The Loneliest Year

Its funny how something as cheerful as a party gets you sad. The Rotaract farewell: the occasion where we would gather and have fun with a group of people with whom we have probably interacted the most in the last three years; where we would play musical chairs and paper dance with the most like-minded people we can ever hope to meet again; where we would have the hot seats of perhaps the most intriguing and visible faces of the college. Also, the place where we would realise what lies in store for us next year.

Being an engineering student, and a hostelite at that, I shared a dream that is almost universal in student spheres, talked about in hushed tones and dreamy eyes. The thought of being in the final year of under grad. The year when you can supposedly do anything, and get away with it. The year in which wearing a tie over a t-shirt to class is not frowned upon. The year when girls get drunk, and coyly talk about it. The year when crushes are revealed and laughed about. The year when your Profs actually understand. The year when you plan to go crazy. Also, the loneliest year.

It never sinks in, till it sinks in. And when it does, it’s not pretty. The day we were sending off our Rotaract final years was the day we realised that we were on the verge of becoming final years ourselves. Seeing off your best friends from across batches was something one wouldn’t exactly term endearing.

That’s when it sets in that you will hardly know anyone when you come for classes after summer. There will be a batch of freshmen with whom you are legally forbidden to interact; a batch of freshly baked sophomores who are too full with their new found freedom; and a handful of junior years with whom you have ever interacted, thanks to the no ragging policy in the first place. So all you are left with is your own batch; the final years, or the senior years, so to say. Grim? Very.

Call it human inclination, but people always look up to their seniors; for advice, for treats, for books, for everything. Right from the day your immediate seniors rag and subsequently treat you after a particularly gruelling session, you form a bond. Maybe it’s that enactment of Twinkle Twinkle Little Stars with voice muted, and being asked innuendo-laden questions about it, or being asked to go-kart on the senior’s bed that sets the ball rolling, but the sessions are almost tailor-made for memories. To accept that the people, who made you do the most shameless stuff in the name of “interacting”, will be no more when you come back after summer break is scary, to say the least.

Life always comes in full circles. We all started off the same, apprehensive about what the first year in college would be like, not knowing anyone; we all revelled in freedom and a sense of belonging on reaching second year; we all bore a sense of responsibility on reaching pre-final year; and as we reach this threshold, as Metallica would aptly put it, “Now I see the sun”. We see the lesser known side of final year. The year when you just have yourself to live with; when you are back to not knowing people like in first year. The year when you can’t look up to others for help. The year when you don’t have someone to take the fall for you. The year when you leave college. But also, hopefully, the year in which you have fun like never before. Welcome, final year.