The campus is small. Suffocatingly so, sometimes. Every turn, every corner, has been mapped out already; the walls are the same every time you face them. I like to think that the only saving grace, for walkers like me, is the perimeter that wraps around most of the campus.
I am a firm believer in the healing powers of walking in a natural space. If you’re with someone, the conversation will never dull, for you will find something or the other at every turn of your head. And if you are by yourself, you can stop, pause, bend, and laugh at the little things — the magic beneath the feet that we miss so often. And that is exactly why I love the perimeter.
I like walking there on evenings when the sun isn’t too harsh, and the breeze is cooler. The sunlight hits the water just right, and the trees rise tall, branches crisscrossing like constellations. There is a sprinkling of eucalyptus trees, and sometimes, they end up rubbing against the other trees and make creaking-door noises out of the blue, so if you ever plan to take a walk, beware and be not afraid — it is just the trees.
So the walk continues, bounding the long pool? Canal? Water body is more fitting for whatever we call it. The first time I had set my eyes on it, I was disgusted. It was the height of summer. There was almost little to no water at all there, and the crows were having a field day, able to swoop down and catch fish in the shallow waters. The first time I encountered the perimeter, it had been on a blistering summer day with half-dried fish carcasses sprawled around. Needless to say, I did not ever intend to walk back there.
But like a rock is weathered down by centuries of rain, boredom, and the free time you have in your first year changes many pre-made decisions. So winter came, and my friends and I walked the path once more, the entire circuit, each of us focusing on different aspects — I was more entranced by the water and fish (the former much deeper and the latter very much alive and swimming), someone else was more invested in pointing at the buffaloes outside the fence, yet another was filming the way the trees moved, the way we laughed until our stomach hurt.
Our friend group is still here, but the second year has scattered us into different majors and schedules, and one even packed up and left university (we still think about you, Dhruva). The perimeter is still here too, and that is consolation, a nice little unmoving memory, a witness to good times.
I do like walking there alone, or sitting by the edge of the water as women on the other side walk by with their loud gossip. It is a nice way to sit with yourself, with nature, as you watch the fish swirl and blub and the birds swoop and perform aerial feats in a flurry of feathers. There are, of course, other animals — my friend and I, on a ‘birthday walk’, encountered a monkey blocking our path once. We had to explain that to the miffed guard when he lectured us about staying there beyond 6:00 p.m. There’s also supposed to be snakes, but I have hardly seen any, so I doubt that very much.
But that is, I suppose, beyond the point. The perimeter, with its pink flowers and fig trees and other badam(?) trees that line the path — it is a green breath of relief, a spot to introspect, meditate, calm down. It is easy to lose your mind in the rippling gold of the evening sun hitting the water, the dance of the fish, and the chirping of the birds. It forces you to confront yourself, to slow down and relax. Perhaps even smile in that “girl-who-is-going-to-be-okay” way, too.
And with the sun streaming down your face, the breeze ruffling your hair — whether you be in loving company or blissful solitude, it isn’t hard to believe that it will be okay. Nature has a way of doing that, and if you sit down and listen, you’ll figure that it is easy to believe it too.
So go take that walk at the perimeter.
Maybe that is exactly what you needed.