, some Northie energy). Some people moved out before confirming with the occupants of their future abode, and they were rendered homeless, wandering from corridor to corridor in search for shelter. But the author must digress, Vishwakarma owes the reshuffling to them and their nervous existence.
K and M had been sent out to interview a witness; they were told that he had relevant information to share. As they made their way to Vishwakarma, they were grossly unaware of the circumstances inside. Rumours had been circulating the campus interwebs, and their animosity would send a tickle down anyone’s spine.
As they got closer, it became evident that even the wildest of rumours had the complete possibility of being sound. Voices were emanating through the concrete. As they made their way into the building and passed the guard beating up the dog. If this was the state of the Superintendent’s corridor, horrors much worse awaited them beyond the corner. As they ascended the stairs, they found people lying on them, looking devoid of all that life had to offer. They tried their best not to step on their mangled forms, as they reached the second floor and finally stepped into the corridor.
The scene would never be conveyed in equal detail, and emotion, by any form of artistic expression. It seemed as if the residents had made the corridor a huge dumpster. Anything from useless paper to rogue pets flew around the hallowed halls. There were derbies to see who could throw their trash into the dustbin from the farthest distance, and colourful mattresses adorned the ‘artful’ walls. The tube lights hung weakly from the pale ceiling as K and M slowly walked towards the room they were supposed to report to.
They found VK-249 in the darkest corridor on the floor. On the door, ‘gHoTs Ka AdDa’ had been overwritten to ‘gHosTs Ka AdDa’, and it seemed as if someone had used spray paint to create a phallus-like object on it in the past. Above the doorframe, someone had scribbled ‘2+4=6, => 249=69’ with a red marker. A trash bag lay outside, overflowing with previous sem compre papers. It seemed as if they had been brutally scribbled (mauled) upon by a red pen. This, this was the Vishwakarma Art Renaissance.
They had to knock a couple of times before they heard the latch click open, and a head bobbed out from the side. Even through the slightly open door, they could smell the room. It was a smell they wished to forget, but that was quite the wish. It appeared as if the witness hadn’t seen sunlight in days, and he had to squint quite hard to see them in the bright corridor.
In a hoarse voice, he asked, “Who is Ikea having an affair with?”
Recognizing the code phrase, K replied, “Monisha” confidently.
Looking pleased, the unnamed witness opened the door and motioned for them to enter discreetly. He closed it behind them and clicked the latch instantly. Looking around the room, K and M saw that one side was left untouched. The bedframe lay bare, and the spotless table seemed alien to the once-VK residents. The other side, on the other hand, had no shortage of character. There were posters all along the wall, and beautiful warmfairy lights webbed through them. The shelves were full of medicinal beauty products and fruits, and the desk seemed to be methodically arranged to perfection. The windowsill was covered with what looked like actual, living plants, and the cupboard had bespoke paintwork of a Daft Punk album cover.
He turned around from the door nervously and motioned for them to sit on the bedframe. They tried their best to ignore the smell, but when they looked at each other it was clear that they weren’t doing a stellar job at it. As they took a seat, K indicated for the witness to begin, and he sat on his bed nervously, crossing his legs in the process.
“I’ll try to keep this as concise as I can. Wing Allotment was one of the worst things to happen to this hostel.” he said, in a grave tone, expecting an enquiry from them.
“Do you have any concrete information to substantiate your claim?” asked K, as M took his pocket notebook out. He brought out a pen from his coat and prepared to scribble.
The witness snorted and cleared his throat.
“You want a story right? That’s what you’ll get. We both know that your Organization doesn’t bother about the facts anyway.”
While there were office rumours that did substantiate that claim, K wouldn’t stand for his Organization being disgraced like this. He got up and started to leave.
As he reached for the door, the witness put his hands together and screamed “Please! I really need this! If my story doesn’t get out, all the pain, all the hurt, it would have all been in vain. The world deserves to listen to what I have to say. Please.”
Tears started to escape his heavy eyelids. Overpowered by the emotion, K went back to his seat. M opened his notebook again in resignation and got ready.
“Go on.”
“So, we all know how the Allotment was supposed to go on, all the politics and the scheming that went down, and everything that happened in between. But this, this is a personal account. As you can see, I’ve grown to be quite attached to this room. I’ve had it ever since I came here, and I’ve changed it a lot, to make it mine.”
K and M nodded their heads while looking around, and indicated for him to continue.
“But then, seemingly out of nowhere, it seemed like the entire world united to separate us. Look around! How could they do this to us? There was so much work involved, in making this place my home.” He started sobbing, and K tried to make sense of the words that emanated from his lips amidst the sobs. “Finally, when we had something beautiful going, they decided to just…take it? How can I go on, knowing that this belongs to someone else now? I can’t accept this. It isn’t supposed to work like that.” he said, as his eyes overflowed with tears.
K and M looked at each other concerningly as took a pause. After calming down a little, he went on.
“When I made it clear that I was adamant to stay, threats started to arrive. People started knocking and banging on my door at the worst hours, hoping to catch me off-guard. I got prank calls in the middle night, asking me to vacate the room. Every time I stepped out into my wing, I would find one of them sitting outside my door, ready to ambush me. And the times I did manage to leave VK, I had to walk around in a mask and a cap, but even that stopped working after a point. One night I even got ambushed at RNT, while I was walking with my imaginary girlfriend.”
“Going outside became so dangerous that I stopped. I just stayed in my room, taking in every single scar on the plaster, every speck of paint, every piece of dirt on the floor, savoring it, for as long as I could. I had nightmares of my door being broken down in the middle of the night, being pulled away from this beauty. I cannot lose the first love of my life over the whining of some hormonal teenagers!”
The witness put his head in his arms, as more sobbing sounds were heard. K rubbed his forehead and got up and took a seat beside him. He put his arm over his shoulder and started to rub his back.
“There there,” he said, as M tried his best not to laugh. He kept jotting down, and the pen violently scribbled against the paper.
Suddenly, the witness got up and kneeled on the ground, bowing to K. He put his head in his lap.
“I need this article to be published. Please, my story deserves to be heard, and something needs to be done. I fought all I could, and now I leave my life in your hands. You’re reporters, right? Your job’s supposed to raise a cause. Please, I want my story to be listened to, ‘cause I don’t think that I’d be alive to tell it.”
As if on cue, a loud bang on the door was heard.
“Another wingie of theirs trying to intimidate me into leaving. This is what I have to go through every day. It won’t stop until they’ve managed to kick me out of my room, and since I won’t come out, I won’t be surprised if they break in at some point.” he said as he stood up and sat on his chair.
“But it’s okay. I’ll make my stand here, and I will not leave this place behind willingly. I’d say that I hope that your Organization comes to my cause, but hope doesn’t mean anything to me anymore.”
As he opened his laptop, he silently indicated that it was time for them to leave.
Clearing his throat, K said, “Okay, I think we have enough from you.” and stood up, straightening his suit. M followed in his stead, satisfied with his work.
“You’ll hear back from us shortly.”
As they were about to leave, the witness suddenly sprung up and blocked them from leaving. He picked up a baseball bat that was resting against his cupboard. K and M looked at each other and swallowed. This would be their last case for The Organization.
“No, you won’t.”
This is the Journal Club, reporting on Campus.