Every path you traced on her surface, every little nook which you think you alone hold secret, each of those scents that have delighted you every time you were alone with her on those evening-streets… you vividly recall the tastes, and words whispered a long time ago, and her familiar touch…
I was at the Main Gate at 3 am last morning, zooming into the campus in a sedan, instead of strolling past the guards with a bunch of friends - some drunk, others sleepy, some trying to hide the red glow of the midnight cigarette lit at Bus-T by cupping it in their palms…
As the car sped past Ravindra Bhawan, I watched the campus being readied for Cognizance – flexes, posters, tents, and the general hustle-bustle near the UG Club. I was instantly transported to the same space four or five years ago: the flexes were the same; they once said ‘Technovating India’, now ‘Aim BIT’.
I fell asleep in KIH, refusing to suffer repeated bouts of déjà vu and nostalgia at such an unearthly hour. “No,” I said to myself, “I will suffer this tomorrow.” The internet was still as hopeless as it used to be. Roorkee remains stubbornly untouched by both progress and decadence of outside-civilization.
When I woke up this morning, I made myself a cup of Elaichi Tea in the Khosla International House and sent a photograph of the lawns to my friends on Whatsapp, titled “Guess where”. I have spent most of today in a trance, often unable to believe I am on campus again. Maybe I am not; I no longer have any reason to walk towards Cautley or Ganga, I didn’t stare at Sarojini with the same wonder, Alpahar is now extinct, and there is a massive Multi-Activity Center that houses a CCD and a Souvenir Shop!
To take my mind off this distortion of space-time, I decided to have lunch at the mess. After a good hearty meal, I knew that I would be able to tell the difference between 2010 and 2016. I served myself food – stiff, parched rotis, long dry grains of rice, bland yellow dal suitably warmed, brownish aloo-gobi glazed with a layer of oil and dahi that turned watery when poured into a steel cup – and sat on a hard, wooden chair. Halfway into my meal, as I recalled the sour taste of Roorkee’s thin dahi, I was struck by the oddness of the room, which was both colonial and sarkari at once. I dashed out of the mess.
Near the Civil Department, a young couple crossed me; the guy was wearing an old pair of bluish jeans and older slippers, and the girl was in a loose t-shirt that she had probably pulled out from the bottom of the shelf. Her strong jasmine perfume mingled with the Roorkee air. I turned left near the Electrical Department, and walked past the JEE Office, towards the Main Building. The steps surrounding the Main Building are among my favourite places on campus, simply because they offer comfort in their plainness. My path today, as it usually was during my four years on campus, was empty. I was alone with this delightful place.
I felt my skin form tiny undulations in response to the chill March breeze. The giant trees rustled gently, and the air dripped with the sugary sweat of red springtime flowers. It is a scent you can associate with love or heartbreak, with pain or victory, with peace or excitement; each of us has a distinct personal memory of this smell, and it is a smell we shall never forget.
I clicked this photograph as I passed the Main Building, thinking about a past that didn’t have so much Instagram or Whatsapp or Facebook. I thought of all those people who have walked with me down those roads – friends whose cycles I rode, friends who got drunk and flirted with the girls’ hostel, friends who climbed the water tank because they had nothing better to do or because the stuff from the mountains was actually that good, friends whose hands I held thinking I was in love, friends who walked with me to Solani or to the dosa-guy near the bridge or to Baadshah, friends who helped me meet tough self-made deadlines, friends who added me to their list of proxies, friends who changed everything forever – and decided that I was better off not thinking about them. I would either laugh like a madman, or I would cry.
I am grateful that Roorkee, in my perception, is frozen in space and time. It is this magical place 170km from Delhi which can never change. You can go back whenever you want to see that young guy or girl stroll through the streets with childish arrogance, with earphones blaring the raw lyrics of “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, with little to do other than drink coffee, eat Maggi, and watch a TV Series all day long… You can go back whenever you want to see yourself as artwork on a flex at Kranti Chowk.
I was at the Main Gate at 3 am last morning, zooming into the campus in a sedan, instead of strolling past the guards with a bunch of friends - some drunk, others sleepy, some trying to hide the red glow of the midnight cigarette lit at Bus-T by cupping it in their palms…
As the car sped past Ravindra Bhawan, I watched the campus being readied for Cognizance – flexes, posters, tents, and the general hustle-bustle near the UG Club. I was instantly transported to the same space four or five years ago: the flexes were the same; they once said ‘Technovating India’, now ‘Aim BIT’.
I fell asleep in KIH, refusing to suffer repeated bouts of déjà vu and nostalgia at such an unearthly hour. “No,” I said to myself, “I will suffer this tomorrow.” The internet was still as hopeless as it used to be. Roorkee remains stubbornly untouched by both progress and decadence of outside-civilization.
When I woke up this morning, I made myself a cup of Elaichi Tea in the Khosla International House and sent a photograph of the lawns to my friends on Whatsapp, titled “Guess where”. I have spent most of today in a trance, often unable to believe I am on campus again. Maybe I am not; I no longer have any reason to walk towards Cautley or Ganga, I didn’t stare at Sarojini with the same wonder, Alpahar is now extinct, and there is a massive Multi-Activity Center that houses a CCD and a Souvenir Shop!
To take my mind off this distortion of space-time, I decided to have lunch at the mess. After a good hearty meal, I knew that I would be able to tell the difference between 2010 and 2016. I served myself food – stiff, parched rotis, long dry grains of rice, bland yellow dal suitably warmed, brownish aloo-gobi glazed with a layer of oil and dahi that turned watery when poured into a steel cup – and sat on a hard, wooden chair. Halfway into my meal, as I recalled the sour taste of Roorkee’s thin dahi, I was struck by the oddness of the room, which was both colonial and sarkari at once. I dashed out of the mess.
Near the Civil Department, a young couple crossed me; the guy was wearing an old pair of bluish jeans and older slippers, and the girl was in a loose t-shirt that she had probably pulled out from the bottom of the shelf. Her strong jasmine perfume mingled with the Roorkee air. I turned left near the Electrical Department, and walked past the JEE Office, towards the Main Building. The steps surrounding the Main Building are among my favourite places on campus, simply because they offer comfort in their plainness. My path today, as it usually was during my four years on campus, was empty. I was alone with this delightful place.
I felt my skin form tiny undulations in response to the chill March breeze. The giant trees rustled gently, and the air dripped with the sugary sweat of red springtime flowers. It is a scent you can associate with love or heartbreak, with pain or victory, with peace or excitement; each of us has a distinct personal memory of this smell, and it is a smell we shall never forget.
I clicked this photograph as I passed the Main Building, thinking about a past that didn’t have so much Instagram or Whatsapp or Facebook. I thought of all those people who have walked with me down those roads – friends whose cycles I rode, friends who got drunk and flirted with the girls’ hostel, friends who climbed the water tank because they had nothing better to do or because the stuff from the mountains was actually that good, friends whose hands I held thinking I was in love, friends who walked with me to Solani or to the dosa-guy near the bridge or to Baadshah, friends who helped me meet tough self-made deadlines, friends who added me to their list of proxies, friends who changed everything forever – and decided that I was better off not thinking about them. I would either laugh like a madman, or I would cry.
I am grateful that Roorkee, in my perception, is frozen in space and time. It is this magical place 170km from Delhi which can never change. You can go back whenever you want to see that young guy or girl stroll through the streets with childish arrogance, with earphones blaring the raw lyrics of “Smells Like Teen Spirit”, with little to do other than drink coffee, eat Maggi, and watch a TV Series all day long… You can go back whenever you want to see yourself as artwork on a flex at Kranti Chowk.
