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Preparation for Illumination starts 15-30 days in advance and gains momentum in the last few days before Diwali. The idea, though novel - struck me as odd - specially the way it happens in Kgp.
- Only the 1st year and 2nd year students are involved in the preparations. The entire hostel isn't.
- The actual preparation takes place only in the final few days. 10-15 days aren't required at all. More so, I could never understand why Illu preparations had to happen after midnight when it could be easily done in the evening.
- I couldn't see any point in everything being done by the students - themselves.
Therein began my tale of escapades, some of which become popular in the hall. Some - in my own estimate - were rather dumb. But nonetheless, it was an adventure worth trying instead of sitting in the hall doing menial things that were being instructed to me.
Day 13: 2000 hours
Since this was the first day, I had almost no idea. A common room meeting is called at 2130 hours. I decide to bunk it. I go to the library.
Day 12: 0000 hours
I don't feel like coming back to the hall - having bunked the meeting - knowingly. My cycle tyre is flat - punctured. I decide to spend the night in a friend's room in another hostel.
Day 11: 2000 hours
Day 10's strategy seemed really dumb to me. Someone else's room isn't the best place to spend a night. I decide to lock the room from outside after 2130 hours. The windows in the doors turn out to be really useful.
Day 10 upto Day 8
Everything is peaceful. I have no problems with my strategy.
Day 7: 2200 hours
I decide to go out for some fresh air. The moment I open the window - I see seniors standing gaping at the window and the lock in alternate fashion. I have to go to work that day.
Day 6: 0030 hours
I decide - enough is enough - I'll go back to the room and sleep.
Day 5: 2230 hours
Even though my strategy had been discovered, I couldn't see any reason that I shouldn't do it again. After all, nobody could break the lock of my room.
Unluckily, the trick is discovered again - for the door yields a bit to merciless banging - and I can be seen through an opening in the door. Bad luck yet again.
Those outside: "Mainak, give us the key."
Me: "I don't have them. My roommate has it."
I was in no mood to work through the night.
Day 4: 0400 hours
I couldn't come up with any good ideas. I decide to fall back on Day 13's strategy. But again I am caught. A senior calls me in the dead of the night.
"Mainak, come back to the hall."
Day 3: 0530 hours
Having been caught thrice, I decide to work - so as not to complicate matters. I feel the work is really awful. I have lost my sleep all for nothing.
Day 2 & Day 1:
By now, people are fed up with my tactics. They know I'll come when I want to come. I work for some time and go back to sleep before midnight.
Day 0:
It is Diwali day. This is the day when most of the work gets done. I decide to pitch in with a helping hand.
Many felt I couldn't exonerate myself from the guilt of the last 13 days by working a day or two. But for me, it was about being sensible and doing what seemed was most appropriate for me and my hostel.
P.S: I think I forgot to mention Daru night and the treat. The treat was somewhere around Day 13 and the Daru night was somewhere around Day 4 or 5. I do not remember exactly because I had skipped the Daru night.
Related Posts
Illumination and Diwali: Day 0
Illumination and Diwali: Day -1
Insults or complaints or bricks
Stilled the frogs determination
To display his heart's elation.
But one night a nightingale
In the moonlight cold and pale
Perched upon the sumac tree
Casting forth her melody
Dumbstruck sat the gaping frog
And the whole admiring bog
Stared towards the sumac, rapt,
And, when she had ended, clapped.
Ducks had swum and herons waded
To her as she serenaded
And a solitary loon
Wept, beneath the summer moon.
Toads and teals and tiddlers, captured
By her voice, cheered on, enraptured:
“Bravo!” “Too divine!” “Encore!”
So the nightingale once more,
Quite unused to such applause,
Sang till dawn without a pause.
Next night when the Nightingale
Shook her head and twitched her tail,
Closed an eye and fluffed a wing
And had cleared her throat to sing
She was startled by a croak.
“Sorry – was that you who spoke?”
She enquired when the frog
Hopped towards her from the bog.
“Yes,” the frog replied. “You see,
I'm the frog who owns this tree
In this bog I've long been known
For my splendid baritone
And, of course, I wield my pen
For Bog Trumpet now and then”
“Did you… did you like my song?”
“Not too bad – but far too long.
The technique was fine of course,
But it lacked a certain force”.
“Oh!” the nightingale confessed.
Greatly flattered and impressed
That a critic of such note
Had discussed her art and throat:
“I don't think the song's divine.
But – oh, well – at least it's mine”.
“That's not much to boast about”.
Said the heartless frog. “Without
Proper training such as I-
And few others can supply.
You'll remain a mere beginner.
But with me you'll be a winner”
“Dearest frog”, the nightingale
Breathed: “This is a fairy tale –
And you are Mozart in disguise
Come to earth before my eyes”.
“Well I charge a modest fee.”
“Oh!” “But it won't hurt, you'll see”
Now the nightingale inspired,
Flushed with confidence, and fired
With both art and adoration,
Sang – and was a huge sensation.
Animals for miles around
Flocked towards the magic sound,
And the frog with great precision
Counted heads and charged admission.
Though next morning it was raining,
He began her vocal training.
“But I can't sing in this weather”
“Come my dear – we'll sing together.
Just put on your scarf and sash,
Koo-oh-ah! ko-ash! ko-ash!”
So the frog and nightingale
Journeyed up and down the scale
For six hours, till she was shivering
and her voice was hoarse and quivering.
Though subdued and sleep deprived,
In the night her throat revived,
And the sumac tree was bowed,
With a breathless, titled crowd:
Owl of Sandwich, Duck of Kent,
Mallard and Milady Trent,
Martin Cardinal Mephisto,
And the Coot of Monte Cristo,
Ladies with tiaras glittering
In the interval sat twittering –
And the frog observed them glitter
With a joy both sweet and bitter.
Every day the frog who'd sold her
Songs for silver tried to scold her:
“You must practice even longer
Till your voice, like mine grows stronger.
In the second song last night
You got nervous in mid-flight.
And, my dear, lay on more trills:
Audiences enjoy such frills.
You must make your public happier:
Give them something sharper snappier.
We must aim for better billings.
You still owe me sixty shillings.”
Day by day the nightingale
Grew more sorrowful and pale.
Night on night her tired song
Zipped and trilled and bounced along,
Till the birds and beasts grew tired
At a voice so uninspired
And the ticket office gross
Crashed, and she grew more morose -
For her ears were now addicted
To applause quite unrestricted,
And to sing into the night
All alone gave no delight.
Now the frog puffed up with rage.
“Brainless bird – you're on the stage –
Use your wits and follow fashion.
Puff your lungs out with your passion.”
Trembling, terrified to fail,
Blind with tears, the nightingale
Heard him out in silence, tried,
Puffed up, burst a vein, and died.
Said the frog: “I tried to teach her,
But she was a stupid creature –
Far too nervous, far too tense.
Far too prone to influence.
Well, poor bird – she should have known
That your song must be your own.
That's why I sing with panache:
“Koo-oh-ah! ko-ash! ko-ash!”
And the foghorn of the frog
Blared unrivalled through the bog.