It was one of those lazy afternoons, grey and heavy with an air thick with the smell of moist soil. And I’m sure you’d agree that such an atmosphere instills sparks of poesy in the Bengali hearts that reside in the thousands of us.
I was just out of bed (for non-hostelers let me point out that my bedtime extends from early morning to late afternoon), still feeling a bit of weight on the eyelids. The last cigarette from my pack, the only remains of the night before, danced in my lips, filling the corridor up with the foul fragrance of burnt tobacco. The hostel was almost empty; it’s usually empty at this time of the year when the watery clouds creep into the heat of the scorching summer, as most of the students go home to enjoy the post-semestral bliss with their folks. And the few who stay, either sleep the entire day out or remain busy in the various departments working hard for what they call summer projects.
I strolled out into the field, drudging my way through the wet grass towards the pond. The sky overlooked the lonely lush of the grasses like a Grey Gandalf from some ancient myth. The birds went on with their evening carols, singing tunes of homecoming. And a light breeze brought the sounds of vehicle horns from the B.T.Road. I waved at the Gambian fellow who was exercising at one corner of the otherwise forlorn field. A funny guy. Speaks terrible English, but is taking on Hindi a bit nowadays.
The pond was rippled all over by the light drizzle. The stairs, the cemented seats that banked the small pond had many stories to tell. I sat there for a moment, took one last puff, and threw the butt into the water. And that huge tree that bends over the pond, like a faithful servant bowing to his master, muttered something with its rattling leaves. Something reminded it of the boy who used to sit there and smoke, and chat all night with his friends; the boy who had so much to say and so much to explore; the boy who stopped coming here after one winter morning.
The drizzles were getting heavier. So I strolled back. The hostel, dark and deserted as it looked, stood proudly overshadowing the wet field. A hapless bird screeched from a distant tree, may be mourning for the loss of its companion. I walked back, all alone, the cool drizzles on my hair. Loneliness tastes good at times. It really does.
I was just out of bed (for non-hostelers let me point out that my bedtime extends from early morning to late afternoon), still feeling a bit of weight on the eyelids. The last cigarette from my pack, the only remains of the night before, danced in my lips, filling the corridor up with the foul fragrance of burnt tobacco. The hostel was almost empty; it’s usually empty at this time of the year when the watery clouds creep into the heat of the scorching summer, as most of the students go home to enjoy the post-semestral bliss with their folks. And the few who stay, either sleep the entire day out or remain busy in the various departments working hard for what they call summer projects.
I strolled out into the field, drudging my way through the wet grass towards the pond. The sky overlooked the lonely lush of the grasses like a Grey Gandalf from some ancient myth. The birds went on with their evening carols, singing tunes of homecoming. And a light breeze brought the sounds of vehicle horns from the B.T.Road. I waved at the Gambian fellow who was exercising at one corner of the otherwise forlorn field. A funny guy. Speaks terrible English, but is taking on Hindi a bit nowadays.
The pond was rippled all over by the light drizzle. The stairs, the cemented seats that banked the small pond had many stories to tell. I sat there for a moment, took one last puff, and threw the butt into the water. And that huge tree that bends over the pond, like a faithful servant bowing to his master, muttered something with its rattling leaves. Something reminded it of the boy who used to sit there and smoke, and chat all night with his friends; the boy who had so much to say and so much to explore; the boy who stopped coming here after one winter morning.
The drizzles were getting heavier. So I strolled back. The hostel, dark and deserted as it looked, stood proudly overshadowing the wet field. A hapless bird screeched from a distant tree, may be mourning for the loss of its companion. I walked back, all alone, the cool drizzles on my hair. Loneliness tastes good at times. It really does.
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