Visiting the university after the interlude of a quarter century. Trying to do everything from the scratch as in my youth and feel the difference if any. Took the bus from the city square and reached the main campus that was miles away. The wind carried traces of brine from the beaches nearby..
The entrance . Where our election posters stood once. The notice, that was an affected conglomeration of Soren Kierkegaard and our paltry contentions.The sudden thought. Did I become somebody? No. Probably not. As every attempt to become was fortunately arrested by a counter flow that made the embrace of the ordinary facile. The playground where we played football. The Guest House. C.’s culinary abilities that made the evenings memorable. J.C.’s quarter. The church. The hostel.And my own room at the end row..
Coming back .In the bus. Talks of an upcoming port. Time passes..
The museum. Under a banyan tree a young man meditates. People in various activities of physical training. Outside, the vendors offer vegetable juice or some other juice ..
The centre from where the markets ruptured.. The library that was the rendezvous of a youth away from home.One book still comes to memory- A biography of Coleridge titled ‘The Damaged Archangel’ …… Did not know then that archangels are prone to fall. That was a latter day discovery. The lawn . Where we talked seriously on silly issues. The Institute where I studied. The upper rooms. The professor was a known poet, humorous and wise. The bus stop. Where we saw off a senior girl student, in a group, as if we were one big family. The public library. The statue of the poet . The banyan tree. Under it, one can sit and remember… Panicker, Patrik, Sebastian , Gopi, Dena, Gita, Hebsy… Oh- another Easter, though far from Irish, strange and beautiful.