It could have been History of Art – which makes this story tame- but I think it was Hist of Design which makes it more edgy given our teacher’s temperament and her criticism of how the four of us, freshly empowered by our bonding in second year, were developing a collective soul. She had her eye on us which made us bolder. It had been a long day and we were tired, as only college students can be, and in no mood to sit through two hours of slides or talk, whichever it was. The more free spirited two urged we do a total bunk- just disappear from college. Let’s go get something to eat, they said enticingly.
Lack of options, money and car always make for excellent plans. We ended up walking to my place, twnety minutes away, giddy on the bunk adrenaline, and crashed in the living room, turning the TV on. An oldie goldie Indian film was on. But we must watch it, its a rite of passage for friends to watch this together and then sit and analyse it, one of us declared. . We raided my mother’s freezer of frozen kabab parathas and fried them up, laughing over how Mrs F. would fume over her “favourite 4” missing, smug in the knowledge that without the more colourful characters in class, it was bound to be an uneventful one. The lovely arrogance of youth. We stayed put the entire afternoon, revelling, lazing, pondering over the message in the movie, until all manner of being had been exhausted.
I had forgotten about this plan in the many more amazing plans that followed in the next decade or so. We had such great times, but thinking back right now, this stood out, as the pioneering plan, the one that would set our roles in that quartet we had back then, that would define our roles- the entire manoeuvre had a fluidity, a kind of harmony to it- it was devoid of the complications that came later in our relationships, it was spontaneous, untainted and completely and wholeheartedly undertaken, with complete disregard to consequences, and with utter faith in our own selves. Even today, having remembered it after so long, I can conjure up the feeling we had, of freedom, of having not a care in the world but us- and our agenda, thoroughly pointless, utterly memorable.