Cambridge

I am sitting at my desk, looking out at the line-up of ash, poplar and lime trees. There have been plenty of large windows and trees beyond them to gaze at in the last five years. I have been lucky in terms of houses, however financially unviable they turned out to be.  I finished my thesis, encouraged by the sight of this lovely green tapestry. I lived through many iconic moments of my life, particularly this year, while my gaze got lost chasing the dunnocks and wrens on the fence below. I have to think about law and connection to place and relationships with the land for a living. What was my connection to this place where I lived for the last five years? Why does this undefined sadness obstinately refuse to take a form on this last day?

I cannot write a eulogy to Cambridge because I never liked it inordinately in the first place. It was too small a town with nowhere to hide. Yet, I managed to find a few dreamscapes—those walking routes where you can contemplate and be pensive if you are lucky to find yourself a minute of silence. Perhaps, what I am going to miss is the memory of myself growing up (in some abstruse sense) here. And a large collection of thoughts that emerged and recurred on an everyday basis in a familiar place. Routine does not necessarily translate into dull and remorseless boredom. Cambridge taught me that very well. Doing the same thing over and over again, treading the same paths irrespective of whether life seemed difficult or easy allowed an odd sense of freedom. The freedom to escape any situation, interaction or people. The predictability of the space unpacked the creativity of imagination. Sometimes, I made good use of words and earned friends (or notoriety) because Cambridge was a well-illustrated map than a labyrinth. You could live effortlessly. Not that easy if you do not have the good fortune of everything going well in your PhD with an absolute wonder of a supervisor to save you from periodic ruins. Lucky for me, I lived through many tiny miracles. At least most of the time.

I met many people in this place, who I will cherish and hold close. Can you imagine having an overwhelming number of friends you constantly think about—that too at the age of 32! Even when I am in the far shores of isolation (most of which my own making), I can take comfort in the feeling this is a well-loved life. When I need to reach out, I can. If not, I can rest in my den, which is an open and closed space at the same time. I will love Cambridge for this strange seclusion it brought within my reach.  Surprisingly, most of this was enabled by long walks. The long walks where I thought about work. About how and what to write. I thought about what it is that I wanted from academia and whether I should abandon my future to its arms (no decisive answer available yet although the question has lost some of its terror). Cambridge was also the place which told me it is just about time I left Cambridge for my own good. Been here too long. Get out and see the world. All these chats while gazing at the vast expanse of canola fields on the cycle path towards Wimpole.  The spirited greenfinches are always trilling around there.  

The reed warbler hiding in the reeds around the Brooks leys is chatty. It was nice to have the pond just five minutes away between 2017 and 2020. And then it took thirty minutes to get there when I moved to Clare Street. Last evening it took 45 minutes to reach there from, what appears to be, my last house in Cambridge. But when you sit by the pond and listen to the compelling breeze of late summer, you could be anywhere at any time. Am I packing up the house for a new chapter in life or am I just getting ready for my fieldwork in Canberra? What year is this? I can walk around here in a blindfold. What makes a place an epistemic zone for an individual—register of memories and meanings; a fount of new experiences; and a receptacle of conversations and exchanges with oneself? Well, Cambridge was everything to me. As it would be to anyone who has lived in a place long enough. It is everything without getting me involved with it too much. What a fine balance to have! I am not entirely insensitive. I do feel the sadness of leaving weighing me down. I was never good at parting anyway. But as I sit here, surrounded by boxes that have made it impossible for me to navigate my little studio without feeling like a mouse in a maze, I have a few questions: what is it that I feel now? and which box shall I pack it in?