Sometimes while we are there we can’t wait for it to get over and to move ahead... but when it actually gets over, we wish we could go back. I am in that stage of my life after college and before work. It feels weird like having no identity, like missing that one corner in triple shared bedroom, which was like home for 2 years. Where I never had to put an alarm for a 9 am lecture or never bother who has the solutions for next day exam....
There is an identity crisis where people around me don't know me for my weird craziness and still love me for it... where I don't get to hear DPT shouting at me, Bono having a Bombay vs. Delhi debate, Archie’s one look knowing something is wrong... Everything feels like a void... when people don't get your jokes and you don't get theirs...
I can still close my eyes and walk on the long clean stretch of road outside college, watch people buying Vada pav and fags from Shivaji, sit in Talk about and gaze at Pune’s drizzles from my favorite table. It just takes me a while to go back to the stairs next to basketball court, tables outside cafeteria, and those small square benches outside auditorium where Biraj and I would chat for hours…
Sometimes the thought scares me that one day all this memory will be gone, that one day I will not be able to remember faces of those names who we gossiped about for hours, the stairs going to 3rd floor – flying up almost everyday late for classes, the mess food which I would gulp down with water, the lift which would be out of order, those classroom benches on which I have slept even during examz, green day, clicking hundred photographs on every ocassion, placements pandemonium, scoreboard for wild games, facepacks, hair irons, lethal weapon, common folder, nicknames like- Mango, banana, HP, Suparnakha...
I wish there was a way to engrave everything that I went through in those 2 years. To remeber the journey of bono crying on the first day of induction because of a cotton saree to archie crying on last day of convocation for a silk saree. I wish to remeber the view from the small balcony outside workout hall from where I could hear Biraj and the Music club practising for Neev. The window next to Bono’s bed, which was like our peephole to campus. Our scrapbook, Subbu stories, getting grounded, throwing crackers near guards at midnight, washing hair at 3 in the morning to stay awake during examz, forced coffee breaks, hospi-garbage-washing duties. There are so many stories.
There is an identity crisis where people around me don't know me for my weird craziness and still love me for it... where I don't get to hear DPT shouting at me, Bono having a Bombay vs. Delhi debate, Archie’s one look knowing something is wrong... Everything feels like a void... when people don't get your jokes and you don't get theirs...
I can still close my eyes and walk on the long clean stretch of road outside college, watch people buying Vada pav and fags from Shivaji, sit in Talk about and gaze at Pune’s drizzles from my favorite table. It just takes me a while to go back to the stairs next to basketball court, tables outside cafeteria, and those small square benches outside auditorium where Biraj and I would chat for hours…
Sometimes the thought scares me that one day all this memory will be gone, that one day I will not be able to remember faces of those names who we gossiped about for hours, the stairs going to 3rd floor – flying up almost everyday late for classes, the mess food which I would gulp down with water, the lift which would be out of order, those classroom benches on which I have slept even during examz, green day, clicking hundred photographs on every ocassion, placements pandemonium, scoreboard for wild games, facepacks, hair irons, lethal weapon, common folder, nicknames like- Mango, banana, HP, Suparnakha...
I wish there was a way to engrave everything that I went through in those 2 years. To remeber the journey of bono crying on the first day of induction because of a cotton saree to archie crying on last day of convocation for a silk saree. I wish to remeber the view from the small balcony outside workout hall from where I could hear Biraj and the Music club practising for Neev. The window next to Bono’s bed, which was like our peephole to campus. Our scrapbook, Subbu stories, getting grounded, throwing crackers near guards at midnight, washing hair at 3 in the morning to stay awake during examz, forced coffee breaks, hospi-garbage-washing duties. There are so many stories.
