Lunch at the mess done, maybe a couple of games of TT to shake off the lingering sleepiness.
The long walk to the Insti, all the way from the hostel. Yeah, yeah, yeah... it isn't a long walk by any stretch of the imagination, but to a Gokhaleite, and that too a Gokhaleite in the afternoon, moving your right leg in front of your left is practically a trek up Mt. Everest, so there.
Or left in front of right. Either ways.
The climb up the flight of stairs that leads you to the Seminar Room. The mad rush for seats at the back. The curtains drawn, the fans switched on, and the AC kicks in.
And some poor misguided soul walks in to talk about
Y = C + I + G + X - M
Or something equally ghastly. The particulars matter little.
And the lecturer drones on and on and on and on and on.
And on.
Amaron battery and all.
You try half hearted games of Cross and Naughts. You try kicking the guy sitting in front of you. You whistle aimlessly. You sing, sotto voce. You grin, scratch your ear, tightly screw up your eyes, drum the armrest of your chair, fidget in your seat, yawn, burp and wiggle your toes. You try and think of what you plan to do on the weekend. You imagine yourself riding a Hayabusa with Pamela sitting behind you. She of the Anderson fame. Preferably with nothing on. You make clicking noises with your tongue. And then you finally look at your watch.
Something like that, yeah.
Despondency all round.
And then you straighten up, sit upright, and look around with purposeful look in eye. Spot Ruchi and her bottle of water.
Whisper out to her.
Get the bottle.
Stand up, stretch.
Slide your way past everybody, traipse down the stairs.
Out of the door, and out of the building.
Out onto the lawns. One cup of tea, heaven in a chipped glass at three rupees a pop.
The droning of the bees and the humming of the birds.
The gentle lull and the heavy eyelids.
The slow slide into the prone position.
The curling up and the blissful sigh.
The good night.
