Little Crooked House

I have a 3000 word assignment to write about realism as used in Amitav Ghosh's The Shadow Lines and I don't know where to begin. The introduction was written with much labour, and the thesis statement was introduced so on the bright side, I have only 2900 words left to write.

The trouble is I have no clue what to write about.

This sucks. I thought no one worked in college. I thought I'd be spending my time talking about realism, lying on the green lawns of Stephens, with smoke rings swirling above my head. I did not picture myself slaving away at the computer, writing three thousand words about the damn thing for my eccentric Bengali science fiction loving professor.

Next week, I have two more assignments due. One is something to do with Browning and the dramatic monologue- I think- and I know she gave us a reading list for it that's about a mile long. I have no clue what the other assignment is about. I only know I have one, because the feeling of dread in my stomach isn't light enough for only one assignment.

Right now, I'm trying to figure out how to explain Amitav Ghosh's use of the stream of consciousness technique in a thousand words. Enough for one paragraph. It is, you see, a stylistic feature of the modernist realist technique. Ghosh expresses it through the constant back and forth shifts in time throughout the novel. That's all I've got.

Oh man. I'm too dumb for college. Everyone else seems to know everything about everything. You should see some of them in tutorials. They're all arguing with each other, using words I've never even bloody heard of. I really need to stop reading Janet Evanovitch and move on to something a little more intellectually stimulating. Maybe that'll help.

All I want to do right now is curl up with a book and a bar of chocolate. Well, to be honest, with an Asterix comic and three bars of chocolate. Snickers. Mmm. A rost beef sandwich dripping with butter wouldn't go amiss either.

Which brings me to another grievance. Beef. I swear to god, I will never take that meat for granted again. When I go back home, I will stuff myself with Bouchi's roast beef and steak and meatloaf and corned beef and scotch egg. I'm wasting away on this bloody vegetarian food. The only red meat you get in Delhi is mutton and by a strange twist of fate, mutton is the only meat I steer cleer off. One, because I don't like the taste and two, because I'm partial to goats. I think it's a Heidi thing left over from my childhood. There's chicken occasionally but I only ever see it in a McDonald's burger and since I'm on a limited budget, I refuse to waste my money on that trash. The chicken I get everywhere else, is the on-the-bone kind, which I can't eat because eating anything attached to a bone freaks me out.

Oh beef, I miss you.

I'm talking to a friend on Skype and describing what I want my wedding to be like. I don't ever want to get married but I like the idea of a wedding.

Jahnavi got it right when she said she wanted to be married in a simple temple. I take it a step furthur. I want to be married in a temple- an open temple with pillars and no walls- on a cliff overlooking the sea. During the monsoon. There has to be a fire with a priest chanting in Sanskrit. The sky- dark and overcast with a howling wind. But maybe, just maybe, as I step out of the temple, a ray of gentle sunshine could fall on me. My friend asked where the groom comes in. I forgot about him. He could be a problem. Oh well.

Anyway, it's 8.08 PM and the assignment's due in twelve hours and I'm already beginning to think up brilliant excuses for not handing it in. It's never a good sign when I do that.

I should go.

Right.

Now.

.