Life and times in Nandagiri

"Wear your sexiest underwear, your best smile, your nicest outfit, smell divine. If you don't have pride, nobody's gonna give it to you." I quoted with cocky professional accent straight from the pages of the latest edition of Cosmopolitan I had recently flipped on an exceptionally boring night in the reading room. My friend and I were discussing how she should get over a broken relationship during tea time in the mess. We had a good laugh.

Cutlet on the menu. I took a bite and thought what was worse. The preponed sessionals or eating that piece of tasteless, dried biomaterial which I thought was in perfect consistency and shape to play hopscotch with. Having soaked dried peas was out of question when frozen ones were marginally acceptable. I never understood what the big deal is with using fresh green peas, during the season atleast. I complain lot lesser now, but that was honestly inedible. It was stuffed with the dried peel of dried peas and nothing else.

They wouldn't let our fathers inside to have a look at the rooms during admission to the hostel. But because of the renovation there are more men than us in the hostel at any given time. Any dress worn above the ankle is sure to fetch you stares in the corridors. Red haired guys checking you out, passing comments in the lift has becom a common nuisance.

I wouldn't let crappy patties alter my mood when there were better things like the fast approaching exam. I tried to enjoy the chocolate induced endorphins as I walked past the notorious corridor, back to my room. A friend playfully grabbed my choc and ran. In my attempt to chase her I tripped over my own slippers and ultra clumsily landed with a thud on all my fours.

The probability of being watched is directly proportional to the stupidity of your act. One red haired guy came to help me out. I wanted to scream. I wanted to shoo everybody away. I was already in pain to exert myself more. I politely refused the help, quietly lifted myself and managed to reach my room without limping like nothing happened. I slammed the door and brooded. Over everything.

To add to my agony the hostel speakers just wouldn't shut up. The lady who makes the announcements sounds like she has a litre of mucous clogged in her nose. Every 2 syllabled name sounds like mine to me. Each name is called thrice followed by the purpose of being called (eg: 'phone call', 'visitor', 'courrier', 'parcel') also repeated thrice. It is usually hilarious, but for then, I just wasn't in the mood. (Try calling me on the hostel line to get a taste of it. The mike is right next to the booth.) One of these days I'm gonna chop those wires off.

Along with the knock on my door I heard "Nottinghill on HBO. Coming?" Candy floss and Hugh Grant. Yum. Instant pep up solution. Will surely get up early tomorrow and start off, I told myself. Just for today, Ignorance is bliss.