The College

To walk down the corridors stinking of cologne and after-shave just before dinner as people rush into the bathroom for a quick shower after basketball.

To roam through the hallways as a bunch of over-fed people mill around the Principal's noticeboard discussing the state of the nation and formulating policies for steering it through the world-market.

To stand on the dark grass courts, lightly covered with the winter's first dew, staring at the blinking stars behind the tower of The College.

To wait until the clock strikes 2 : 00 am to go to the dhaba for a tryst with hot tea and a bread-omelette while the rest of the world sleeps.

To wake up in the morning to the distant gongs for breakfast and feed oneself on toast, strawberry jam, scrambled eggs, and cold coffee.

To arrive just in time for the 8: 45 class and sleep through it trying to understand how there could possibly be a 8:45 in a world full of God's mercy.

To laze around in the cafe after lunch, drinking nimbu-pani with a spot of black salt and complaining how the dhaba crowd was spoiling the college's intellectual atmosphere.

To watch the shady day scholars trying to polish their speeches for Shakespeare Society's annual production.

To stroll around the chapel and read the epitaph of the forgotten Cambridge man who started it all.

And to keep on coming back to The College in more ways than one years after it happened, and keep on writing about it in ways both direct and devious, even while knowing that those who have never been there will probably not have the faintest clue as to what this post is about.