The World In The Palm Of My Hand

I wish I could turn back the clock and bring the wheels of time to a stop. A very evocative sentence that takes one back to the ‘good old days’. Makes me think of the time spent in college. In Hyderabad - a laid-back city those days. 

This was in the 80s. As everyone is prone to say, life was ‘simpler’ then. Or perhaps the mind is more inclined towards the nicer bits, leaving aside the harsher pieces to be mulled over in some distant, nebulous time in the future when you are living a much tougher life? During a much more difficult stage where you sit and wonder why the wheels of time brought you to where you are? 

So you transport yourself back to the times where your state of mind was more carefree - at the ‘happy’ places. For me, college was one of those. The daily routine was scrambling out of bed from having fallen asleep in the wee hours of the morning after consuming the fattest Wilbur Smith one could lay one’s hands-on. Or from having read through another Miss Marple mystery end-to-end. Breakfast was a cup of tea. Lunch was a ‘dabba’ of something that was packed by Ma. Then came the four-kilometre walk to the college campus. The intent was as much to avoid the uncomfortable bus ride with sweaty, smelly bodies pressing against you, as it was to save the two rupees spent on the ticket.

Wonder how many people experience the joy of walking along the same route every day for years? The familiarity of it allows you to dream your way through the duration of the trek. It’s also a practice of keeping your mind alert at multiple levels. Of being on the lookout for the perverse men on bicycles who could even spit paan at you with amazing accuracy to discolour the most embarrassing parts of your attire. Or the deceptively immobile bovine creatures, which could suddenly become a very real hazard to your limbs. Or the puddles of filthy water that could ruin the Kolhapuri chappals that you wore.  

So, what did I daydream about? The memories are not very distinct. It was not lofty aspirations of becoming a hotshot management trainee. Nor were they about ‘going to America’. They were mostly vague hopes of being able to bunk classes; eat a cutlet or two at the canteen. On a good day, to make it to the latest ‘English’ film that got released (the one that your more affluent friends went and watched with family). On an even better day, it was about being able to afford the chutney sandwich at the cinema. 

I spent days avoiding the more uninteresting classes, in never-ending chats about inane things that could only interest a bunch of young women. Music, books, makeup, and of course, boys! For most of us, the last topic was one that we knew nothing much about. The days seemed to pass in this pleasant way and even today, they bring a smile to my face and a feeling of warmth inside.

The evening was the same trek back home, or if one was lucky, a lift halfway home in a friend’s father’s car. 

Somehow, the memories of the evening walk back home have lingered on more clearly. A certain part of them was about which book I would read that evening. And about the hot snack that Ma would have made. About being reunited with the much-loved dog who would always wait at the doorstep. But many of them were also about returning to an unhappy home — a place where the father was bi-polar (those days termed ‘chronic depression'), the mother looked perpetually unhappy (but somehow always had a hot snack ready and waiting).

If your father was prone to raving and ranting at the slightest reason, you always tried to be circumspect about things. If the rant targeted your mother, then you wanted to be invisible most of the time. Somewhere, I have made peace with the way my father was because thanks to the situation, all of us at home became avid readers. Listening to the radio was only when he went out of the house. Television was still an elitist concept.

College Canteen, Image courtesy: Wikimedia Commons

College, with the friends and canteen food and the opportunities it presented to laugh, argue, celebrate and sometimes, even unload on a sympathetic friend’s shoulder, was heaven. It was my ‘happy place’ to go to.

I also found my happy place in academics when something magical happened. I joined an institute close to home which taught French. I had discovered my vocation. This place not only presented me with the legitimate reason for extending college hours but also helped me find something that interested me. I fell in love with the language so much and was so good at it, it emboldened me to pursue a Master’s degree in it.

Delhi and JNU were simply not a choice for my ultra-strict parents. So, Pune University it was. I remember the day I packed my bags and moved into the hostel at the lush green 300-acre campus. Here I was, a BCom graduate about to pit myself against BA French graduates. 

I was being maverick enough to appease the rebel in me. And was doing it the ‘legit’ way! I remember the anticipation—the nervousness, the adrenalin. More than anything else, it was my first experience of freedom! I had moved away from my troubled parents and a life of treading on eggshells at home.

I no longer had to be a hapless bystander to my mother’s troubles. I had something concrete to achieve, challenges to look forward to, and the hope that life could be perhaps even fun. That was my epiphany. No other experience in life has measured up to this feeling of exhilaration. I wish I could turn back the clock and bring the wheels of time to a stop; to that moment where I felt like I had the world in the palm of my hand, waiting to be discovered.