Please Don’t Dip Me

OhgodIamsodarkshouldIwearthisorthatandpleasepleaseprettypleasecanyoulendmethatdressshitIforgotheelsbaalaisalaganayaaisaIthinkwhiteisbetternoblackamItheonlywearingadressshutup

Idon’tevenhaveonepleasepleaseIbegyoudomymakeupughwehaveworkshoponehourisnotenoughtogetreadyOMGFUCKYOULETMESLEEP

The girl’s hostel the night before any party. Till 2am. And the next afternoon too. Seriously. And after all this discussion, we come back from class at 5.30 and take ages. Or if you have no classes, the whole damn afternoon. *shifty eyes* We miss the 6 o’clock bus. And the six thirty one. Some of us nearly catch the 7 o’clock bus. But I realize I forgot my fresher’s nite pass. Another wants to practise her dance moves a final time. So 7.30 it is for us. A whole dehra ghante late, we expect to be too late to be fashionable, but find that the doors to the hall haven’t opened yet. (This is why I love Hyderabad. If you’re late, don’t worry- odds are the organisers aren’t here yet.) We wait, get in, then wait some more. While we’re waiting for something to happen, the omnipresent Red Bull girls turn up with their cans. Ah. Nourishment. As expected, some of the boys-who-probably-didn’t-even-bathe-and-make-us-look-so-overdressed get hyper and give the Red Bull girls the roses handed out at the entrance. (Names withheld out of a sense self-preservation. My own, of course.)

 Then the koels and dancing queens do their bit- they wow us with their unattainable chords and superb matkas and jhatkas– we reward them with hoots and whistles. I wonder how these people, nay, superhumans, do it. This samanya stri here is content if she doesn’t make ears bleed or take out an eye while performing such stunts. And the skit, of course- silent confusion during the hindi bits, and uncontrolled hoots for Mahesh Babu. And why is there always a trans person and/or a drag queen? Seriously, wh-*controls self from going off-topic* . The most interesting/hyped part of any Fresher’s party is, of course, the titles. Miss Rose-  the awkward boys go up to awkward girls and awkwardly give them roses, Mr. Popular-awkward girls awkwardly call out names of awkward boys. I guess the seniors not-so-awkwardly enjoy this awkward spectacle. And a ramp-walk together by the winners, to continue the awkwardness. And the slightly less awkward Miss and Mr. Fresher titles aka Only-One-Who-Actually-Signed-Up and Most-Tharki-Answer respectively. And another ramp-walk because there can never be enough awkwardness.

All this distracts us from food, but not for long. Food is awesome. Food is sacrosanct. I am hungry. Chicken. Fish. Biryani. Enjoy your raw paneer, vegetarians. Ice cream. More Chicken. Further explanation would be superfluous and filled with vegetarian-bashing. Then the dancing- what everyone- including nalayak nartakis like yours truly- invariably enjoys. But no, there’s a catch- it’s some sort of prom- and even worse, the girls have to ask. Our seniors are evil. Seriously. As if it wasn’t awkward enough already. (Un?)Luckily, I manage to catch hold of a fellow nalayak. While we’re doing the Lungi dance to A Ante Amalapuram, we somehow manage to dodge those who decided that doing the tango to it would be a better idea- unlike the girll whose face got smacked as a result of my enthusiastic I-am-a-Disco-Dancer routine. Even after the seniors forget that we’re supposed to be dancing in pairs, there are enough who don’t. Therefore endless requests for a dance. I attempt to be a gracious Miss Fresher and say yes to every random stranger. Such a bad practise obviously ends in, well, more awkwardness. Like saying yes to two people for the same song, and ending up in a thre- ok no, let me distract you from my foot in the mouth moment with this cat video. Or ending up with a person who actually wants to slow-dance.This is better explained with my exact thoughts at the time-

Wow you’re kneeling. Shit. Slow dance? To Anarkali Disco? Sorry for kicking you. And stepping on your foot. WHY ARE YOU TWIRLING ME YOU ARE SHORTER THAN ME-SCARED? OF COURSE I’M SCARED OF- AAAAAAAAAHHHH PLEASE DON’T DIP ME YOU’LL DROP ME. Maybe he wouldn’t have tried to dip me if I said please. But most importantly I survived that dance. I feel so proud. My darling stilettos didn’t, though. And no, I won’t write an article. Or a poem. It was just a casual fling- the Angry Birds bathroom slippers I share with my roomie are the real deal. Ideally, this would have gone past raat ki dhai baje but at IITH, the magic ends as the clock strikes the last stroke of midnight (ante late bus). Stray dupattas picked up from the sticky-with-Red-Bull floor, we have the usual kushti poti for a seat on the bus which fortunately did not turn into a pumpkin and get back to our step-mother’s mansion. So for all the tl;dr folks out there- Awkward. Food. Chicken. Awesome. Awesome chicken. Melted faces. Evil seniors. And please, please don’t dip me.

-SnehatheReddy

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s