As a person who is acutely intolerant of low or no heat environments, I find absolutely no tangible pleasure whatsoever marching into a soundproof hall, with an airconditioning system so efficient, that it has never been switched off for the past 4 years. One hour or so in the hall, the cold seeps into your bone, and your fingers develop a sticky stiffness.

More time will pass and your eyes become glazed marble without any semblance of warm emotion. Your handwriting, not terribly much to begin with, at this point will cease to become intelligible anymore.

With the absence of warmth, and the rapidly dropping temperature,  you start to develop paranoia. Hawk eyed “invigilators” march up the military-like lines of identical tables and chairs, waiting, just waiting for sudden suspicious movements from the students. Some on the brink of catatonia, some in deep slumber and some (those with extra insulatory properties) actually are still slouched over their table, writing.

These “invigilators” look like vultures, smelling nervousness, and stop to read what you are writing over your shoulder. Sensing that, you ultimately stop regurgitating the information and give the vultures a hiss so that they will go away. Eventually they do go away, but the damage is done. You have forgotten what it was you wanted to write.

“Please remove your jackets if you want to go to the toilets”

Hah! You have outsmarted them this time. Clearly they do not comprehend peeling off the primary garment of insulation in this warmth-deprived habitat is an action requiring much labor. Today, you came prepared, leaving the jacket behind, you have devised an ingenious plan of action; if they dare to ask you remove it, you shall say, while maintaining a straight face, “this is not a jacket, this is a poncho”.

Everyday is war. But even those at war were allowed to make sounds. In this war however, all sounds, deemed as noise, however natural will attract unnatural attention. Cough and the hall coughs with you. But whatever you do, do not forget to eat, stomach contractions, are loud. The hall, unfortunately, has sacrificed warmth for great acoustics.

Tommorow is another exam. For some, the last. Eyes determined (or not, depending on individual level of ego, acting capabilities, revision and caffeine), we again propel our god-given stumps into the freezing and frightfully forbidding hall, flashing the student id and (probably forged) yellow forms for some semblance of human validation at the entrance. Once in the bowels of coldness, you look for familiar faces, the brown lady with the white bun, or the tall snickering white man with the unique shirt patterns.

And again, the cycle ensue.

Am I the only one feeling this way?