Situated in quite-a-walk from the main campus, the library opened its new arms to the old loyalists. In the months that it stayed shut for repairs, it underwent a severe degree of makeover. The charge against it was that it took to ruins, often in a state of lack of understanding, rather than attention. That it reeked of the ancient, a not so ancient which stays unpreserved. It received a bath in the finest white colour and got ornamented with bigger, brighter windows. The curtains were tailor-made in an off-white fabric, which on windy days could playfully toss from their bold holder. There was a uniform motley of patterns in white. The person who chose such curtains must be an artist. Dhwani found her way to this particular corner whenever she would be in the library. She would pick up the reference books for the day, bring it to the table nearest to this window, settle down all at ease with her knees bended on the chair and release her hair from the clutch to begin the reading, writing, wandering. And some studying.
Having conquered her class as a topper in graduation, she was now battling for the same at masters. This place was her haven. She had no social life of repute that a University student should bask in. Till hours of the library's functioning, one could find her here, like the curtains, like the tables, the books, part of the premise. And premise it was for this was where she wandered into a social circle she would not permit herself otherwise. Currently, Benjamin was her favourite host. She loved visiting him. She was bored of Jung and knew Sartre and de Beauvoir better than she knew her parents. Her premium parents. The father was a moghul of a mass underwear company, and a rising king of a pan masala domain. Her mother hosted parties which would never follow a harmony of cuisine selection. It always dealt in maximizing quantity, options and in effect, waste. Her parents. They failed to understand this recluse of a girl who would stay cooped up in pages while girls of her age from their community would either be busy draping bridal fittings, or fight over a nail polish shade.
Though she studied Sociology, Dhwani actually had ulterior plans. Ashamed of her parents, and further ashamed that she needed them still, for sustenance, she intended to take over the two companies from her father and turn it into one of esteemed reknown for something worthwhile. Something like a pharmaceutical company investing in the research of life-saving drugs, or a human resource enterprise catering to women employment, or simply rule the dairy industry and cater to milk, curd and other by-products. She had chalked the entire plan like the finesse of a Mondrian canvas, not one colour mingling with the other, each one distinct. And then her eye fell on one blue blob of ink on the white curtain, insulting the pristine purity with a negligience Dhwani was not ready to accept.
It was 6.45 pm already. Another fifteen minutes and not a note taken. She could not understand how she was creating these stories as she sat in this corner of the library, badly under-prepared for the end-semester. She managed the last one by the benefit of blessings and generosity of her teachers who warned her about her unbelievable downfall. She would die of shame if her IFS mother and IAS father came to know of her grades. The phone vibrated and she saw the message from the driver. He was around the corner. She wondered where her premium parents would be tonight.
She took to the library, like the library. Shed the old, bathed in the new, daily.
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