Every time someone says the word 'Politics' around me, it evokes the same response as Ricky Ponting, Poverty and Beedi's do, one of utter helplessness as they kill India. I would rather star with Azam Khan's missing buffalo in the popular Bhojpuri '2 Girls 1 Cup' spin-off, 'Hum Do aur Humra Bhainsva.' ( 2 Men, 1 Buffalo for the Scandinavian audiences)., than get involved in Politics. And just as engineering prepares you for the important things in life, such as Premature Baldness, binge drinking and dying a virgin, college politics also is a small taste of the giant coke snort that is Indian Politics.
Which is why, every summer, as college elections near, I begin to feel like the busty co-ed at the beginning of all horror movies: I know something nasty is going to happen, but I'm too busy not wearing a bra to notice. And when the political bandwagon does run me over, I'm shell shocked, a deer in the headlights, so much so, that it takes me a while to resume my air of aloofness as I snobbishly critique the 'system' from my high horse. The silliest thing about college politics is that the various parties are not formed on the basis of ideals, but simply where you are from. So essentially, what an elected representative would do on election becomes as important as the clothes in a porn movie.
Weeks of shady night time congregations precede election day. Sentences like " Macha, 10 votes, 1 full bottle." are commonplace. The haziness of the whole scene is compounded by a sharp spike in the number of cigarettes smoked. Hands strengthened by hours of female devoid companionship are now put to good use, as at least 200 hands are shaken over the course of a day. Days of this as negotiations drag on, and the pacts finally form. God forbid you end up on the wrong pact. With creatively titled parties such as Gujju's, Matta's,PP, Bangies and JK, you know your voice will always be heard to spark a change in the system. The heads of these parties go into days of diplomatic discussion, contemplating every minute detail, for instance, what effect would adding Bangies to the pact have on the local Samosa rates? The horror. Days of soul-draining discussions later, the pacts are made. From here on to election day is a period of consolidation, reinforcing your numbers by bad mouthing your opposition.
"Did you know, my esteemed opponent, doesn't have a bath everyday?"
"Chee. Macha my vote for you."
Simple as that. Then arrives D-Day, where thousands of students exercise the National Fundamental Right to Not Think and Vote. 8000 voting selfies later, one pact is dancing, bursting crackers and destroying their own constituency. As delirium kicks in, so do the rivers of intoxicants previously consumed, perhaps aiding the delirium. Lakhs of rupees, earned by hard working parents dreaming of a better life for their child, go down the pockets of the proprietor of the local bar. The chap must be praying for elections everyday. Just like every other Indian does.
Which is why, every summer, as college elections near, I begin to feel like the busty co-ed at the beginning of all horror movies: I know something nasty is going to happen, but I'm too busy not wearing a bra to notice. And when the political bandwagon does run me over, I'm shell shocked, a deer in the headlights, so much so, that it takes me a while to resume my air of aloofness as I snobbishly critique the 'system' from my high horse. The silliest thing about college politics is that the various parties are not formed on the basis of ideals, but simply where you are from. So essentially, what an elected representative would do on election becomes as important as the clothes in a porn movie.
Weeks of shady night time congregations precede election day. Sentences like " Macha, 10 votes, 1 full bottle." are commonplace. The haziness of the whole scene is compounded by a sharp spike in the number of cigarettes smoked. Hands strengthened by hours of female devoid companionship are now put to good use, as at least 200 hands are shaken over the course of a day. Days of this as negotiations drag on, and the pacts finally form. God forbid you end up on the wrong pact. With creatively titled parties such as Gujju's, Matta's,PP, Bangies and JK, you know your voice will always be heard to spark a change in the system. The heads of these parties go into days of diplomatic discussion, contemplating every minute detail, for instance, what effect would adding Bangies to the pact have on the local Samosa rates? The horror. Days of soul-draining discussions later, the pacts are made. From here on to election day is a period of consolidation, reinforcing your numbers by bad mouthing your opposition.
"Did you know, my esteemed opponent, doesn't have a bath everyday?"
"Chee. Macha my vote for you."
Simple as that. Then arrives D-Day, where thousands of students exercise the National Fundamental Right to Not Think and Vote. 8000 voting selfies later, one pact is dancing, bursting crackers and destroying their own constituency. As delirium kicks in, so do the rivers of intoxicants previously consumed, perhaps aiding the delirium. Lakhs of rupees, earned by hard working parents dreaming of a better life for their child, go down the pockets of the proprietor of the local bar. The chap must be praying for elections everyday. Just like every other Indian does.
