Dawn Treader

One fine day, the idea of hunting up one's camera may crop into a head. Heads, especially temporarily insomniac ones, often have such fudgy ideas that turn out to be surprisingly good.

After steadily prising one's eyes open and appealing to shaky knees for co-operation, it is time to set off. There is something about the possession of a camera and having breathtaking nature around that makes one feel one is living the National Geographic life. It is still dawn, that mostly unseen hour of the day,by the time the morning ceremonies are resolved and one has stepped out.

Pale light peeps groggily through the treetops. Not many people are about and the buildings around quiver helplessly as you break into a merciless rendition of Everywhere you go, always take the weather with you.

At this point, several milkmen, newspapermen and restless hens are bound to exchange glances with each other. This is because this peaceful time of the day belongs, by an ancient, never-questioned dogma, solely to them and to keep them in humor, one must never overdo civilian acts of the noontime, like shout too much or throw plastic on the road.

" Hello there!" cry out bright poppies to passing early-birds.

No wonder the legions of milkmen, newspapermen and hens unite to keep out trespassers. They just cannot bear the thought of wasting Hello's on others.

Meanwhile the changing light dances all across the sky in a seance of its own, transforming everything on which it falls into a thing of magic and wonder.

The Library looks good in the morning, the Senate looks quite captivating too ( I have an opinion on how the Notre Dam might look in the morning too, but let's stick to the R-land campus). But the prettiest place here has to be the path leading up to the Baddy Court.

No wonder they blame poets ( who are most active at this time of the day)for sounding so completely loopy. It is tough not to be loopy when flowers beam back at you, and if there's a breeze about, wave as well.

"So what?", an interlocutor on the behalf of the 8 am waking party may interject.

"All that is very well, but sacrifice those final, sweetest moments of sleep that come to one from 6 am to 8 am- you must be mad! "

It is impossible to bristle at that dim-witted objection if one has partaken anything from the peace of the early morn. Other problems might prevent you from speaking up eloquently about the beauty of the glorious hour like an alarmingly high rate of yawns.

The day from then on transpires mostly like this: smile a smile of peace at your suspicious newspaperman, stifle another yawn, sets off for class, change mind mid-way, return and proceed to hit the sack.