The gate is open just wide enough to let me through. As I enter, a dog eyes me wearily. It does not bark, but runs a half circle, retracing its steps. I get down from the saddle and wait. Soon I see my sister, walking towards me with a kid-like grin. She can’t hide her excitement as she grips the handle and presses her feet on the pedal. The cycle obliges, as she moves away. I trundle in her wake.

“Where should I sit?” I inquire. “The whole college is yours. Explore for yourself.” She zips around the corner and is lost to sight. I wander around the campus. It wears a quiet look. I pass by a bunch of students in a garden, scribbling and memorizing from their notebooks. On the stage I find a sculpture of hands entwined inseparably. I stare at it for a bit. I look for a spot which will hide me from inquisitive eyes, yet let me observe the surroundings in leisure. I pass by the colourful canteen and settle under a banyan tree. Its roots and branches engulf me. I close my eyes and spy on the cacophony of the crows. They caw incessantly. Perhaps they have noticed that there is a strange creature in their midst. I am at ease now – the place is new but somehow familiar, like a jungle. Here and there, I notice a few people sauntering around, lost in their thoughts.

My reverie is broken as my sister calls me. I offer her water which she sips greedily. She greets a classmate passing by, and cajoles him to paint my portrait. We are a queer bunch – the painter, the subject and the inquisitive observer. She hands him the tools – pencil, paint, paper and brush. We settle down in the garden under a clump of Ashok trees, and he begins his work. I sit facing him, staring at nothing in particular, trying to stay perfectly still. I try to observe the people walking across, through the corner of my eye. They eye us queerly, as if we are residents of a zoo. I look around. The garden is teeming with activity. There are crows everywhere, hopping and flying, picking twigs and making noises to each other. The ground is covered with scattered fallen leaves, and some trickle down intermittently from the trees. The artist is patiently and diligently working on his piece, with a pencil first, and then with paint. He mutters something about my hair. He is conscious of my sister sitting next to him observing each stroke, and is ill at ease. I can feel that he is not entirely happy with the way it’s shaping up, but he persists.

I grow fidgety. The wait seems endless to me. In what might have been a few minutes, or an eternity, it is done. The relief, mingled with a touch of disappointment, shows on his face. “It was difficult,” he says. We all nod in silence. I look at the portrait. It doesn’t resemble me. But I like the colours – he uses them craftily. My first portrait is complete. Now I can idle, and write in peace.