First year of college.

My Basic Civil Engineering exam was due that day, at noon. I was on my way to college with my trusted travel partner – KSRTC. (Don’t have many human ‘travel partners’ yet ) I was already late and hence abandoned the usual policy of choosing nearly-empty buses only to cram myself into a choc-a-bloc ”Thiruvananthapuram’ red. Five minutes into the journey and I realized what huge mistake I’d made. There I was, clutching a couple of Civil Engineering texts on both hands, with a huge backpack on my shoulders – crushed from all sides by an unruly mob fighting tooth and nail for personal space. I’d an entire text to read, but for fear of my dear life, I could neither open my texts, nor keep them back in the bag – for, both actions would result in irreparable damage to myself from all the ‘churn’ around!

Meanwhile, the conductor came ticket-mongering. After a superhuman effort, I managed to push away a fat man standing on my right side and fished out my purse. A 100 rupee note – its sole occupant silently grinned back at me. Screwed, the conductor guy is goanna swear at me. Yet, without a tinge of hesitation, I passed on the note to the condcutor, who, without looking up from his ticket-machine, issued me the ticket, pocketed the money and walked away. Thank God, I mused.

Soon, the bus reached a nearby stop – ‘Pongummood’, from where, my buddy Praseeth (batchmate at college) got in. He started his usual speech about how unprepared he was for the exams and how he’s goanna fail. He had no idea about the principle of Leveling, which was the only concept I’d learned well. He entreated me earnestly to explain the concepts to him, for levelling problems were the easiest way to score 10 marks in the essay. Realizing it as a way to revise what I’d learned, I started off, unmindful of the crowded environs. After a while, Praseeth’s sharp intellect had picked up the entire method and he was repeatedly mentioning how easy the whole method was. The bus had reached Pattom Junction and we were just a couple of kilometers away from college. He took a cursory glance at his watch and muttered that we’re really late.

Before I knew it, he’d opened the passenger door and pulled me out of the bus!

Praseeth, not always a punctuality person, was a tad too hyperactive today. He ushered me into an auto, and pushing his lean frame inside, commanded the auto driver to take us to college. He silently assured me that he’d foot the bill and that he wasn’t too enamored about crowded buses. Using the time to discuss other portions, we reached college in a few minutes’ time. Both of us alighted, and I took my purse to pay Praseeth – yeah, I’m very stringent about sharing, so I thought I’d share the auto-cost with Praseeth. I opened my wallet and fished for money.

The purse was empty.

Shocked, I took the purse and re-checked ever recess and niche. There were perhaps a few coins that amounted to Rs. 5/- not a penny more, not a penny less. Dumbfound, I kept searching, meanwhile Praseeth paid the money and was walking over to the classes. After some wild goose chase, I realized my blunder.

Dad had given me Rs. 100/- in the morning. I gave it to the conductor, from whom I did not buy change, thanks to the auto-sojourn and my absent-mindedness. There I was, broke, penniless and smiling inwardly at myself! Yet, I gathered myself and wrote the exam. Ironically, there was a leveling problem (of the same type I’d explained to Praseeth), and both of us got it right. After the exam, collecting all coins I could gather, I caught a  bus back home and didn’t mention about my debacle to a soul.

P.S.

Six months later, the results came. Praseeth scored a neat 80 for the exam while my mark was an okay-ish 68. And I heard him proudly proclaim to his buddies:

“You should’ve studied leveling man! I knew the answer to the problem when I saw the question – that was the only thing I’d studied and I got whopping 20 marks for the essay!”

I couldn’t help but chuckle.

Classrooms – the rightful abode of modern education, worldwide. The word brings in a plethora of assorted images to the mind of any adult who’s been through school/college. High aired ceilings, black/white boards, an assortment of educational aids and paraphernalia that includes ergonomically designed furniture with slant panels for easy writing and niches for bags .

Apart from these usual suspects, there is another entity common to all classrooms worldwide. It doesn’t show itself at the outset. You’ve to keep your eyes open to see it. But once you get a glimpse, the discreet quality of this item metamorphoses into a totally different one. Into something glaring and in-your-face.Your reaction would, essentially, be binary. Either you’d grope all about your torso, as you roll over the floor in in-suppressible laughter, or you’d find your face quell up all red, in deep anger. There’s a worst-case scenario – you could even be transmogrified into a living-breathing straight-face smiley!

True, the graffiti that adorns all our classrooms are universal paradigms of modern art, with oeuvres of shock-value to boot!

Image Courtesy: Good schools Pensylvania

The reasons behind such works of art are myriad, but the key lies firmly in the locks of youthful exuberance. The human mind, as they say, is a receptacle at its best, in the heydays of youth. From suppressed rage and existential angst to mind-numbing boredom rooted from lack of satiation, the causes are numerous. Kindled by the blitzkrieg of incomprehensible knowledge, imparted through droning voices, floodgates of inscrutable emotions are let loose. Having waited long for the cue, forearms bustling with raw talent transform, cheap ball-point ink into two dimensional objet d’ art. Ta dah!

There’s a strangely common feature among all such works of art. Despite the spontaneity, despite the supposedly-amateurish feel, there is an innate professionalism in these works. Hidden deep down in the most illegible of graffiti, there’s angst and passion, and that makes it original. Unlike toilet graffiti, which comes out of an urge to deface a public place, classroom graffiti has nobler intentions. It’s more of an outpour and rightful employment of the freedom of expression right enshrined in the constitution. Most graffiti are texts. Abuses top the list, followed by names, nick names, crushes, love-you lists and the like. Some even engrave rib-tickling jokes. The common writing instrument is the ubiquitous ball point pen (blue/black). Whiteners are also prefered for the exclusive ‘contrast’ effect they provide. In times of need, even pencils fill the void. Dividers and compasses serve the purpose with an irreversible ‘engrave’ effect.

The lesser minds (or higher authorities, as they so self-respectfully term themselves) aren’t quite enamored with such graphical brilliance. Their craniums fail to interpret the dexterity and the artful panache of such works of art. For them, the full blown proclamation of ‘mech-spirit’ emblazoned in stylish font is but gibberish. The spectacular curves of female anatomy magnificently compressing three astute dimensions in two, is pornography! Phone numbers, “call me” signs, email ids, nostalgic farewells, historic proclamations, in-your-face truths, defamation of lesser mortals, – all are absolute sacrilege! Once discovered, a red alert is sounded. Heads roll. Codes of conduct are imposed. Notices are read. The random victim is pulled up and grossly fined.  Inexperienced local painters, armed with low quality sandpapers and cheap, glossy distempers devastate hours of careful craft with pale, staid disfigurement. The entire room – benches, desks, walls, stare back at you with a pale blankness. An absence, a void, as if beseeching for more graffiti.

The nameless artist is never deterred  by such acts of forced-removal. He displays his wares in the classroom canvas, within days of the gagging act. Soon, many more are inspired, and normalcy is restored. The classroom is a full-fledged art gallery, once more. The lecturers, blissfully unaware of the art-gallery metamorphosis, due to the discrete nature of the act, go about doing their duties, until a very deviant artist portrays a rather outrageous piece of art (a laughably poignant piece, for the students) that suitably enrages the guru.

The cycle repeats itself, and hopefully will, for the rest of eternity!

P.S.

23 days without posts – yes, I had an eventual month. Very bloggable. BRB with a post on what actually transpired.