Opening Ceremony

Screeeech.

Nikita fought back the need to break apart the arm-rest of her chair and fling it towards the lectern. Restraint was easy because she was sure the act would constitute as desecration of Heritage Site property. An air-conditioner crooned. Something grated in the walls.

“…it is my great pleasure to start the Fifth Ganshyamdas Debate Competition of…”

ScreeEEEEEeech.

The boy in the two-piece suit (that was clearly cut for his father, judging by the folding love-handles of the expensive cloth) had some serious patience. He looked at the microphone with an accusatory non-smile and continued to speak a choppy monologue into it. Maybe he meditates every morning, she suggested kindly to herself. She imagined him with a shaved head, clothed in saffron robes, not without his expensive-looking spectacles (the boy needs to see!) standing in the only unlit square foot of the room, as if in philosophical protest. She focused on him: he was indeed standing in a 3-dimensional polygon not lit by the cheap lighting that otherwise suspended every countenance in the room in a time-locked expression of ennui; maybe this was deliberate positioning? The boy’s flourish belonged to a bent-knee proposal to the woman of his dreams with all the accompanying hesitation, nervousness and awkwardness. He will probably never get married, poor chap.

It was a Saturday morning which meant Nikita had taken the initiative to attend the event on a holiday. She demanded, therefore, that this be worth her time. Something in her head reminded her that she did not have anything better to do anyway. She snuffed the voice with practiced ease and relaxed her grip on the wood of her chair, in the time-tested way men become masters of their destiny. The ochre face of her watch feebly reminded her that only ten minutes had passed. She made a mental note to practice ignoring the watch.

Nitika was fascinated by the way her brain could know what was happening around her while she travelled fantastic tangents of thought. She was the ultimate traveller, yes, she was. Her immediate environs were a sad constraint in space-time that would be dealt with in the coming centuries by scientific innovation. They had to be. Until then, she would have to make do with the silhouettes of the proceedings that her subconscious offered her in regular intervals like the assignments sitting on a conveniently forgotten desk at home. Those fuzzy outlines were usually enough to figure out what is happening. She could comfortably gaze into the poorly designed flex-poster of the Debate Competition while ascertaining how boring the rag-tag assembly of ‘honorary guests and teachers’ on the stage were. Someone had thought to use loud saffron against pastel green as the background. While a little bit of her died inside, she focused her eyes. On the extreme left was the Student Committee Chairperson, a well-built Greco-Romanesque woman that asserted authority that clearly did not belong to her; she seemed to have learnt how to be amused by disorder. To her left was the Vice-Principal of the college, a mousy fellow that seemed the right kind of timid to make you want to lock your doors at night; he wore an expression suited for long elegies. The centre of the ‘august company’ was occupied by the Principal of the ‘reputed college’ whose multi-storeyed eyebrows made him look much more ancient that he was, possibly explaining why he got the job in the first place; he had a blank look supplemented by nods at perfectly random intervals, which also explained a lot. Next to him sat what can only be described as an attempt to make human a Dr. Seuss rhyme about a walrus having an existential crisis; his moustache stared at Nikita and then those around her with a detached Stoicism. Last in line to the right was Ganshyamdas Jr., a middle-aged rotund gentleman who made being bored look polite; he had the courtesy to cast the casual look over his dearly departed father’s photo-frame every once in a while, looking either melancholy or desperate for conversation with anything smarter than his only neighbour.

Nikita looked at her watch. Thirteen minutes. She crossed her legs and uncrossed them. The act made her feel oddly relaxed and uncomfortable at the same time. An air-conditioner burped. Something moaned overhead.

The front row contained the quiet forms of three judges that would be presiding over the day’s panel debates. They had been introduced at some point during one of Nikita’s reveries and she faintly remembered budget bouquets and deceptively heavy gift-bags (the grandmotherly professor emeritus had buckled by the unexpected density of the parcel). Some of the student volunteers had taken to surreptitious glances at the other two judges: a twenty-something youth, with a scrubby excuse for a beard and an ill-fitted pair of navy trousers, was quite opaquely flirting with a reedy woman skirting her thirties with the dependable Ostrich Syndrome (sustained by Parisian cosmetics and sundresses in winter). She had managed to find a joke to chuckle at and touch his elbow with long fingers after every eight-five seconds. Nikita instinctively looked to the right at the Zen host, quite at peace with his station in life, dallying with the embroidered curtains beneath the lightning-cracks of a Heritage Site wall. His detachment made Nikita breathe in and breathe out. Good chap, that. He deserves a happy married life, he does.

The ‘dignitaries’ had proceeded to crowd the table where the late Mr. Ganshyamdas’ portrait sat with an ornate diya-stand that enjoyed the only attention it would get for the next six months. It was positively glowing after a few minutes of furtive searching for matchsticks. The Vice-Principal had extended a hand into his pocket absent-mindedly as if retrieving something but replaced it slickly as if in reconsideration. Some student had been called to sing a prayer to start the ceremony. Start, Nikita thought with as much doleful stress on the word as can be given without enunciation. A short, meek girl shuffled out into the front of the mass of chairs, almost as if spontaneously erupting into existence right near the marigold-decked table. The casual glance behind her shoulder afforded a quick survey of the faces of the scattered audience, one and all caught in different stages of naïve excitement to insensate resignation. She smiled to herself. That was how you told apart the freshmen from the seniors. 

The prayer ended as smoothly as it had started, not unlike the flagging attention spans of the listeners. Some people looked around, unsure whether a prayer should be followed by applause. Some clapped but the movement never gained critical mass. The Principal must have been asked to speak because he glided to the lectern and looked around at the audience in a long, thoughtful manner. Nikita remembered doing something similar when she blanked out during her Elocution finals. He began like the morning sun, imperceptibly slow and when no one was really paying attention. By the time Nikita had caught his words, he was halfway through his halting improv:

“…there is so much to say about all of it, I really cannot express it. There is a lot that has been done and this is all really so important, I don’t have words for it. I believe this is an important activity for students and our college and we must do it and give it all the attention that an important event like this deserves. I have a lot more to say about this but we have only so much time. That is all, thank you.” 

The ‘speech’ had lasted a minute (although some in the audience might argue otherwise). Nikita was listening intently at this point. (So intently , in fact, that she even ignored how the frisky judge was now holding the fair-skinned wrist of a volunteer who had in all probability bent over just to ask if he wanted a cup of tea. Her face now looked as if she was going to read a coming-of-age novel when she got home. The lady judge stared forward, her face as inscrutable as a Parisian mime). Watching the ‘luminaries’ speak publicly was always fun. The experience reminded her of unprepared students facing viva voce exams. The walrus-man (whose existence made some sense when he was reintroduced as the Chief Guest for the day) trundled to the front with a blissful smile plastered on a face that was anything but blissful at the prospect of having to talk. He began in a measured drawl:

“A very good morning to one and all present here. It makes me really happy that we are taking on such initiatives as a college…”, he stared at approximately fifty post-adolescent faces (not counting the twenty or so volunteers who looked like they could benefit from reading ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ or, really, any book at all) while the Principal consistently nodded out of step, “…as a community, as a nation. We need to encourage this so that we do more of such…things to help our students understand the world. We must debate for overall development of personality, to know the world around us. Cultural activities like dramatics, singing, public speaking…these are good ways to develop personality which is important for the job market. It is very…good that we have our alumni coming back to join us and help us, one of whom is with us today and has started this debate competition!”, he pointed at the mass of loose clothes and arrested beard-hair busy courting a cup of tea, suddenly illuminating why such a young, over-hormonal person would be allowed on the panel at all. Maybe the committee ran out of people who were willing to endure this? 

Nitika became aware of the thin fabric of her skirt against her calves as she waddled between chairs and out into the column of volunteers, all standing in a file of concealed despair as if they had discovered a new meaning for the term ‘wasted youth’. She discreetly grabbed her nylon-netted bag from a ledge under a terminally ill air-conditioner and waited while the volunteers dissolved around her to make space. The Chief Guest had managed to reach a point in his soliloquy where his garage-repairman’s health, a highly sexist parable and an odious political joke were all relevant, wrapped with a self-satisfied “I really didn’t prepare anything today. These are just thoughts that came to my mind right now…” 

You don’t say.

A friend grabbed her by the left arm as she made to move, “Where are you off to?” 

She gave him a weak smile and whispered, “I have assignments I need to finish.”

“Oh, here for a quick refresher. You’re really focused, eh?”

“Very.”

With a silent prayer for the host’s love life, Nitika left on feline feet, relegating the remainder of the ceremony to her imagination.