Undergraduate / University of Chicago the road essay ("the politics of life") [4]

The Prompt: Then choose one of the five extended essay options and write a one- or two-page response. This is your chance to speak to us and our chance to listen as you tell us about yourself, your tastes, and your ambitions.

"Ek-so Rupee, ek-so madame" blends in with the other inviting calls that bargains colorful scarves for the one-hundred rupee it claims. The dusty street is lined with fabrics of color and texture you cannot see elsewhere, busy vendors calling out to vicious shoppers, carts selling fresh lime juice, and the occasional cow that searches for food. The Main Street of Sarojini Nagar is where I find the clothes, and accessories for the cheapest price found on earth. It is also the road full of Life and Competition.

"The Cave" greets the entrance of the main street in Sarojini Nagar. Seated vendors resemble Buddha amongst the neatly folded piles of clothes. A rattling fan rotates its wings slowly - it is also fatigued for the harsh and scorching weather. The Cave is the place where European branded clothes made in underpaid Indian factories are sold illegally for a fraction of its real price, stuffed among the many piles, but deserving a velvet clothes hanger at a lavish boutique. Tourists and foreigners blonde and brunette gasp at the price offered, leaving vendors proud, aware of the original price of goods they store. Scheming Vendors call out the exaggerated price threehundredpercent: the wicked 300 rupees and the Bargain starts.

The girl begins with a high pitched, R&B-like "Kum Karo," Make it Cheaper. The phrase works as a key, the vendor now aware of her knowledge of how things work in The Cave. The scenery suddenly changes into a nature setting, the mountains. 150 rupees, he calls out, herding a group of back dancers all dressed in the slightly unbuttoned silk shirt which flies perfectly with the breeze of the hills. The trumpet plays, confetti thrown everywhere. The young girl dressed in a fluorescent Sari does a chest popping move, coming closer to the man, and suddenly turns away, leaves the man wanting for more. Shyly looking in his eyes, "Bhaiya~" she whispers wobbling her head a little asking for the brotherly generosity. She pokes his chest adoringly. "Madame" he pleads, and utters desperate words of No Profit. She mustn't surrender. The duet dancing which resembles something of a Tango turned into Boogie Woogie is mastered perfectly. She calls out the harsh 75 and pretends to walk away. 100! He shouts and tries to grab her by the arm. The girl playfully shakes her head, now looking him in the eye she repeats: 75. Shimmy shimmy and wobble wobble. The tug of war begins until they settle on 80. Here is where the dramatic Bollywood repartee ends. The high pitched chorus drifts away, the drums stop beating, and she walks off with the material of gain.

Although most of the vendors in The Cave are young and susceptible in their twenties, in a space much spacier than the others sits the undefeatable, Billabong Man. With his wise, thick spectacles, he never gives in to bargains. The Billabong goods that he uniquely displays are always of good quality, never a button missing or a zipper crooked. Billabong Man also has a small portable fan to himself, and a part time worker boy sitting next to him, often seen running around for a small cup of Chai he serves to his employer. The quality goods Billabong Man holds is his pride, his rise to fame. You must never bargain with him. He only sells for the reasonable 200, which is nevertheless a fantastic price for the expensive surfer brand. He sits in his spot, perhaps chuckling at the young ones, enjoying his leisure that spurs out of old age and experience.

A step out of the cave faces the long street with carts and clothes-hangers hanging from unknown sources. While one cruises down the lane avoiding the splotches of red Paan (Indian form of tobacco) spit and blobs of cow feces, they might be lucky to be caught up during the police check-up. A spy or a messenger comes from uphill, bringing the message of the infrequent raid. In a canon, shops clear out their materials out on the road and two by two (on each side) the street becomes suddenly wider, with only some plastic bags floating around carefree. The little shops are then stuffed with the fresh lemon juice carts, and the overflowing clothes-hangers. But there are always the unlucky vendors who do not find a safe haven. They are the ones to target. Find anything feasible and start bargaining for an unreasonable price. Take advantage. 25 rupees. Their vulnerability sells the article of clothing. These illegal stalls disappear into the invisible buildings that suddenly show its washed-down blue walls during police raids, and come back out again like nothing ever happened when the stern eye of authority turns elsewhere.

Skinny brown girls in the traditional Salwar Kameez come with their hunky boyfriends who pride their small buns tied up within the turban. Mothers chubby of too much butter and Gulab Jamun energetically lead their trail of three children around. Old emaciated men in their worn-down plaid shirts wander around looking through their thick spectacles which enlarge their eyes twofold. Foreigners in baggy pants and dreadlocks click away their huge Canon SLR-s and try to capture the raw life and vigor found in the mystical India. Sarojini Nagar Main Street is the miniature globe we live in, full of love, hierarchy, legality and life itself. This is the place where I learn the true desires, sacrifices, and inner motivations of humankind. Sarojini Nagar embodies the politics of life.

-----------------------------------------------------

EVERYONE!!!

PUHLEESE help me with the transitions. Also as foreigners who live outside India, unlike myself, can you tell me if you get the whole bollywood scene in the 3rd paragraph and how it relates to the message I am trying to convey? Oh and please excuse me of the Capital Lettered phrases haha. I tried to do the whole Arundhathi Roy The God of Small Things stunt... tell me if it works :) The whole essay I tried to assimilate the styles of Michael Ondaatje and Arundhati Roy alot. Mostly for their crazy imagery and somehow impressionistic writing style yeah tell me if it worked too. Uh what else. Tell me if this conveys anything about a girl who wants to study international studies and if this works in favor of, if it doesnt do anything to my candidacy at UCHIc or if it really deterrs...

Ah as I said before I trashed my previous essay and wrote a whole new one just last night so it's really important for me. and plus, like everyone else applying I WANNA GO TO COLLEGE so please be harsh, be mean, dont even say good luck. just criticize criticize (with a level of reason to it of course)