Student life
When I was staying in the college hostel, those late afternoons after a cricket match became the most cherished moments of my youth. The game itself was thrilling — diving catches, spirited appeals, and playful teasing among friends. But what stayed with me even more was what happened after the game ended. With sweat on our brows and joy still bubbling in our hearts, we would slowly begin the walk back to the hostel, arms slung over each other’s shoulders, hands clasped in camaraderie, as if trying to stretch those moments of togetherness a little longer.
The playground lay at the bottom of a gentle hill, a wide open field where echoes of shouts and laughter seemed to linger even after the last ball had been bowled. The path to the hostel wound its way upward, long and leisurely, almost as if it, too, didn’t want the day to end. Along both sides of the road, small everyday scenes of college life unfolded — a cycle repair shop with an old radio playing soft music, a tea stall where the kettle hissed and steamed, the smell of frying snacks drifting into the air, and the occasional shout of a fruit-seller passing by.
We often stopped along the way — someone would buy a cold drink to share, another would run to fetch a samosa, and we would all talk over each other, debating the match, imitating funny moments, or simply sharing stories of the day. Slowly, as the sun dipped behind the trees and the sky turned dusky purple, the road began to glow under the first flickers of streetlights. The evening arrived gently, wrapping us in a cool breeze and the soft sounds of crickets chirping. By the time we reached the hostel, darkness had settled in — but we never felt alone. We carried the warmth of friendship, the laughter of the field, and the memories of another golden evening tucked safely in our hearts.
In the quiet hours of the evening, after dinner and the day’s activities were behind us, we would all gather on the hostel balcony — a favorite spot that felt like our little corner of the world. It became a ritual of sorts. Leaning against the railing, some sitting on the ledge, others pacing slowly back and forth, we would lose ourselves in endless gossip, laughter, and light-hearted arguments. There was a special kind of joy in those conversations — stories from home, teasing jokes, wild dreams about the future, and sometimes, deep thoughts shared in whispers.
Above us, the sky would slowly transform into a velvety canvas, and then someone would notice it — the moon, rising steadily from the far edge of the horizon. It was a beautiful sight, as if the moon itself had come to join our gathering. Soft and glowing, it climbed higher into the sky, casting silver light on our faces, the rooftops, and the trees below. For a moment, even the chattering would quiet, and we’d all look up, marveling at how peaceful everything seemed.
The moonlight made everything feel more poetic — even our gossip took on a warmer tone, more reflective. Some would start humming old songs, others would suddenly turn thoughtful, lost in memories or daydreams. The cool night breeze brushed past us gently, carrying with it the scent of flowers and distant trees, as if the night wanted to comfort us. Those balcony evenings, under the rising moon, became an unspoken bond between us — moments of connection, simplicity, and youth, when nothing felt urgent and the world felt just right.
