summer in manipal

It’s been twenty long days since I returned home to Pune. But home is also a place far, far away. Presenting – an entry from April 1^st, 2023.

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As part of my final semester as an undergraduate student of Humanities in Manipal, I was part of a writer’s workshop. The workshop spanned eight sessions of intensive writing, back-and-forth of feedback and incisive conversations about content, craft and our identities as writers. Our last session was an outdoor writing experience this morning, where we broke off into groups of three and made pit stops at different locations around this coastal town across a span of two hours – the idea was to immerse ourselves deeply into our surroundings and engage in place-based writing. Perhaps it was the arrival of summer-scented April, or the fact that my languorous, sun-soaked days in Manipal are soon coming to a close that were the genesis of these three pieces. All of them were hurriedly scribbled and are hence utterly raw and unedited. The title of each piece is the place where I wrote it. I hope they transport you back in time, bring forth memories of your own city or let you sink deep into the one I call mine.

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KMC Greens

A vast stretch of lawn in front of Manipal’s Kasturba Medical College, bordered by a shady avenue on one side and rows of steps on the other.

I cannot recall the last time I have been up this early. I remember the multiple times we stayed up, prompting falling into bed at 6 am after pulling an all-nighter; but not coming outside to see the sun’s rays break ever so gently through the pink. Nature lets me know its presence here. I know the grass is dew-laden without curling my bare toes into the long blades of green – the tips of my shoes are soaked. I remember coming here almost exactly two months ago for a fest – a dizzying montage of cheer and food and music and laughter and bright, bright light.

The remnants of that evening linger here still – two women gossiping before starting their day, a dog growling. I see a woman turning her head away with a smile as she whispers into the phone – the smile partially obscured, threaded between the gaps in the leaves of the plant in front of me.

And light, light is still here – touching the distant glass windows and water tank, bringing out the olive green in the nurse’s uniform, slanting across black tile and stone. Slowly pressing against my ankle, climbing up like a forest vine. As I walk beneath the rusting bars being set up for perhaps yet another festival, the clouds fracture, and then become whole again. I should wake up early more often to taste the light.

KMC Food Court

A large two-storied canteen-like space adjacent to KMC Greens, where students can avail of mess facilities as well as order from in-house restaurants.

A shift in world. Rickety plastic yellow chairs, and the one I sit in, occupied by many students before I did. There is sunlight and the quiet rumble of cars on early morning tar outside. I can tell a light breeze is waltzing through the landscape, beyond the glass. I cannot feel it or hear it, but I see the tips of the peepul leaves touch the tightly coiled trunk of the tree and then moving away – a whisper of friendship and then a retreat into solitude.

Inside, I would not have been able to tell it were morning if not for the far window bleached by light. Tables are huddled in close quarters. People are slowly waking up and getting ready. A spoon softly cutting into just-steamed idli – mixing with the lavender-hazed vapour of the coffee – clouding their glasses. Someone sliding a saucer across the table, the tea teetering dangerously close at the edge of the cup, and then settling down in hot waves again. A too-loud-for-the-morning song echoing off the walls in a language I do not understand. White-yellow tube lights flickering overhead, illuminating the tops of their heads, my head – all of us inhabiting our own worlds. Memories of us fighting over each other’s Subway sandwiches for one more bite, even though we ordered exactly the same thing, come flooding back. Red chilly sauce trickling down our chin and fingers. But today, I sit far from where we did, alone.

I must tell her I miss her.

–

Courier Point

A shaded area with two benches where parcels are usually dropped off and picked up. This small corner sits close to the main road, yet is a space of its own.

April as arisen, not with the long-stretching arms of dawn’s goddess but the restive curiosity of a nymph. An apsara. In the soft heat of the morning, my back uncurls itself against the bench. I have been alone for a while now, and must be for a little longer, but I don’t feel as afraid today. It is summer now, and I’m craving a simpler existence. Feet planted firmly into the jagged stone tiles below. Spending long radiant minutes pausing, my pen mid-air. Watching, as the light climbs upwards, rays nestling deeply into the bladed crevices of wood. Pausing.

April is here and I’m looking forward to longer nights and shorter days spent marinating in sweaty laughter and the heady scents of gulmohar and marigold.

High above, the shaft of a branch has been stripped and hazel-coloured leaves grow outward in origami. Squirrels prance up and down the length of the long, tapered branches and a pair of crows perch side-by-side on their leafy balcony. A bharadwaj rests cautiously along a chopped section – a rigmarole of concentric circles and age lines. How long has this tree stood here, its canopy slanting across the road? How many writers have sat on this very bench, tilting their head upward to look at it – the pale branches growing darker, stretching a little higher toward the sky each time? Pollen-like white-pink flowers outline the farthest reaches of blue sky and a small long-tailed bird darts around me in flashes of white and black. A root coils itself endearingly around a blade of grass—sharp as a rapier. I resist looking up their names. I pause. April is here and there is much to learn.

Leaves rain down on me. On the sun-dappled tile, on the bonnets of stationary cars, on the petals of flowers known and unknown, hope sits. Hope breathes. Life takes flight.

April is here and I am looking forward.