Flippers

• two; and down fell alice in the rabbit hole •

                               T W O ; and down fell alice in the rabbit hole

               HISTORY SEEMED TO be asleep and comfortable in her place, and did not appear to have any plans to repeat herself anytime soon.

               The past year could not have been a smoother sail. Last I heard, Benedict Anderson, who was two years my senior, was pursuing a Political Science Degree as a part of his undergraduate programme, and was hence a part of a different block. Alexandra Carlton had found another victim, now that she was the swimming captain of the high school team. I had not been within a two mile radius of them since a few months, and it was pure and utter bliss. Everything was perfect...except for my attendance.

             "...I think, a better question to ask would be, is Chicago Deep Dish really a pizza, or does it classify as a pie?

             "The universe needs more of these kind of debates. Or anything else, for that matter. World Peace. Putin. Emaciation. Trump. Terrorist Attacks. Conspiracy Theories. Anything but this." I muttered, desperate to get Professor Chattopadhyay off my back for missing classes thrice this week. And a whole week before that. It had only been two weeks since the start of final year, and I had already made myself comfortable in this seat.

              Professor Chattopadhyay sighed, adjusting his rimmed spectacles on the bridge of his narrow nose, his eyes weary. He adjusted his shirt, crisp as ever, and took a drag of the steaming hot coffee, careful not to drop it on his standard attire― a plain simple shirt, untucked along his gradually growing stomach. His silver hair justified his age, and the wisdom that seemed to come with it. He was the school counselor, and by default, was in charge of career guidance.

             "I'm sure I would love to hear your theories on those, Parsley. Just after you tell me why you refuse to attend your lectures." I looked around, observing the room for the hundredth time. Despite the gaunt atmosphere in the hallway, he had done his best to change the ambiance of this dreary architecture of a room. The windows were always open, with a frail transparent curtain in its midst― a poor attempt to make the room appear a tad bit spacious. On his desk, swam Little Albert VIII ― his pet fish. His eighth one, to be exact. The adjacent walls of Professor Chattopadhyay held my favorite― a bookshelf that boasted of a plethora of expensive cognizance. Kant. Jung. Freud. Kohler. Adler. Titchener. You name it.

             Overlooking the window, was a circular ground with a fountainhead in its midst.

             I forced myself to pay attention to his question. You couldn't help but feel a sudden rush of affection for him. He was a sweetheart, he really was.

             "You and I both know nothing really happens in the first week of school. The professors familiarize themselves with their notes, and prepare presentations for the rest of the semester. Especially now, since the credit system and the syllabus have undergone a revision.

              "The kids mark their territory by claiming their benches, a earmark that will be unsaid and yet, followed until the end of the year. Interesting, the phenomenon, that is. I think there was a senior who studied it last year. Territorial Need and the Corresponding Psycho-Social Factors. That would make a good research topic."

              "Parsley," was all he said, and that was enough to make me cut through the chatter.

              "I apologize. It's just that...Taradale is a bloody nightmare."