Saturday night flashes against the bright red of this Delhi sky as we are herded toward the auditorium. A minute ago, we sat gabbing in the cafe, gassing anecdotes, blunt, pointless, loving insults. Now, we float in handfuls toward the thronging crowds outside the main hall. In a while, there are chants and jeers and screams. Voices form silhouettes against the fidgety bright screen where we are already one out for nought.
I walk back to the block. I miss the sound of familiar voices as they wander back to their hostels some distance away. I read their messages with a longing for their company again - so soon. The wind blows languidly with a slight edge to it, and the glow in the sky flushes a darker orange. The chants waft over desolate lawns and the balcony on which I stand, overlooking our part of the college, faces whirling dust scattered in the wind tonight.
It is quiet. In a while, Ma calls to remind me that we have won. Papa is still downstairs in front of the temporary LCD with friends and neighbours. She says, 'It was 1983, the year we were married, that we won last. It has been twenty seven years since!'
I say goodnight over the phone. I shy away from telling her how happy it makes me every time we pass a serendipitous milestone.