It was late evening. The summer breeze through the window carried faint sounds of auto rickshaws and coconut sellers. Banni sat on the floor with her laptop open, a pen tucked behind her ear. Her father and Harsha sat nearby, sipping coffee and reviewing admission brochures.
> "So… Christ is too expensive," her father said, adjusting his glasses. "St. Joseph's needs early registration. Mount Carmel… not for co-ed."
Banni nodded, scrolling down.
> "National College, Basavanagudi," she said aloud. "Affordable. Strong English department. Campus is good. I saw their events online… literary clubs, student magazine, and even theatre."
Her father looked up. "Good name. And it's near enough. You'll get direct bus access too."
Her father and uncle accompanied her on the admission day. National College's red-tiled roof, the open quadrangle,
simple cotton kurtas
pairs of jeans
formal salwar sets
A lightweight bag
College shoes
A watch
Some notebooks and pens
Admission was done.
The documents had been submitted. Receipts, carefully folded and tucked into a worn brown envelope. A single signature had sealed it all — and just like that, Banni was officially a student of 1st PUC (Arts) at National College, Basavanagudi.
The process had taken under an hour — simple, smooth. But the emotions that followed? Far deeper, far older than time. Like a river shifting its path without a sound.
Her father glanced at his watch and said with casual warmth,
> "It's still early. Let's walk around — see the whole campus."
And so they did.
---
The College Grounds — A Living Space
Stepping out from the PUC office block, they found themselves in the true heart of the campus — a place that didn't announce itself with banners or flashy gates, but with something subtler: a quiet, lived-in grace.
Trees flanked the stone path, their roots thick and settled, their trunks darkened by decades of monsoon. Some bore small metal plaques — Planted in 1965, 1972. The kind of details that go unnoticed unless you're truly paying attention.
Squirrels darted across overhead wires, chasing one another like scribbled lines in the air. Somewhere nearby, a koel called. The air was gently perfumed — a trace of jasmine from a garden patch, or maybe someone's passing hair oil.
They passed:
A sprawling open quadrangle, shaded by banyan trees with stone benches arranged like unspoken invitations.
The Science Block, quiet today but not asleep — posters about solar models and environmental drives still fluttered on the corkboard, curled at the edges.
The old seminar hall, built in 1939, its arched windows catching the sun just right — warm gold and specks of floating dust.
Banni walked slowly, absorbing every detail.
Her uncle murmured under his breath,
> "This place has dignity… old, but steady."
Her father added,
> "Good discipline too. See the cleanliness?"
She said nothing. But her eyes — always observant, always searching — took it all in.
---
The Library — Breathing Quiet
They paused at the library entrance.
It was a two-storey space, not large, but filled with tall wooden shelves and long glass windows that spilled natural light onto clean floors. Inside, a few students sat reading quietly, heads bowed, bags by their feet. It didn't feel dusty or ancient. It felt... alive in silence.
Above the door, a small hand-painted board read:
> "Knowledge is not power — Applied knowledge is."
Banni stared at it longer than necessary.
She could almost hear the books breathing behind the walls. A strange calm settled over her.
It felt like entering a space that didn't demand anything — but waited to give everything, once she was ready.
---
The Open-Air Theatre — Voices Waiting to Rise
Further back, tucked between two wings of the college, was a small open-air stage — a stone semi-circle surrounded by tiers of steps. The kind of space where voices would rise, echo, be remembered.
Nearby, a notice board clung to life with fading tape and fluttering edges:
Literary Fest Auditions – August
Theatre Club Orientation – This Friday
Student Magazine Submissions Open – Theme: "Voice"
Banni's steps slowed. Her eyes lit up.
And her father, noticing the shift in her posture, said softly,
> "If your studies go well, join one of these. Stretch your wings."
She didn't answer — but her silence was electric.
---
The Canteen Corner — Tea, Talk, and the World
As they made their way back toward the front gate, they passed a tiny canteen under a neem tree. There were no glossy menus or branded counters — just a few plastic stools, a rusted kettle on a small burner, and two college seniors deep in a spirited debate over politics and cinema.
Laughter broke out suddenly. Then silence. Then another wave of words, sharp and playful.
It didn't feel intimidating.
It felt alive.
> This is not just a place of lectures and attendance, Banni thought.
It's where voices grow. Ideas collide. Friendships ferment.
The sun was still shy when Banni stepped out that morning. A gentle breeze teased the curtains, and the rooftops across the neighborhood shimmered in that soft golden light that only comes at the start of something new. A milkman's cycle bell chimed faintly, a crow cawed, and for a brief second, the world paused.
She stood by the doorway in a neatly pressed blue cotton kurta with tiny white floral prints. Her hair was tied back simply, and on her wrist, she wore the new watch her father had given her just two days ago.
> "To track your time, not chase it," he had said, with a rare half-smile.
Her backpack was light but felt heavy with the meaning it carried. A fresh notebook, pens, ID card tucked into a folder, and the soft plastic envelope containing her admission receipt. She was no longer a schoolgirl. Not yet a graduate. She was in that slow, powerful turn of becoming.
She didn't say much during breakfast. Neither did her father. But there was a shared calm between them, a quiet acknowledgement of the day's weight.
Harsha joined her outside. He was heading for his own course—a short-term graphic design program. They were siblings, but today, they were fellow travelers. Explorers of parallel beginnings.
The bus arrived, rattling like an old steel cupboard, but dependable as always. They waved goodbye to their uncle and climbed aboard. Banni found a window seat and let the breeze touch her face.
---
The Campus: A Familiar Mystery
The red-tiled buildings of National College Basavanagudi came into view like something out of a remembered dream. She had seen it just weeks ago during admission, but today, it looked different.
More alive. More unpredictable.
Students stood in small clusters around the quadrangle. Some were animated, arms flailing mid-conversation. Others looked lost in their own silence, scanning timetables, awkwardly adjusting their bags. There was nervousness, yes—but also that fresh electricity of newness.
Near the Arts block, a welcome desk had been set up. Volunteers handed out leaflets and small paper badges that said "I'm a Fresher!"
Banni hesitated only a moment before pinning hers near her shoulder. Her name wasn't printed on it. But her intentions were.
Inside the seminar hall, the Orientation began. Teachers took turns explaining the year's calendar, discipline rules, expectations, and student clubs.
Some students whispered, others giggled. A few sat with straight backs, taking notes like