My life in college does not have many metaphors. We are not literature students, of course; the ones who can have their way with metaphors. We are law students. And metaphors are dangerous. So says Kundera. Metaphors are slippery, metaphors are a quagmire. Metaphors ought to be struck down, abolished. Language must be clear and lucid; but complicated and boring too. Long winding sentences that don't mean a thing. That's our forte!
Well, but if my college life could really be metaphor, it would be the unwashed utensils stacked under the desk. One green bowl, one tiny non-stick pan with the remnants of yippynoodles and a green cup. And let's not forget the bartan we borrowed from our neighbours to boil milk! In short, my college life is, without a doubt, unwashed utensils. Also, with a few things missing - the best parts, in fact - my green knife and fork that went missing mysteriously after my birthday last year. They could translate to social life, fun, amusement, etc.
My hostel room is pretty much like my college life. Bare, empty, without all things fun. Our walls are bare. We took off the posters, decorations when they told us that they'd remove them themselves. That was two months ago, of course. We are too lazy to put the posters back up. My roommate, SRK fan, has DDLJ pictures, cutout from magazines, above her desk. I have photographs of schoolfriends I hardly talk to and an old DennisTheMenace poster I'd rather throw out, above mine. And yes, the post-its - several post-its, various colours and shapes. I write down things I cannot afford to forget, and include to-do lists but forget about them, anyway. So well yes, unwashed utensils. Bare, empty, dirty.
It's almost eight in the morning. I haven't slept a wink. If my roommate hadn't decided to bunk gym today, she'd be getting ready right now, jogging down, walking fast in her tracks, a scrunchie holding her hair together in place tightly but elegantly. She would walk very fast. Very fast indeed. She wouldn't stop before she reached Magneticchowk. She would climb up the stairs, panting a little. And then, she'd stretch like a dream. She'd come back two hours from now and try to wake me up for breakfast. Would I budge? No, I wouldn't. Tuesday breakfast is horrible anyway. So she'd take her breakfast, wash herself clean, and then, fall asleep again clutching a CeceliaAhern.
Later she'd wake me up, just in time for lunch. I'd have a blank look while brushing my teeth. Constantly, conjugating the French verbs of the things I hadn't done. Je me réveille. Je me lève. Je me lave. Je prends mon petit déjeuner....
