Speechless University
Or Notes from Baroda
I am back in my university in Baroda after a long time, almost a year, to be more precise. Like always I am hesitant to enter the campus but like always the guard does not bother. I am usually hesitant because things might have changed in the time I was not around; new rules might have come up for demarcating the insiders from the outsiders, new procedures of showing ID cards or being a recognizable face. Who knows.
But upon stepping inside I notice immediately that things have indeed changed. The defunct parking area which had occupied the entrance is now gone. For all my years of studying in MSU and the years after that, this parking area had been the first site of encounter for the visitors. It alerted them of the deteriorating status of the university but also perhaps of this institution’s antiquity, or at least that is what I would feel seeing it.
Back then during my daily visits to the university I would be intrigued by its presence, the large space it occupied, the uselessness it exuded. I would often try to imagine what it would looked like when it was functioning. Now that the structure is gone, the area it occupied seems so small, as if in being blown away, the concrete bricks of the parking lot also took away some space with it. In its place is left some rubble, dry soil and a mound of fresh gravel to build something new.
But there are other changes too. The tree (whose name I do not know) beside the parking area has blossomed. I do not remember noticing this tree during my time here or maybe I have forgotten if I did. The white and pink color of the flowers is a relief to my eyes; at least something is blossoming in the blazing heat of this city. I tried to collect one of the flowers that had fallen from the tree but for some reason all the flowers that I come across are white; there is no sign of pink.
As I walk ahead my eyes are inevitably drawn to the iconic domes of the university, which were formerly black, and have now been painted over in white and some other colors; colors whose name I do not feel the need to document. But other other things have continued to remain the same. Like always there is some bird dropping on the statue of Sayajirao Gaekwad III. I would not be surprised if somebody told me that this is the same shit I had seen during my bachelors.
The small plant that had grown out of the crack of the wall of the astronomical telescope room is still there, in fact, it has flourished. The countless other trees and plants in this part of the campus have continued to be of the same height and dimensions as I left them. I reach Hansa Mehta Library and lo and behold, the ugly population clock is still here. Who decided to have it installed in the first place? Who in their right mind would have felt that the students of this university would benefit from seeing the ever increasing population of this country and state?
The plaque on its side tells has the answer. Written in a smaller font, below the name of the dignitaries who inaugurated this awful machine, are the following words - “In order to provide a minute by minute estimate of India’s as well as Gujarat’s population which will be of immense help in spreading awareness about various parameters of fertility, mortality, birth rate, etc.” I doubt if even 10 students have read these figures for the intended purpose.
What were the numbers when I was here the last time? I do not remember. But I have taken note of the numbers I see right now to cross check with the numbers I will see the next time I will be here: Population of India - 144,70,06,406, Population of Gujarat - 7,24,73,453. While I am taking notes, the students and other people passing me are bemused and they too stop for a second to look at me and then at the population clock, the numbers on which have already exceeded the ones I have noted in my journal.
I want to drink something cold, maybe some cold coffee or iced tea would be excellent in this sultry heat. But when I reach the Nescafe near the library, I find it closed. That is when I also find that the area in front of the back gate of the library has been dug up. For years now, especially after I left the university, I have seen the arts faculty part of the campus under construction. In fact, construction has overwhelmed the life of this campus so much that it has started to devour roads, trees, and even the dustbins.
But I do not want to think about all this. I am back after a long time and I want to revel in nostalgia. As I start heading towards the English department, the smell of urine overflowing from the toilet near the department of sociology bothers me. Somebody must have left the door open. But word is out that the department has introduced a module on the prime minister in the sociology syllabus, commemorating his leadership and political acumen. The effect is clear.
I take the other route to reach my department since the smell is unbearable.
On the way I try to forget the smell and absorb my senses in the view of my department and the memories flooding simultaneously.
Forgetfulness is the only way to nostalgia now. . .
Honest ending