I am basking in the Chennai sunshine that filters in through the trees and through the windows into HSB 352. Yawning away even before a dry monotone proceeds towards my ears, I can watch the cosmopolitan crowd passing all around me.
Just in front of me is Sajad a.k.a Sajjubhai, head and hands on the table, indulging in what Garfield refers to as the perfect exercise. A man for all seasons, I smile faintly at the hunched back of the person who taught me to sleep in every position and location.
Ah! Shabba has just entered. The svelte dancer with a ready smile, who used to make suspectible Tam-brahms shut their large mouths- how long ago?
Behind her is the handsome young Jerry, an actor from B'lore, and PP, a thin athlete from the same land, who once strangled a French cook for lack of expertise in Blanquette du veau, Bouillabaisse and the Tarte Tatin.
'In class and all, eh?'
Surely, I know that voix.
Assurement! It is 'Sid', the wicked writer with a semblance of reason, who can rip apart anything and everything as long as it exists somewhere or the other.
We greet each other.
'Tiens, mon vieux'
At a corner table, languishes Chenji, his mane brushed back neatly up to the neck. He has a newspaper in his hands, held the wrong way and his jeans are patched with brown material resembling his own skin. No, it is his skin. He is a wild young man, this tiger, and drops eggs on passerbys from the department terrace.
Startled, I look up.
A long grin from a crooked head greets me.
Its ABO, the die-hard philosopher-cum-commie, who makes ardent speeches at every opportunity. Popular opinion, however flawed, holds they are bullshit. They say he once orated from the top of a chair with just three words- 'Freud', 'Marx' and 'Why?'.
Ah, now for a real beauty- Baas, who sashays into the room with a mild doped expression and a smile that betrays nothing. Seems like green is her new favourite.
Couples, despos and poets walk in. A particular individual of the latter species always captures my attention for the wrong reasons. She was brought up by a loving family, but ran away to a publishing house when she was sixteen (the modern equivalent of running away to the sea) and managed to get a collection of poems published. It failed, and she did no more work.
Behind me I am amazed to find Booby. General rumour iss that he is engaged to his lappie and will soon be getting married. Well, I guess an occasional seperation is good for all couples. They say he is breaking into the college swimming team next year. All I can do is wish him luck and destroy his fiance.
The prof walks in. My eye-lids droop and consciousness makes for the exit from my brain.
Ah, HS 106!
Till the clock strikes an hour later: lots to sleep before I go, lots to sleep before I go.