Degrees of Separation

One impossibly large sheet of thick handmade paper, with the University emblem on the top right corner, and some printing and calligraphy is what it all culminates in. Three years in College – the first three years of adulthood, independence, adventure, heartbreak, friendship, ambition, exploration…three years that I know were mine and mine alone in all their folly and wisdom and learning; three years that scores of others shared, but which remain all mine, just as theirs remain all theirs – all condensed into one degree issued by the University on February 23, 2008, in a convocation that included four hundred thousand individuals, each of whom was awarded this same sheet of handmade paper, the only difference lying at the bottom left of the certificate, where there are blanks for Name and Division. Ultimately, all that distinguishes my three years from that of the next person, and his from mine, are those two blanks. For the rest, we are all students of the Bachelor of Arts programme, and I am one of forty thousand graduates with an Economics (Honours) degree in 2007. It’s so strange it’s almost surreal. I wasn’t carrying a bag big enough, and the weather threatened to turn wet, so I rolled the degree up and secured it with the scrunch-band from my ponytail, and placed it carefully between my readings for tomorrow and a bottle of water. And then I walked out of campus, my last formal transaction with the College office over; the essence of the most eventful, formative years of my life (so far, at least) tucked safely between a bundle of photocopies and an old Kinley bottle.



The ridiculous and the sublime.

I stare and my degree and think, Is this what it boils down to – 35 months that will always have a way of asserting themselves on my CV and transcripts, but more importantly, in my thoughts, perspectives, memories, personality and values? Is this what I came here for; the reason behind so many irreversible changes for the better and for the worse? I know the answer. But I am aware it’s all in a day’s work for the University of Delhi, so I come back to my room, unroll the degree, smoothen the creases, slide it carefully into an envelope that a wall calendar came in, and place it at the bottom of my drawer. Sometimes, it is all one can do.

"A dream, all a dream, that ends in nothing and leaves the sleeper where he lay down, but I wish you to know that you inspired it...a fire, however inseparable in its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no service, idly burning away."

--- Sidney Carton, A Tale of Two Cities

Between Lives

“Is there no other way?” I confess I am pleading. I, too proud even to admit to my own mistakes, am pleading! The evening shadows, entering the room as if they own it, are almost as cold as his eyes.

“We’ve been through this”, his eyes shift from mine to the wall behind me, and I see them hardening. “I cannot deal with it. I have to go. Drawing it out won’t help you – and certainly not me.”

“But why…?”

Somewhere at the back of my mind, hope – hope, like menthol and antiseptic – is beginning to burgeon.


“I’m leaving in another ten minutes. I’ve sent for a cab.”

“But…”

“Must we? Must we? How many times have we talked this over? There is nothing else to be done. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?”

“Is it so easy for you?”

“Don’t ever say that again”. His teeth are clenched. “Don’t you dare.”

“I thought I – ” “Shut up.”

I shut my eyes tight. I’m still too proud to cry.
The sunshine hurts my eyes.
I find myself clenching my fist. And, suddenly, my peace is shattered by a hundred voices.


When I open my eyes again, he is standing by the window. I think – wishfully, perhaps – that his shoulders are drooping. I measure the three steps between us. Slow, heavy steps.

“Don’t”, he spins around, even before I have laid my hand on his shoulder. He knows. He has always known. Known things that I didn’t – and known them before I thought them. He still knows.

“Let’s not make this any tougher than we can help”, he brushes brusquely past me.


I try reaching for his wrist. Something stirs in the depths of my consciousness.
I grasp only air.


I can feel the sobs beginning to convulse me. I’d give anything for a last glance, but I haven’t the strength. I haven’t the strength.

With an effort of will, I look up. Everything is a blur through my tears. He walks down the corridor, and his receding back is all I see. Even through the blur, I can see that he hasn’t looked back once, that he will not look back.

--------------




“I’m here.”

I struggle to open my eyes. Everything is still a blur. My head is throbbing, my mouth parched.

Sunlight filters in through olive green blinds. He notices me glancing with distaste at the blinds, and he laughs. That honest, open laugh that I know better than the sound of my own voice, and love so much.

“You still hate hospitals’ colour schemes, don’t you?” he asks softly, taking my hand and holding it between both of his.
“Goodbye, love.”

As he turns to the tray at my bedside, I close my eyes gratefully.

Discovery

Inadequacy
Raises questions, and
I am at a loss for
Replies...


Face to face
With weaknesses I have
Been too proud - or weak -
To own.


Eventually
They catch up
And then they reveal
Surprises.

The fibre
Is strongest
Where I thought it
Most fragile.