Change

Home has hardly been like home the past few days. I've been inducted into a house with one man who tells me how he was a punter in school and how I should do management and not science, one woman who always wants to order pizza, and one child who destroys my house in the most chaotic of manners. As I shirk away my familial obligations by running off to watch movies and then staying away from home for the rest of the day, I am visited tirelessly by my memories of college amidst the more imposing loom of the coming years' finances. Leaving NITK has not been the smoothest of changes for me, it seems.

Ironically enough, I seek peace in another, older man's talk about how he was a punter in school, a man much nearer to me than the one featuring alongside the woman and child. A long drive through the city in the cyclonic showers and I have my laptop back - working, and in spite of being very strongly skeptical of the authenticity of the innards of my machine, I feel comfortable at last - that comfort of familiarity that I had not enjoyed since leaving college.

Tomorrow, I am told, will be different from yesterday and today. There will be no talk of MBAs or pizzas, and I will not be awoken by the sound of shattering glass. And then home will be home once again.

Manjunath

Due to the untimely collision of several circumstances, I find myself travelling between home and college more often than a sane student shouldin his winter vacation. This one particular journey back home I find worthy of mention.

My enthusiastic entry into the homeward bound bus was somewhat retarded by the overwhelming stench of rotten feet and vomit. There was also of course, the customary bawling four year old that usually comes free of charge with every bus ride in the country. Sources cite said four year old as the reason for the unbearable reek. The bawling was however counteracted by the equally loud but way cooler new-age indipop of the religious, though tech-savvy Sabarimalaite, who had conveniently gone off to sleep while his laptop dealt us its soothing night-time music.

The headrest smelt of stale cockanet oil, which surprisingly, and thankfully kept the rest of the stench away. I found the seat covered in both cigarette ash and mallige flowers, much to my bewilderment. The bus itself wasn't as bad - the wheels felt only remotely circular and like they were carved out of rock, which I believe was the culprit behind the periodic beating my butt was absorbing. Each of the ladders leading up to the berths were secured by one screw at most, and were very happily rattling along, apparently to help soothe infants and otherwise annoying four year olds.

That apart, the windows were absolutely unmoveable, to let in the five degree Western Ghat air. To keep my nearly frostbitten toes from falling off, I was forced to open my bag and shove my feet inside. Yet another noteworthy mention is my first bus-time bedbug, which was rather unfortunate to be jettisoned somewhere in the midst of the Ghats.

Manjunath provides a refreshingly new experience to even the most seasoned of travellers, so please do make sure your next bus ride is a Manjunath ride!

Vex

Unsettling,
Not knowing where things are.
Knowing they're not where they're supposed to be.
Worse,
Knowing they're where they're not supposed to be.
Torment.