Chapter 3

Next morning, Cheryl woke up a little disoriented, before she remembered that she was not home. She opened her eyes to find Joyce stuffing books into a satchel that was already weighed down by her laptop.

“Hey.” Joyce turned around at Cheryl’s voice. “What time is it?”

“7 o’ clock.”

Cheryl fell quiet for a moment while Joyce resumed trying to turn her satchel into a bottomless well. Her instincts told her that Joyce had looked her up on the net last night. So, how should she act now? Make a big deal? Let it go? There had been instances in the when people looked upon her with new eyes once they got to know about her family. A mix of expressions – wonder, jealousy, pity. But above all, curiosity. And that she hated most.

She was still undecided about the situation here, when Joyce opened the door and left.

Relieved that she would not have to face that dilemma now, Cheryl began her morning ritual of convincing her body that it was time to get out of the bed. For some reason, her alarm had not rung today and she was already late. Her first class was at 8:30 and she had to get her butt moving.

She was yawning and rummaging her cupboard, trying to decide what to wear, when she heard a knock on the door. Joyce poked her head in. “Would you like to come for breakfast?” her smile was sunny and disarming.

“Yeah.” Cheryl smiled back slowly. She would have a little faith. For now, at least. “Yeah. I will be ready in ten minutes.”

“Cool. I will wait.”

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“’A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw:

It was an Abyssinian maid,

And on her dulcimer she played,

Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me

That with music loud and long

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

And all who heard should see them there,

And all should cry, Beware! Beware!

His flashing eyes, his floating hair!

Weave a circle round him thrice,

And close your eyes with holy dread,

For he on honey-dew hath fed

And drunk the milk of Paradise.’

Thus ends the unfinished Kubla Khan by Coleridge”, Professor Schulman said.

Cheryl was attending her first lecture in the university. She had deliberately chosen a seat in the corner, to do her own day-dreaming.

She was in Xanadu, the capital of Kubla Khan and was the Abyssinian maid. She could almost hear and touch the strains of music that her dulcimer created. Her mind envisaged the beautiful and magnificent pleasure dome of Kubla Khan on the banks of sacred river Alph that ran through caverns, measureless to man, down to sunless sea.

“Coleridge, it is said, composed this entire poem in an opium induced dream.” Schulman’s crisp voice made Cheryl snap to attention. “In those days, Coleridge was not very well. He is said to have developed a dependency – shall we say – on opium. He was reading an account of Kubla Khan’s palace, when he fell asleep under the effect of the drug. He dreamt of Kubla Khan’s pleasure dome, which was a magnificent piece of architecture. When he woke up he almost conjured two hundred lines of the poem without any effort. He immediately began to write but was called away for an urgent work midway. When he came back, he could not recall the rest of the poem and it remains incomplete to this day.”  He paused for a breath and then continued, “It is remarkable that if this incomplete piece of poetry is full of such splendour then the whole poem in itself would have been a timeless and matchless classic. That speaks volumes about genius of Coleridge. He had this amazing ability of making the supernatural elements fit into natural surroundings as if they were never apart. He talks of impossible things, paints a picture that is full of suggestions that are not ordinary or natural. Still we never doubt him. We believe every word that he says. He naturalises the supernatural and so smooth is the transition that we are not even aware of it.” The bell rang just as he was winding down and the class ended.

Cheryl still sat in the class for a moment or two, recalling her dream of completing Coleridge’s unfinished poem. Wishful thinking, she thought and smiled to herself.

She collected her books and was trying to find her way through the labyrinthine aisles of the university building, when she was hailed.

“Cheryl!” it was Joyce.  “Hi! How was your first lecture?”

“Rather nice. Not boring.” The two girls fell in step. “How was yours?”

 “Not nice. And rather boring”, Joyce grumbled. Then she brightened. “You know, there’s a party tonight. For us. There’s a big flyer. Come on, I’ll show you.” Joyce caught Cheryl’s hand and started leading her. She stopped in her tracks when Cheryl held her ground.

 “Joyce”, Cheryl said. “I’m not really interested. I’d rather stay in the room.”

 “You are joking, aren’t you? You can’t possibly be serious!”

 

“I’m serious.”. One look on Cheryl’s face and Joyce knew that she was truly not interested.

“I will see you at lunch?” Cheryl asked. When Joyce nodded, she smiled and walked away.

Joyce shrugged. Nerd, she thought amiably and then started thinking of what she would wear to the party.