Staying Single #JustWriteIt #SuperCharged

1: Woolly Mammoths Drink Coffee

Thursday, started off beautifully, with everything in my life promising to be most promising. My hair for once had decided to obey Newton, and my front and posterior were behaving and not looking too big; my roommate and half-drunk, half-mad-cousin – Abida – had woken up with enough time to get dressed, and thankfully adhered to my advice of wearing something slightly longer and more appropriate than a bikini on her first day of college.

Raja Rammohun Roy College of Applied Arts and Literature (or R-cube C, as my generation preferred to call it), Rourke, Maharashtra, India – My dream, my heaven – I couldn't believe I was finally here. I'd worked so hard all of High School, taking extra classes bulldozing extra extra-curricular activities into my already over-packed schedule, reading a billion books written in languages they said were English, simply to get myself a seat at the best College for Literature in India, the country where stalwarts like Rabindranath Tagore and Vikram Seth had found their inspiration and vocation.

And where, hopefully, I'd find mine.

This was where I deserved to be and nobody or nothing would ruin the three years that I would spend here, was what I told myself as I entered into the large lecture hall for first year students. Taking my place in one of the seats right in the centre of the hall where I would be assured of the Professor's attention, I realised Abida had sauntered to the back of the class. Exasperated, I called her.

Once.

Twice.

Louder, Leila.

I might as well have not tried.

On my right, was the isle, and on my left an empty seat – the prospect of which gave me the heebie-jeebies raised to twenty five hundred. But imagine the possibilities—

What if my side-seat-buddy turned out to be a psycho-killer – he would simply hand me his Collected Poetry of the Ages and smile, while I: on opening it would be blow away till Kingdom Come!

Far-fetched? Well, okay – what if he turned out to be a Pervert? I'd have to stand up and scream, which would attract lots of unnecessary attention and interrupt precious time that could be better employed reading about some dead man (or woman, not to be sexist) who wrote beautifully when he was ofcourse, alive; Or I'd have to aim a perfectly aimed blow at either of his 'nuts' which (however) you must agree would be quite difficult – because we're both sitting – and thus I would have to employ some strange gym class manoeuvres, in which I'd have to strategically lift the right side of my bottom onto the desk to gain enough leverage to be able to aim with my right toe or heel.

The third type of side-seat-buddy could be one of those druggie hip-hop dancers and don't get me wrong all my hip-hop loving readers, I love you and am in no way insinuating that if you are into hip-hop you are also into drugs, and if you are into drugs you are also into such behaviour; but, If I did have as my side-seat partner a druggie hip-hop dancer I'd have to tolerate the stench of him smoking in class, which when beyond tolerance would be intolerable and thus, would have to be reported earning me the prized title of Miss Tell-tale.

Ofcourse, I could also have beside me a very handsome and slightly whitish person, who on the second leg of my lecture would simply bite me on my jugular and let me know he was a vampire; or I could have a female movie star and patron of a particularly noxious perfume which would surely kill both my nose and my concentration, or . . .

Well, let's be honest – this entire drill of making new friends didn't seem much fun. I'd been in one school far too long, and here I was, an odd fish in the crowd, wondering if everyone was looking at me and judging the size of my nose. This side-seat-buddy, would be a symbol of college friendship, and what if I ended up freaking him out, or sneezed on his notebook, or he turned out to be an absolute meanie?