To be or not to be:
Most of the batch had decided to go with the second choice. Who cares if it was a college tradition, we were different. No matter that the seniors were prodding us to get things ready, the previous edition had raised a few issues, so our year wasn't entitled to one.
Till Pallavi, our class rep, took an instant referendum after a lecture:
"As you know, the first year students hold their Socials this time of the year... Now, how many of you want it?"
Not a hand went up. A couple of sneers later, the class looked around to see who was bold enough to disagree. Apparently, no one.
Miffed, Pallavi announced the program was thus cancelled and stormed off.
The noise levels came down a tad bit, people still buzzing about the event on their way to the Anatomy lecture hall -
Socials for our notorious 'anti-social' batch? A night of mixing for a batch always hidden in their books? Come to think of it, most kids probably never realized 'fun' was a part of function. Nobody could see anything positive emerging from the whole affair. The girls were annoyed by the unwritten, unbroken 'Sari-only' rule. Why bother?
I was on the fence on this one. I was certain my batchmates would be more comfortable clearing cadavers off fascia than approaching someone from the class whose existence they weren't particularly aware of.
For the same reason, I wanted it to take place, if only to launch people from their cocoons. I let my fear of being noted prevent me from lending Pallavi any support; I had been all for it when she first mentioned the matter - but I wasn't so sure myself.
Here were a hundred kids, who saw a week-long mass bunk go awry with lack of basic unity. Yet, weren't they the same bunch that had the guys cheering their girls' teams and vice versa for the recent sports events? The friction between the seniors and the female half of the batch made me reconsider in favor of the soiree - word had it we were to be royally ragged on the big day, hopefully cracking some ice between freshmen and their superiors.
A few of us quietly took over the process of convincing everyone of the need of the hour and setting up the evening to perfection. The equivocal were roped in with certain strokes of genius, while the outright-opponents weren't as easily swayed.
A dozen of us assembled after class around the within-campus (dry) pond. There stood Samreen and Roshni, small talk in progress with Bibi and Charulata, next to Pallavi who was busy in conversation with Shanmukha, slightly hiding Rahul and Melvyn from view, a couple of meters away from who stood Utsav, Vinay, Manoj... the group was bigger than I'd anticipated. What am I doing here, I thought. I had no clear visions and clearly no talent useful for the show. Still, tag along was all I had in mind originally, and little harm done.
Soon as we established the fact that we would do everything to make the night a reality, we set off in two directions to book a ballroom. Some tempting offers later, we settled on nearby King's Kourt to avoid transport hassles. Only, that also meant the date had to be fixed - the options weren't the best possible, but we had to move fast. April 9th, it was decided, despite the guys fighting for more time for blazer-hunting. I was pleased, till I realized one of my friends couldn't make it. My enthusiasm was running out - I was more spectator than participant and no longer held much faith in our abilities to move mountains. When I said 'don't mind me', I was hoping to be more accommodating, but who knew I'd be taken seriously.
We stayed back after class the next day, assigning everyone roles and I had to come up with a title for the event. Naturally, when brains were called for, my system shut down and I was blank. Pulling Melvyn in for inspiration and borrowing Rahul's phone for information, we set off to work - what does the function signify? What feelings does it invoke? What do you want out of it? No line of questioning got anything interesting from either of us. I fumbled with Google translate, converting random words into fancy foreign versions. 'Color', 'Diversity', 'Fun' - pointless.
"How about Primavera? That's 'Spring' in Galician," I joked. Somehow it sounded rich enough to the others. Twisting the whole concept to revolve around 'a new beginning' theme, the name stuck. Funnily enough, neither he nor I was satisfied. Regardless, we went about figuring out a tagline to follow it with, till we struck gold with, 'If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind' from Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind'. Happier, we spent the rest of the evening fitting things into budget, and simply chilling.
'Twas the afternoon before the Socials. There sat Pallavi and I, paying no heed to dissection, more interested in making sure everything was in order for the next day. The hotel was booked. The performances lined up. Mementos ordered en masse, banner printed, invitations sent, items were quickly struck off the mental list, till she realized -
"- we have no MCs for the night"
Before that could sink in, she suggested Melvyn be the anchor. And me.
Not known for her humor, she wasn't joking, but I was tempted to burst into laughter anyway. The idea was ridiculous, Melvyn would do it alright, but me? I made a fool of myself the first time I took to stage at the raw age of five. I hadn't spoken onstage for a good six years. Heck, the last time I went there was for the Fresher's Day disaster. My mind was up - No. Way.
Neither would hear of it. Who else can do it, they argued. A couple of names were at the tip of my tongue, but they'd said the magic words. I did the unthinkable. I reconsidered. I disagreed. I thought further. A few rounds of silent debating later, I had my answer:
"What have we got to work with?"
What if my performance was forgettable, or even memorable for the wrong reasons? Atleast I could try something new, boast of having played host, be part of an entirely different experience, and I had Melvyn to back me up. I was in.
That indomitable spirit was short-lived. It was no cakewalk. Neither of us had ideas conventional in MMC. Little by little, we strung our plans together, painting as big a picture possible, a brainstorming duo. Surprisingly, I was able to contribute a lot to the writing process, but I had no faith in my speaking. I was dead nervous.
I owe it to Rahul, for inspiring me to get back on my feet: "People don't know your past. They don't know whether you have hosted a million programs before or whether this is your first. All you gotta do is go there, full of confidence and show them what you've got."
Saturday came before we could pronounce 'Primavera' properly and it saw its allotted emcees bunking class for an early morning practice. Take one, take two, maybe three. We were bored with rehearsal and gave it a rest, watching everyone else instead. It ought to come naturally, and we didn't give it any further thought than that.
By two in the afternoon, we returned to our hostels to glam ourselves up. Draping the sari itself took two attempts and I was wondering how the rest of the evening was gonna be. By four, all of us were instructed to assemble in our quadrangle, some pre-Socials ragging in order. A half hour fashionably late, we waited at the far end of the ground, standing according to room numbers.
Manisha, Laxmi and I - roommates through celebrations and controversies, more trouble to each other than anyone else, stood hand-in-hand wondering what we'd be asked to do. Watching everyone being called in groups of three and hazed based on their 'hobbies' we were thinking of ways to outsmart them. Well, my interests were creative writing and drawing and I had no problem demonstrating either one there. We were summoned, and put through the customary questions.
Laxmi was asked to sing something she didn't know the lyrics of, which we were supposed to dance to (talk about originality). To save face, I volunteered to sing 'Pretty Woman' instead. They couldn't care less, so agreed. We were let off after that, till I was called in time and again to sing some other song.
The ragging took longer than anticipated and the organizing committee broke into sweat - we had the hall booked only for a few hours and we had to rush if we didn't want to hold our Socials out in the street.
As soon as pencil-heels permitted, we hurried off to the hotel, where we got busy checking the sound system. The hall was decorated neatly, the mini-stage highlighted with a huge red banner, everybody was looking their finest and I had butterflies in my stomach. No one had any idea what was going to happen.
Seeing my co-host relatively relaxed, I completely let go. Somehow I could go from unbearably restless to the zenith of serenity within seconds and I was waiting for the signal. Pallavi's welcome line:
"O-okay. Hello, good evening everyone. Welcome to this year's Socials. As you can see, we - we didn't have much time to assign hosts for the show, so we would like to request one of you to please come forward. Anyone?"
Déjà vu. No limb fought gravity. Pallavi was about to respond when suddenly, from the back of the audience:
"Pallavi, Pallavi, I'll do it. Me!" He ran towards the mic and grabbed it.
Running his fingers through his hair, Mel continued, to deafening applause and cheers: "See, those guys want me here, don't you?"
A spirited yes-no chorus later: "Ah, I feel at home already... but it's starting to get a little lonely up here. How about some female company?" followed by loud hooting. "Divya, why don't you come up? Punya?" and a couple more guaranteed-not-to-come-up-and-ruin-the-whole-plan girls.
"I know! Yes, the perfect choice, why didn't I think of it before?"
Keeping the crowd guessing, he announced:
"Ladies and Gentlemen, put your hands together for your hostess tonight - Ms. Lamya Ibrahim!"
Spotlight on me. Was my head shaking frequently enough? Were my eyes popped-out convincingly enough? Was my mouth too wide open? I never did find out, but the audience was wild. Giving in, I drifted towards the stage, looking peeved, when he broke into a romantic Kannada song, leading to further catcalls. I took the microphone and offered to show him how to do it, after reprimanding him for lack-of-seriousness. All scripted, mind you.
I read a monotonous speech that was both boring and informative regarding the name. In the middle of my robot impersonation, Melvyn snatched the offensive scrap of paper from me, balled it up and threw it towards the delighted audience, to my mock-anger. Citing that a reason for introducing the prayer song performers, the two of us moved towards the side to make way for the singers.
Silent understanding, tacit reassurance, a mutual can-do attitude - we might survive the night after all. Regaining composure while Sam and Roshni explained the initial round of games, we sat back to watch everyone getting into the spirit of things. Shortly, our Physiology PGs and an Anatomy sir, our official chaperon, arrived. Not wanting to keep them waiting long, we shuffled things around a bit, and this meant improvising a lot. Wonderful.
Next came the 'Rose bidding' which was the highlight every year - roses auctioned off to guys (and in rare cases, girls) eager to wear their hearts on dry-cleaned sleeves. The first one, a 'special rose' showed promise. What started off at 499 bucks endeared an aggressive bid to end at Rs.1500. The atmosphere dampened a bit with the Bollywood drama, declarations of undying love, that followed the flower presentation.
The second rose, 'Pretty Woman', was offered a starting price of 300. It looked like none of the ladies was getting the flattering title. "Four," came the bid, eventually. Another battle followed and the rose ended up with the original contender at 800.
I was called onstage, this time not for hosting duties. Presented the red rose, 'for friendship,' I was at a loss what to do. I mumbled thanks, took the rose and left it with a friend.
More roses were handed out, but the program stretched to breaking point.
We decided to bring in the performers - first up were Rahul and Samreen, who introduced themselves with breathtaking solos before moving on to an admirable cover of 'When you say nothing at all.' Charulata followed with a song from 'Wake Up Sid!', encouraging the audience to sing along. The last for that segment was Bibi who decided to entertain us with a rendition of 'Tu Bin Batayein' - unfortunately a terribly slow song. She started off-key, but thought better than to stop and continued despite massive jeering from the crowd. Laughing in between, she sang till the end, walking back to her place in the audience to the loudest applause of the night.
Prolonging dinner no further, buffet was declared ready. Oddly enough, even the normally-insatiable Melvyn was too worked up to force a plate down his throat. I looked around and was glad to see almost everyone had turned up - heck, even Spoorthi who went on a hyperventilating spree when asked to don a Sari, showed up in Salwar Khameez - and happier still to note only the waiters were bored.
Song bidding went on same time as the collective stuffing. Anonymous dedications, impossible auctions, photoshoots, all brightened everyone's mood and it was time to announce a few more games, especially ones pairing opposite sexes up. Participants and onlookers seemed to be having the time of their lives, when the hotel staff approached us and asked us to quiet down, inquiring when we'd empty the place. There were important clients checking in and they needed the hall as well. So, in addition to two wardens' midnight curfew weighing down upon us, we had to cut the night short by another hour.
Which meant, we couldn't invite Rahul for a stunning cover of 'Hotel California'. Which resulted in the cancellation of Melvyn rising to a mock-challenge to surprise everyone with his flawless singing of 'Yesterday'. Which saw us moving on to the later stages of the evening, fast forwarding to the presentation of titles, predetermined both by the boys for the girls and the other way round.
The girls were given titles based on aesthetic qualities, while the fairer sex displayed their wit in the names they called our boys. "Ms. Looks" went out to Bibi, "Ms. Fair & Lovely" to Vandana, "Ms. Chubby Cheeks" Kriti, even "Ms. Petal Eyes" yours truly. "Bucket Rani", "Ms. Chatterbox" and "Ms. Tomboy" dared to deviate from that theme to give Manasa, Spoorthi and Laxmi their titles.
In the meantime, Shanmukha, the event's main organizer, earned 'Mr. Punctuality' for his sparse attendance, while the 'barely-seen', in an entirely different sense, Pragati was determined Mr. size zero. Mr. Zygomaticus Major, in reference to the most-exercised muscle of athletic Utsav, saw him sporting his inexhaustible smile to justify the vote, while his big dreams and infinite slumber saw Melvyn crowned "Dreamy boy". Abhishek R. became Mr. Retro, while Jom was 'Mr.Draupadi' for being forever in the presence of atleast one of the girls. Everybody's favorite Nandan turned out to be 'Mr. Threshold' and his own buddy Ganesh 'Mr. OOOO' - the former for his infectious enthusiasm in doing things big and small, and the latter with respect to his vocal reactions at the dissection table.
The hilarious ones were over and now it was time for serious business. First, who was to be 'Mr. 2k10'. Determined by the public, the line-up included everyone from drama king Mukherjee to ubiquitous Melvyn. The votes were counted and good-in-every-sense Pratap emerged the winner.
The ultimate race was for the 'Rose Princess', the very essence of the night. They were all good friends with everyone, the nominees - Manisha, Roshni, Vandana, Bibi... but it was for Samreen that almost every hand in the room (including both of mine) shot up. Unanimous choice, yet she was still surprised while adorned her sash by the batch's other musical marvel, Rahul.
Barely minutes left to be thrown out, we exited the stage to let the audience take over and dance into the night, to all kinds of tracks. With much regret did we unplug the music system, helplessly trying to pacify the students and the hotel staff. Time to hand out prizes, bid goodbye, and to thank all. Melvyn and I were grateful to every name that came to mind, exhausted from standing more than 5 hours.
In fact, so tired was I, I didn't bother to stay back for photos after ending the show. So bushed, that my legs gave way on approaching our hostel just before midnight, and I collapsed into my friend's arms. Nevertheless, we stayed up a few more hours, recollecting every detail.
I was disappointed that I got more noted on how I looked and for the irony in being ragged into singing a song which shared its title with my rose than for being one of the hosts. I kinda resented the lack of appreciation for not letting my voice ever shake, for not tripping over wires and falling flat on my face, not standing clueless in the middle of my stage debut and a million other catastrophes that I was perfectly capable of. Still, I was riding high on the overall success and decided to hit the sack only on realizing we had some college clean-up campaign early Sunday morning.
"Good night, sweet dreams."
One of those rare moments in life, I had had both before turning in for the night...
