First year Breakfast
Talking to a friend just brought back all those first year memories. I had left home with a mood to really rough it out. With so many years of Mom feeding us spinach and brinjal saying "How will you manage hostel food otherwise?" I was ready for any food, any room, any people as long as I felt I was on my track to a career that would be covered by TIME magazine. Now in fourth year, it matters to me. It matters how big the room is, if there is a big balcony, who my flatmate is.
I remember those Sunday mornings when I woke up in my small room. With no college to go to and no canteen the first challenge in the day was procuring breakfast. My room mate Nirajana would have already eaten her staple diet of a bun with jam and aloo bhujia smeared inside it (yes, jam AND aloo bhujia) and would have caught a 502 to Chandni Chowk.
I would procrastinate and wait and bring out my crayons and go look at the girl in the next room clearing up all her room trash on Sunday. Then i would finally have to pay heed to my rumbling tummy. Nothing healthy, wholesome or recommended being available close by, I would invariably go downstairs and pick up puri subji or samosas. This involved passing the secret place in the lane in which the puri subji was made enmasse for the thronging hungry public formed by rickshaw wallahs, shop assistants, passer-bys. The important thing that I had to keep in mind was to not look at that kitchen on my way to and from the corner shop. It was the same place where the boys cooked the grub as well as took a scrub (kitchen cum bathroom).
Finally I had a moderately happy breakfast in the TV room taking care not to sit on the three legged chair by accident. Channel on TV selected by popular choice.