Edited By: Navya Gupta
There’s a peculiar phenomenon that exists in Ashoka- a grey area between casual flirting and romantic nihilism. It’s a weird, chaotic whirlpool of hookups, situationships, and, sometimes, Hinge-induced awkwardness.
Let’s start with the classics: the post-class add on Instagram. You know the drill. You’ve just left your sociology lecture, where you caught the eye of someone who clearly shares your passion for The Communist Manifesto– or maybe just wears an impressive number of rings. You follow them, they follow you back, a flurry of accidental story views ensues, and before you know it, there’s a DM sitting in your inbox: “Hey, wanna grab coffee?”
In this context, coffee is code for “let’s pretend this is a date but keep it casual enough so no one gets hurt when we inevitably ghost each other after a week.” At Ashoka, everything is built on a fragile foundation of maybe, might, could be, but no one dares put a label on it. We’re all just vibing, right?
Enter Hinge, the modern-day Cupid for Ashoka’s single and not-ready-to-mingle crowd. With bios ranging from “Just here for a good time, not a long time” to “Looking for someone to share niche existential crises with.” the beauty of Hinge is that it allows you to avoid the mortifying ordeal of making eye contact with your crush in the dhaba. Instead, you get to like a carefully curated picture of them staring into the sunset at Goa, captioned, “It’s about the journey, not the destination.” Of course, this inevitably leads to a brief flurry of likes and comments before the conversation dies a slow, painful death.
Hinge chats at Ashoka follow a particular script. It starts with a hopeful “Hey, what’s your favourite book?” which then veers into “Oh, you’re into psychology too?” (spoiler alert: they’re not). But after a week of text-flirting, the inevitable happens—plans are made, cancelled, and rescheduled until both parties lose interest, and the chat becomes another ghost town.
Let’s not forget yet another product of this environment- the situationship. You’re not dating, but you’re also not not dating. You’re spending time together (perhaps a bit too much), but you wouldn’t dare introduce them as your partner. The situationship thrives on late-night conversations about Freud, movie nights where neither of you actually watch the movie, and the delicate dance of avoiding labels. It’s exciting, it’s fun, and it has the added bonus of a built-in expiration date: the end of semester. The moment finals hit, everyone takes a step back, deciding it’s best to focus on themselves right now.
Let’s now move on to Ashoka’s favourite pastime – ghosting. One day you’re exchanging memes, the next, you’re left on read indefinitely. It’s like an unspoken rite of passage, a skill every Ashokan must master to survive. Ghosting here is a form of self-preservation. It’s easier to disappear than to confront feelings. But let’s be honest: ghosting is also an art form. It takes finesse to completely vanish from someone’s life without leaving a trace – no sudden unfollowing, no angry texts. Just a slow fade into oblivion, punctuated by polite nods at house parties.
It’s easy to diss this Ashokan culture. However, there’s a certain beauty in the short-lived nature of it all. The fleeting encounters, the almost-relationships, the all-too-brief hand-holding sessions – it’s all part of the process. It’s about learning what you want, what you don’t want, and what you absolutely cannot stand. Yes, we swipe left more often than right, we ghost before we can get too close, and we end things before they even begin. But we also connect, however briefly.
So, next time you find yourself scrolling through Hinge or making accidental eye contact with someone you ghosted last semester, remember: it’s all part of the experience. After all, at Ashoka, we’re just here for a good time—not a long time.