I'm studying in solitude today, something that I have almost forgotten how to do. I started out after my Hindi class on a mission to find a quiet coffee shop. Taking a left out of the black iron gate, I walked a ways and discovered, somewhere in between the decadent temple and the little boy relieving himself on the sidewalk, that I was in India, again. I remember learning in my cognitive psychology class about a patient who suffered from anterograde amnesia. HM, I think he was called. My days here are something close to that. I brush my teeth in the morning and wash my hair at night; but sometime during the day, every day, I wake up in India.
I found the coffee shop I was looking for and ordered a Cold Sparkle. I miss checking things off in my planner in one swift and productive session. It feels good. I returned to the center in a whiles time, three satisfying check marks worth of hours.
I'm in the library now, my first time this semester. I'm not allowed to look at the books downstairs by myself, I didn't feel like asking why. Upstairs are eight rows of desks with built-in shelves above the wooden work space. Out of about one-hundred students here, I am the only one with a laptop. This guilt-ed me off of Facebook and on to my blog. Indian students never make it to class, but apparently when they make it to the  library, they study. They are all studying.
This man in a blue short sleeved button-up just reprimanded a group of students Marathi. He left his rectangular gated box and approached the table just right of my desk. Leaning over to inquire, the girl next to me answered that he was saying not to talk. Now he is patrolling up and down the aisles of desk space with his hands tucked casually behind his back, his voice carrying over the heat. So this is why they are hitting the books and not the net.

Mystery solved.