I am Tushar Jain, Eng. (H) and yes, Im from RLA, the landmark immediately beneath your feet. I could have kept this anonymous or better, ghostwritten it and then supplied a worthy adversarys name in the byline, but I see this confession as a matter of truth, and truth finds no disposition if it cannot bear to have been said boldly, with an unerring, pronounced audacity, and still with a fiercer clarity. The simple truth just yields popular consequences.
I have been in RLA or Ram Lal Anand, if we cut the ugly acronym some slack, for the last two years. I am supposed to feel the glory, the pride, and the privilege of safe registration, a rush of gratitude and apology at finding some end to a half-hearted means; at least, that is what is propounded, that is what I read on billboards, in magazine editorials, at online pin-ups, and I believe it is meant to coordinate some grotesque caricature of a satisfied notion of neutrality, i.e., it is meant to lessen the revulsion o f being here.
Belief would have been a simpler condition of life if men, even if as seldom as they do, didnt bother it for want of foundation. After warring for two years to grant RLA the charity of some respect, I find myself at a loss and failing further. I cannot write of the glory or the pride or the privilege for I do not feel any. I do feel an unsettling sadness that is purely judgmental, fatally invariable and what leaves me reeling is that the principle of the thing, the nucleus of its vulgarity, begets from its slowness, the lethargy with which it develops upon a man, a struggling man, the listless way a cobweb spins itself in a corner or how dust mounds on a fraught rack. Can you divine the spite of an impatient man reduced to patience?
Truth is unintelligent. And the truth about RLA is that it brings out the worst in people. If some conscientious individual is avid to know the absolute truth, not fractured or bruised with excuses and hope, I recommend him to walk across the entire premises and read every scrawling of lewd graffiti, eternalized with a compass tip or trailed fatly with a black marker, every stray legend celebrated on these walls for decades, as faint as straw, or veiled beneath thin films of time, the litany of thought congealed on bricks and poor patchworks of paint, and the haunting fractional limits of the long gone men and women these rooms conserve, like air in a bell jar all these people had shared the same growth, had felt the same retardation, and surrendered likewise.
It is difficult to talk about a subject, even a sordid one, without having to confront the time when the vaguest attempt gradually boils down to exacting some resolution of the content; it is like defining the human body, it is incomplete without the account of the redness of a liver, the erratic greenness of the spleen or the cool turmoil of the entrails. In this case, it is difficult to skirt around a wordy dialogue on the pe ople of RLA.
I have nothing but bottomless admiration and reverence for the bare handful who still resist, whore adamantly reluctant to the greatest manner of awful influence around them to help them adapt in any means, who do not let RLA seep into the marrow of their bones, the cavities of their intent, and who like me, are rebels to a cause that is desperate and urgent, for its always the desperation and the urgency that fathers the first offspring of true resistance. And also, I have nothing but an upright contempt for those who succumb, too simply, too readily, comprehending that that which we cannot defeat, we need not defy, and defiance, as unruly as it may, shall attain them nothing but a further complexity of being free.
Quashed by the knowledge of their own self-importance or plainly obedient to the process of alienation, the people in RLA, of any mode or interest, suffer. What makes it wretched is that the suffering adheres to no real grieving but a cou rse, a system, a code, a display of so irritating an unresponsive passivity to their own personal state that it is appalling to observe men unconscious of their ruin, and one can but imagine, that in times as such, as to what ungodly substance must fabricate the policies of their vanity.
Being in RLA has been a strategy in self-contempt. It is a tragedy to observe men reap leisure in insanity, to see them caught in the current of the debacle and noticing the pointlessness of their lives, to see them dissolve, evaporate, evanesce, to see that all their ambitions possess nothing but the simple frivolity of childish fancy and illusions, and finally, to see that these men too will be reduced to an indiscreet, besmirching quote on a wall how can they forgo that they write their own destinies?
All is not lost until all is really lost. Ive lost my intensity, but Ive not lost hope. I hope I can resist enough to survive, and I hope that in the end, I am not alone.
S hoot queries at - mosaics12@rediffmail.com
Author:: Tushar Jain
Keywords:: College, Disgusting, bad education, worst places
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