There it stood. As majestically as it has been always. In an instant, I could feel all the memory flushing back to my head. Looking at that humongous building I felt small and nostalgic.
The memories of the day I first came here, the comment at the gate by a senior, “Macha!! Enta childugalu barataro itteechege!!” and an answer to that by his pal next to him, “Innenu ondu varsha kano, amele ivnuu belitane”. Well I can take pride that I stayed a child forever!
As I walked past the gate, am hit by the memory of first time (and of course for the last time,) I played cricket there in the ground! The eagerness of the then seniors to call me to their team, merely looking at my physical appearances, my height! And then they teaching me bowling, “Macha right hand bowling andre, left leg munde iitu, beesi esdubidu!” Cricket was such an easy and joyous thing till then! It goes without saying, I never played cricket after that, let alone there!
As I entered into the hostel main entrance, I could see greenery thanks to aunty, who relentlessly worked hard to make all the plants smile there. I could see the idol of “bramins hostel ganapathi”. I could feel all the prayers offered to him before every exam. The sankashti bhajane started to play in the back of my head, making nice background music.
As I walked along the corridor it all started to play along the walls. All the fun we had, all the clashes and all the laughs we had together. I could see boys shouting at each other and playing shuttle badminton. I can see noisy groups playing carom along the corridor.
I see Bhatru now, with all his 32 teeth shown in a grin. He is probably getting ready for one of his bad hobbies, which he calls aptly as cooking! I can see him in all his enthusiasm, I still don’t get why his cooking is such a disaster at times, even though he holds this profession such a dear to heart. Well I never got the answer then, I am not getting now either.
I walk through the short passage near store room to bathroom and I can sense the horror of boys playing pranks at me, who used to stand disguised in the “kayi motte room”.
I can feel all the masti, the crowded bathroom every morning, all the clashes behind who gets access to hot water first, who gets place to take bath in either of first two bathrooms… I can listen to the shouting “Bucket kodroooo”, “Snana ayteno, horag barrooo”, and most importantly, “Motru on madroo”…
The days of holi, ganapathi homa, seniors’ farewell, and cricket match live, or else no special occasion at all. I remember all the ways we used to get together and all the raucous we used to make, all the silly discussions that used to end up as a serious matter of debate.
As I walk into my room, the place where I stayed for three long years (which looks so short in retrospective,) I collapse onto my bed, quite the same way I used to do every time I came to room. I am overwhelmed by the flooding memories of the late night discussions with my roomie, all the different theories that he used to have about life and beyond and all my frail attempts to counter his theories.
I remember all the stupid movies that I downloaded just because we had internet and wanted to make other suffer from the speed! The floor, the ceiling, the fan, the switch, the awkward looking tattoo on switchboard, the names of people who lived in that room, on the back of the door…uff!!
As I walk out of the room and reach the first floor, I feel home again. The place we made home out of, in the first year. The warmth is more pronounced now. All those beasts within us which used to get exposed only in first floor and the crafty faces we used to put on when being in front of seniors.
Man! It was life. We make the best batch probably, at least of the lot that I have seen. Even if we did not, I am sure as hell, that we had fun, sheer fun, laughing heart out. I can still remember the day of our farewell and the day we finally moved out of this place. I could feel the pain everyone was going through, I could see tears in eyes of men who, I never thought would sob for anything, there was reluctance, agony and desperate attempts to hold onto each other and never let go.
Am I still there? I don’t know. Somewhere in the colors of holi and group lunch/suppers, I am struck in there. My soul, as much as I want to be over with it, is still hanging around that place. There is melancholy, pain and then there is strength that I draw from those firm memories.
I feel proud and complete to have lived the way I have lived there. I beam with pure happiness whenever I stop by there, in my memory trip back to the past.
There are hostels, PG’s and then there is a BMS! Are words ever going to suffice while explaining the way we feel about this place?, Perhaps no. All said and I am left with much more.
Srinidhi VN