Two hours. Two tortuous, arduous, almost grotesque hours. And the funny thing is, I am still ready for more. Just taking a break in the meantime. Let me gratify my stomach and mollify my mind. Too much has passed since the alarm rang at 6:30 today. Resume verification was bad enough, but now I actually have to prepare for mathematics and english???
Did I mention it before? The small, salutary room hosting the GRE shall witness august presence the Monday after next- yours truly. Of course, I shall not be alone, and LL shall be waiting to give me company through four and a half hours of pure torture, doing maths a two year old could solve and English that might possibly stump the Bard himself. Months of poring over words and thesauruses, dictionaries and problem books, mock papers, softwares, credit cards, communities and hot coffee will see the effort culminate into the score predicted by one exam. That’s kind of like the last time I gave a major competitive exam. It got me here. I was a wildcard entry. No, worse. I fought my way in, minus the sedulous study that the sincere put in. You see, I was BORN brilliant.
This time, there is a hitch though. The Hopefuls have not inspired confidence with their performance. The Darth Canine did start off on an extremely optimistic note, but the momentum he provided has flagged. Tedium has crept in and the Followers look on with anxious fear and trepidation as the elite go and are split asunder by the heavy axe of the GRE. My neighbour’s proclivity to be cantankerous has got the better of him and saw me being told off for trying to salvage the wrecked remains of my CV. L.O.V.E, managing to survive under heavy fire, gave sage advise- read P.G. Wodehouse, and all will be right. Heavy-handed individuals turned to me for more pragmatic options, only to learn that they left them months ago, when they would have worked. Lithe department hoppers are refusing to come to class in order to mug up the last few dregs on their word list, while the more porcine never actually did go to class, and weigh down the delicate chairs of our library with surfeit fat.
The Cats, though, are having a ‘jolly good’ old time, their course being on the verge of completion, and ribald old men being forgotten under the sands of time, food and love. They look at us, ask questions to get prolix replies in periphrastic language that addles their temporal lobes and keeps them awake well into the next morning. These ingenuous children do not face the tunnel that stares at us, beckoning with sensuous dreams of ‘ijjat’ (respect) and money.
The likes of me face a grey area. It is a barren world, the best time for studying and the worst time for competing. Our parched lips search for an oasis, but all we find are mirages, so near you can reach out and grasp at the dust that forms them. We have miles to go before we sleep, and the road is getting harder by the second.