Utshaa Basu, Grade 11
UWC Mahindra
I spent most of the first and second term on the boundaries of the Edge of the world, time split between the brightly lit library and the fading art studio. Ironically, the time I spend in the Edge is relatively minimal- merely a sea of grass that I cross over as I flit between the two spaces.
I cannot study in my room. This is a result of three definite reasons- 1. The tiny space, 2. The distraction of my soft bed, and 3. The absolute mess my corner always is, the third being entirely my fault. The library, on the other hand, is huge and airy, with a million tiny carousels and large, shiny round tables. I avoid the carousels and take to the tables instead, spread out my flashcards and stationery and textbook, my laptop at my fingers. The desk in my room is minuscule, and as my room gets neater and I spend every increasing hour at the library, my mess and my life transfers to that small table, welcome additions of my golden sipper and a few protein bars for snack breaks. My room- it smells damp and mouldy, and for the better part of the first term, the library stinks of dead rats. Winter really brings it out- without the whirring of the fans, a blanket of quiet falls over the libraries, and saddled in a sweater and tracks, it is a remarkably cozy place to study. Summer pushes the library into a shelter over anything else- our rooms are resolutely lacking air conditioners, and the only place we can switch the AC on without feeling guilty is in the library. Whatever time split is now given over completely. Perhaps the best moments are on the weekends, in the evenings or at night, when the library is sparse with people, just two or three sprinkled across the vast space. It is a godly study space, cool and deadly quiet, filled with other dedicated people who inspire me to work as well.
The art center is a different beast. I spend the better part of my time there on my feet instead, rushing from one table to the other. Stood alone at midnight, there’s an eerie atmosphere, intensified by the rustling of the trees and the dim lights. Not a single table is free of paint stains, and as you enter, there’s the calling scent of wet plaster and oil paints. My fondest memories can be in the depths of the night, hunched over a table with two others as 1 am hits, laughter a bit delirious as we hack away at our sculpture pieces with knives. Others include the same medium, sprawled on the floor with my friend’s head on my lap, pressing plaster and gauze on their face as I attempt to get an imprint. Stepping in every two hours to paint another thin sheen of rubber on my mould. Reclining on the floor on the other size, struggling to get the lumpy orange dough to resemble something like Anoushka. Our tools form a trail. If the library is a place of sanctity, of absolute focus, the art center is where I can relax, my body at home. This perhaps has less to do with the homely studio and more to do with its purpose- pencils and paintbrushes find their natural place in my hand’s grip or tucked behind my ear.
Second term, these spaces ground me as I attempt to get my academics (and life together). Minutes become hours in these rooms, slouched over a desk poring over pages for a test or sprawled on the paint-stained floor, hacking away at a misshapen plaster cast with a knife. I begin to think of them as my spaces, the tiny table pushed against the studio door, and the round one you first see as you descend the stairs and step onto the floor of the library.
I cannot study in my room. This is a result of three definite reasons- 1. The tiny space, 2. The distraction of my soft bed, and 3. The absolute mess my corner always is, the third being entirely my fault. The library, on the other hand, is huge and airy, with a million tiny carousels and large, shiny round tables. I avoid the carousels and take to the tables instead, spread out my flashcards and stationery and textbook, my laptop at my fingers. The desk in my room is minuscule, and as my room gets neater and I spend every increasing hour at the library, my mess and my life transfers to that small table, welcome additions of my golden sipper and a few protein bars for snack breaks. My room- it smells damp and mouldy, and for the better part of the first term, the library stinks of dead rats. Winter really brings it out- without the whirring of the fans, a blanket of quiet falls over the libraries, and saddled in a sweater and tracks, it is a remarkably cozy place to study. Summer pushes the library into a shelter over anything else- our rooms are resolutely lacking air conditioners, and the only place we can switch the AC on without feeling guilty is in the library. Whatever time split is now given over completely. Perhaps the best moments are on the weekends, in the evenings or at night, when the library is sparse with people, just two or three sprinkled across the vast space. It is a godly study space, cool and deadly quiet, filled with other dedicated people who inspire me to work as well.
The art center is a different beast. I spend the better part of my time there on my feet instead, rushing from one table to the other. Stood alone at midnight, there’s an eerie atmosphere, intensified by the rustling of the trees and the dim lights. Not a single table is free of paint stains, and as you enter, there’s the calling scent of wet plaster and oil paints. My fondest memories can be in the depths of the night, hunched over a table with two others as 1 am hits, laughter a bit delirious as we hack away at our sculpture pieces with knives. Others include the same medium, sprawled on the floor with my friend’s head on my lap, pressing plaster and gauze on their face as I attempt to get an imprint. Stepping in every two hours to paint another thin sheen of rubber on my mould. Reclining on the floor on the other size, struggling to get the lumpy orange dough to resemble something like Anoushka. Our tools form a trail. If the library is a place of sanctity, of absolute focus, the art center is where I can relax, my body at home. This perhaps has less to do with the homely studio and more to do with its purpose- pencils and paintbrushes find their natural place in my hand’s grip or tucked behind my ear.
Second term, these spaces ground me as I attempt to get my academics (and life together). Minutes become hours in these rooms, slouched over a desk poring over pages for a test or sprawled on the paint-stained floor, hacking away at a misshapen plaster cast with a knife. I begin to think of them as my spaces, the tiny table pushed against the studio door, and the round one you first see as you descend the stairs and step onto the floor of the library.
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