Pulp Fiction

In the middle of June, four hundred fresh fruit
Arrived from orchards of high fame and repute
But springtime didn’t hold the riches they were promised.
Their skins were attacked, their fleshes contused
By the sharp knives of coursework and CV reviews

Past the Equinox, now, wearing faded colours and smells
In the throes of summer placements and feverish TB spells,
Some were quashed to a pulp, on the pulpit of dreams.
Still standing, just thick melons of water and musk
With scratches and scars, but seeds still bearing husk

The third term cloaked them in cold weather and despair
Burdens of group work and case mats too much to bear,
Rotten fruit took grim solace in the putrid wine of another.
As PGP1 closed, lustred just the GPA-irrigated crops
To whom aversion therapy served as saccharine drops

On their internships they rode off, brushing aside their woes
Some to party and perish, and some to grab coveted PPOs

As they returned to the red fort, GMed and retooled
It’ll be “chill” this year! Yet again, they were fooled
Some sent out jooses to cross-pollinate, while some turned into vegetables.
And they laboured through dry monsoon, desiccated by fate
Cropped, chopped and thrown together like a Falafal fruit plate

In the new term, some crates fled to foreign shores
Breaking free of corporate-academic sematophores
Leaving behind a melange de noix battling PCs and case competitions.
For three long months, the fort wore a deserted look
Craving re-import of the exported and the joys they took

With the factions united in one last whimpering hurrah
Recruiters came down for another round of Fruit Ninja
Washed and wiped clean the fruit arrived, in cohorts and clusters.
Their destinies now sealed in jars of branded jam and marmalade,
Cheers to IIM Ahmedabad! Where dreams cease, and fortunes are made


Advait is currently loafing around in the sunset of his time at IIM Ahmedabad

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