Faculty of Desolation

 The Faculty of Arts looks quite picturesque from outside, I thought idly, as I leaned against my bike on the road opposite the gate. The green lawns leading to the spouting fountains and the somber walls have an aesthetic effect visible from afar. Yet when you slowly approach the faculty, sauntering past the guards at the gate, reality begins to encroach on the fantasy. At first you notice the patches of grass at the edges of the lawn which have gone desolately dry. Then you observe (with mild disgust) that the water in the fountain is of a greenish hue because of algae growing in it. When you actually enter the building you are relieved to find that at least the foyer is clean and the tiles are new.




But the relief is short-lived. As soon as you walk past the Dean’s office, you are assailed by the horrific smell of the toilet which for some unaccountable reason is right at the start of the corridor. You duck your head, cover your nose and hurry forwards. The smell fades but now your vision is attacked by the disastrous condition of the walls. The wallpaper is dismally discoloured. Torn posters still cling desperately against the wall. Odious scribbling with pens and markers mar the surfaces.


Now your spirit which had been raised by the external sight of the faculty has lowered considerably. Your expectations have been crushed and you think that surely nothing worse awaits you. With this brave thought in your mind, you peek in and inspect the classrooms of the faculty.


Layers of dust cover the entire surface of the classroom. The cracked windows gape at you toothlessly (the iron grills outside the windows are broken). The benches look as if they were shipped from the warehouse of some museum (or have been sitting here since the British reformed our education).  The walls which were once no doubt the colour of a clear sky symbolising the limitless abilities of the mind; now look fit for a mental asylum.


You stand speechless; thinking that this classroom surely must be unused, abandoned. But you hear the clatter of approaching footsteps from behind and a throng of students enter the room chattering away and take their places on the benches. They sit contently waiting for the class to start as if they don’t see the decay; as if they don’t feel the dust; as if they don’t smell the nauseating odour of the toilet wafting inside from the open door.

- By Kashif Ilyas, B.A. English (Final Year)