Edited by Dia Daryanani
10 AM. The sounds of raucous laughter erupting from the recently familiar faces engulf me as the morning sun blares down on my tight-knit group of college friends. We head to whatever destination the newly minted ‘home’ beacons to. Constantly running to and fro from the mess to the classrooms or to that one room in RH4 that has become a haven for the lonely wanderers of the group looking for a pair of ears and a cookie to prepare for the day ahead. Enshrined in the constant stream of happenings that accompany college life, I forget to look at the clock and think, “I would be at school eating at lunch break right now” as I used to do every holiday off from the erstwhile place that, sometimes, could be compared to an approximation of ‘home’.
If I could have mustered up an interstice between a class, a DS, and the usual group meetings to reminisce about lunch hour (which was more twenty minutes than an hour, really), I would have probably recalled the hunched shoulders brimming with anticipation already on the verge of closing the tattered NCERT textbook. Or perhaps I would have remembered the sometimes silly or often downright offensive imitations done of the political science teacher. Or I could have recollected grabbing at the tiffin box of the friend who never failed to grace the table filled with measly morsels of sandwiches and fruits with that one dabba of pasta. Or maybe I would have thought of the two friends who have consistently found a way to insult, with affection, some aspect of my appearance or intellect every lunch break for almost 14 years.
Instead, my thoughts revel in the occurrences of the day, the events that are yet to be attended, and the conversations that currently only exist on the tip of my tongue, tailor-made for only a certain group of people. The memories that should erupt with the tick of the clock lie dormant, languishing in some chasm at the bottom of my mind.
With thoughts of bygones far from my recollection, I open my phone to send out my daily contemplations, not to the group whose profile has been etched into my mind for years, but instead to the group that insists on change, with its ever-growing populace and it’s eternally shifting dynamics. I find that the place that housed all postulations and grievances no longer sits on top of the hill of family ‘good mornings’ ’, but instead settles in a space on the bottom of all vagaries. Seated in its place, exists a new school of thought, one constantly questioning the right time for food or wondering what place would be ideal for an evening meet-up. All this, while the old ruler withers in silence, its history of constant deliberation brought down to red marks signaling missed calls and messages left to the wasteland of ‘seen’ and ‘delivered’.
The occasional phone conversations bring back the glory days of nights spent glued to the laptop screen as panic overflowed from the little squared people on meet. The impending threat of exams that always teased the horizon met with our preparations that could never weather the storm. Those seemingly endless hours that featured discussions shifting from coursework to gossip to ‘Oh remember that time in 6th grade’. An endless treasury of topics with a whole shared history to constantly be uncovered and reworked. From that one group fight in 8th grade that changed the course of friendship, to the sentimentality of the old swing set in nursery that signaled new beginnings with every sway, the stories flowed without end as time ticked from 9 PM to 6 AM.
Now, new plotlines adorn the stage, headlining actors with unfamiliar faces that still provoke a sense of uncertainty. Conversations take on a new tone as the shared past diverges into new histories, and plans of weekly calls emerge. The time goes by too fast for comfort, as the next day threatens to overcome the small space made amongst the chaos of timetables and commitments, and nostalgia tints every burst of laughter.
10 PM. I sit on the ledge outside a classroom in a space that can now perhaps be compared to an approximation of home, with red brick walls that greet me every morning and a messy shoebox room already reeking of newly made memories. I find myself surrounded by a semi-large group of people, obnoxiously loud in their very nature, probably engaged in conversation about a niche TV show or readings for a class. I find time at this hour to reminisce about the midnight conferences held on balconies with heads seated carefully on shoulders, and milestones that can never be relived only reiterated, and find comfort in the icon sitting on the bottom of a slew of unread messages, knowing its presence though faint, will always insist on its existence , beaconing home the words that will always seek comfort in its shelter.