This article was submitted to Ergo by Anshritha Rai, a first-year student at the ILS, Pune.
Eighteen and living far away from the familiar bubble of home. There’s a sense of profound accomplishment that the mere thought instils. I’ve always craved to embrace unrestrained freedom. And living in a new city gives you exactly that. It empowers you in a manner, much beyond what words could ever possibly connote.
ILS. A picturesque mammoth of a campus, spread over one ninety acres. Lush green trees rhythmically swaying as if gracefully dancing to the tune of the wind. In the backdrop, lives a hill priding itself of a scintillating view. The sight of dogs fills in a feeling of pure warmth and endearment in all, dog lovers or not. Throughout the one ninety acres breathes irrefutable pulchritude. The aesthetics are sure to bewitch its viewers. The environment abounds with tranquillity, precisely what my mind lacks. I’m reminded of the first day. A seven month younger version of me scourging for the route to my class. Funny how not much has changed. I’m just as lost, in an abysmal attempt of finding my way.
Scores of people hurriedly scuttle away, off to do something worthwhile. Tasks that keep their mental faculties wholly occupied throughout a perfect circle completed by the delicate hands of the clock. ACHIEVEMENT. GRATIFICATION. SATIATION. These words linger, stemming from immoral discontent, flaming a burning desire to attain more than that of the state of contentment. Every sheer minute of unproductivity stabs, manifesting an uneasy queasy sensation deep in the pit of my stomach. At my disposal, lies an abundance of time hungrily seeking to be devoured while the plain white “to do” sheet stares back at me blankly, clueless. There passionately thrives an unquenched thirst to massacre the overwhelming qualm. To brutally deconstruct the burning discontent.
Empty hours are savagely consumed by blaring music,
Lazy days roll by with the hardbound black book capsuling my fleeting thoughts,
Weeks pass while I stay cooped up in the dingy little hostel room. Sorry, home.
Crisp pages of the calendar are periodically turned gently as I fumble to reconcile with reality.
Perhaps, I’d chance upon something “to do.” To set the wheels of my intellectual toolkit into motion. To rekindle the withering spark. To feel alive. To delicately nourish the serene tranquillity of my mind.
But till then, encumbered by the burden of the gaunt monotony, here I am nowhere to go and nothing to do.
One Semester Old.
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