Convocation Really Is A Funeral

because it was meant to bury the pains we religiously endured; tears we succumbed to, sweat- drenched years labored and lost, age-stained paths crossed and forgotten, lessons learnt and unlearned, priorities reshuffled and relationship redefined. But I had to attend because it would be evil to deprive my parents their fundamental right of witnessing their youngest child robed in black glory and receiving The Scroll on stage from a white-haired royalty. The convocation is a formal goodbye to endless nights of studying, constant episodes of migraine, dramatic cursing in all forms of languages known to mankind, coffee-fueled souls, suicide-inducing exams and all things murderous.

As we lay down the corpse of our yesteryears, we come together openly reminiscing our journey yet glad it was all gone, in the presence of invited guests closest to us. All of us were to be attired in somber colours and expected to conduct ourselves in all solemnity and rigidity while traces of merriment were kept to a minimum. Through suppressed smiles, parents and loved ones exchanged pleasantries and quick glances as they collectively basked in mutual pride and gratitude. The Speaker took the stage and delivered a speech, the length and flavor of which were not unlike that of an obituary while we sat in deafening silence. The hard angle of formality was somewhat cushioned by the plush carpet spread, decorative satin-like cloths draping all the right places, restful rows of sofa seats while the hall was softly illuminated by a teetering layer of ambient lighting from dangling gigantic chandeliers belonging to Victorian era.

Shadowy figures of dark-robed graduates (think Harry-Potter) are flanked by congratulatory bouquets galore and poses were poised for flashing cameras as the evening went on like an old movie without film. There is a reason we are all dressed in utmost black.

After 5 hours of utter anticipation, I finally took the stage and royally bowed to receive The Scroll and I have to say The Moment was of pure orgasmic proportions. Ascending the stage was a journey itself; a journey to a new chapter, an unveiling of a blessing, a beginning of transcendence and a simple step of faith. The Scroll contained the grim epitaph of what was over and done with while carefully scripting the map of my long-awaited future.

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