The good old days really were.

I just looked at a video a friend of mine had made a long time back. A six minute video capable of slipping the floor off my feet. It has random flashes of several photographs with a soulful melancholic music in the background that can churn one's stomach even when its full. Mostly a collection of memories of twelfth grade from the summer term to the winter term, through the days of play and study, till the farewell- both formal and informal.

Most of the faces are now distant remembrances. We've lost touch. Some are still important in life. Very important and have helped through times of darkness and despair, joy and celebration. A few are of those that aren't exactly called friends but joke buddies. You share nothing of your life with them but end in a laughter riot if met over a cup of coffee. What is shared is light naughty moments of school. Flashbacks that'll be cherished forever. That'll make me smile with a tear even decades from now. Blessed are those moments. And blessed am I to have shared them with such a wonderful bunch of people.

Pictures can make one feel the place it has been taken in. Activate the olfactory sense to send a warmth through the body. A soothing warmth of affection and belonging. Sometimes even enable recollection of conversations that happened before, during and after the photo shoot. It is a fascinating experience- the sudden sensory overload.

I could feel the cold water gushing from the taps of the water cooler. A favourite destination to escape from boring classes and meet friends for secret chit-chat. I could hear the gliding of feet over the marble flooring. We were banned from skating over it. But who cared! I could hear the the yelling of a certain teacher who has yelled at all of us without fail. Her stomping up and down the stairs chasing us back to class. Us- well running helter-skelter to end up at the play ground for a head count. All safe or some down? The neem tree was the permanent club meeting spot. I think every badge holder has announced a meeting under the neem tree. It would be nice to sit under it again and talk to her. She has listened to many like us over the past decades and will continue to do so. It has held us all though the branches. Never to let go.

The dance classes were historical. Where the pretty girls danced conscientiously, the boys shot imaginary pistols in the air while the harassed teacher attempted to correct the 'thun thun' position. Epic failure. The legalised bunking for club activities, house events, annual functions, well just about anything we could come up with, is sorely missed. The long conversations in the quadrangle. Some ending up in quarrels resolved, some well... unresolved.

We didn't have a canteen then. The joys of hot food lay beyond the walls of the institution. Just outside the side gate. In a corner. Were our samosas. And kachoris. We did buy them. Eat them. Relish them. Not only for the taste, but for the mere unlawfulness of it all. We were rebellious in our own meager ways. The embers are still within. I guess they provide the warmth I was talking about.

The last day of summer vacation in the final year meant signature campaign. Pocket tearing rape-like sequences. Inked cheeks. Inked any-exposed-part-of-body actually. It was our day of marking uniforms with permanent markers. My shirt and skirt still lie folded neatly at the bottom of a pile in my cupboard. The permanence of the pens lies proven. It shall, hopefully, forever.

The farewell is always a joyous occasion at first, which later turns into a red-nosed wet-eyed ceremony. Where boys make fun of girls only to realise that its one of the things they'll miss the most. Teachers reveal stories and anecdotes that suddenly strengthen the bond between us. They weren't that evil after-all. Its nice to go back once in a while. Smile at faces that show signs of aging. Receive affectionate hugs and naughty winks. They are kids like us. They reveal that side after we become alumni. Its one of the things I have cherished after passing out. A mature, yet juvenile relation with the gurus.

I miss sitting on the green grass, plucking it with boredom after a march past. The lifting of trophies won after several rounds of throat aching cheering and hooting. The backslapping, hi-fi-ing and fist punching. The torturous assemblies on cold shivering foggy mornings when most entertained themselves with smoke circles. Yes, we thought it was cool to smoke without a cigarette. Some of us still do. Standing outside the classroom as a form of punishment had its own advantages. One could get a peep into the classes around. Eavesdrop on gossip and generally socialise with passersby. I miss cribbing about the hideously red lipstick which was a permanent feature of all cast members- gender, age, role irrespective.

There are many things I wish to put down, but for now this is enough. Watching the video once has triggered all this. Watching it again will trigger more. Without doubt. Until then, miss you all and love you.

Did the wind sweep you off your feet? Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day?

I want a room to myself. I want to paint it blue on two adjacent walls and white on the other two walls. On the white corner I want to paint a tree. Blue it will be. Let it grow from the corner and branch across on the whiteness on either sides. Adorn the walls with pictures and posters that'll make me cry with laughter. Wash them with memories of the happiest and most loved people. Have a window that'll give me a view of the sky when I'll lay beside it at night. Let the stars wink me to sleep. Let the moon read me a bed time story. A shelf of books that'll smell old and friendly. I want to stick glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. Have a stain-glass lamp hanging from the window. Let the sun sparkle through it and spill into the room. Let every breeze waltz around the wind chime. Allow it to drop in a 'hello' as it passes by. I want a Kaleidoscopic that'll show me new colours and patterns every day. Set against the same world, it'll be pretty nevertheless, without fail.

My hands are numb with glue. I have been sticking things other than the pieces of my scattered life. The table's turned into a workshop. Whether something creative will emerge from the debris strewn across is a million dollar question. I have to answer it in a few days. I will.

Justifications are tiring. The need to explain every move one makes. Every choice chosen. Every road traveled. Etc. I will, on days like these, lean on my painted blue tree and let things be. Let the branches soak my frustration and grow stronger. Let me grow stronger as well. A strange symbiotic relation that would need no words.

I have been reading about the psychology of pain. It is interesting to look at the several views people have about pain. Unlike happiness, which we tend to think comes in greater degrees to others, pain is a feeling we attribute with magnified intensity to ourselves. Tell those who wish to comfort us that they will never know the feeling. That it is worse than anything they have ever felt or will feel. Relativity is twisted to suit one's needs/desires. Is pain that cannot be attributed to an organic lesion false? Can one claim it is a case for psychological intervention with certainty then? Does the need for psychological intervention mean one is not strong enough to deal with one's problems? Does the blame then point to the sufferer? Does the sufferer become the cause and effect of the pain, unlike in the case of a lesion where the cause and effect can be separated? Does the sufferer, from a victim, become a perpetrator?

Its a gloomy day and its rubbing off on me. Sigh.

We're living in a den of thieves. Rummaging for answers in the pages.

The wind is violent today. It is insistent on blowing me away. It brings with it a new sweet smell. Usually smells bring back several memories. But this one is pure, untouched and un-smelt. It is not of the past. I am not reminiscing, for once. Though the future is still swimming in uncertainty, I feel a strange sense of control. It may not last tomorrow. So I shall let myself afloat. For now. For today.

The Little Man is thinning on my right hand. It has been a great journey of love, dreams, desires, and hopes. I have grown with him into a little woman. My aspirations are different, but our enthusiasm is similar. Our restlessness, even more.

The TV has been running nearly all day. From one channel to another, its the same story. A story that makes my blood boil. Yes, they are called soaps. I wish they'd rinse themselves clean with it. They get filthier with each new production. I am amazed at their increasing viewership. I am either degrading in patience, or the TV viewing community is gradually losing its strings of sanity. The grey matter fading into a numb white. Scary. The ladies are more heavily clad in ugly jewellery and pokey sarees. The men are using more vulgar language and torturing the women. The children are increasing cranky and spoilt. The elders are well, the less said the better. The evil mother-in-law has taken a new avataar, worse than its predecessors put together. The spineless good-at-everything, but always-ill-treated daughter-in-law is more subservient than ever. She resigns to her fate and begs her husband to not protest against the atrocities committed on her. She even encourages him to take her mother-in-law's side for she is the head of the family. I want to slap them. Hard.

Sigh, I have been ranting most of the day. I really wish the wind would carry me away to a place with silence and sense.

Trust is probably the hardest thing to achieve and the easiest thing to break. You try and build it up to a crescendo only to plummet down due to a mistake/misunderstanding. Reason ceases to exist and life becomes a whirlwind of justifications, subconscious self-questioning and unconscious guilt. I guess its a part of growing stronger. As they all say.

The year's coming to an end and when I look back (reminiscing now) I feel strangely happy. Its been a quick year like all others, but different in so many ways. World views have changed. The world I live in has changed. Physically. Socially. And metaphorically. Its going to be a warm December, strangely. I didn't start the year with resolutions. I never do. In a way I have lost nothing. But, somewhere I have lost myself to the year. To the places I have been to. To the people I have grown to love. To the gushing river in which jumps were made. To the long late night walks. To the spaces of rehearsals. I wonder how much of me is left now. I am ready to lose more next year. To what? Only time will tell.

Censorship blankets honesty. The World adorns a belt of chastity.

I wish to write.

Keeping my grip on the pen tight.

Let the thoughts flow by.

Like the first rain filling a river-bed dry.

But what happens when there is a dam.

A surveillance of who I really am.

I gotta find my way home.

I have been living like a nomad over the past few months. Wake up each morning to a new routine. Each day is defined and made use of by the moment. Perpetual uncertainty. It was hard initially, for I was so used to regularity. But now, I am flowing with it. Some days are more rapid than others. Louder than others. Sweeter than others. The 'others' are dealt with patience and hope. I am aging in both.

New friends have been made with words that are gently whispered in the ear with rhythm and those that are inked in black on sheets that embrace me. I converse with them everyday over a cuppa of hot something. We get lost in each other. Always.

Its a newer city. It has changed since I last walked it and breathed it. Nevertheless, it is treating me well. A new relation is growing between us. It is bitter-sweet like most. New routes have been traversed and explored. It will continue this way for a while.

The Colour Purple lies finished, with its back to me. The colour is deep and moving. Its hard to let go of it. I think I'll be purple for a long time to come. The Little Man awaits me. Its about a boy who's 2 inches tall and out to conquer the world. I would love to join him. Pack a bag and walk the stretch of the earth. I've always wanted to do it. I shall. Someday.

I've used up 8 packets of M-seal since yesterday. You might think I've turned into a master sculptor. I would like to think the same. Its a beautiful crown, that which I am supposed to make. Hope it turns out as pretty as I expect it to be.

I want to go back to 355. Pull down the curtains, give them a wash and hang them back up. Smell the room turn fresh. Open wide the balcony door to oversee the mist rising to hug me from the baby green foliage that spreads across on the ground below. Listen to the pigeons flutter and argue. Run down the aisle beckoning people for a meal. A meal we are sure not to relish, but its the eating together that is important. Take the plate out in the warm sun and chat more than eat. Fold my clothes neatly in piles and clear the bed that is a beautiful blue. Smile at the soft board that has faces, old and new, smiling back.

I have not been a huge lover of the winter season, but I must admit I miss it. Much more than I thought I would. Hands turning numb under the tap. Cheeks blushing pink outdoors. Holding on to a freezing bus pillar, only to get off at a stop that'll serve the warmest and tastiest parathas. Give and receive bear hugs. It might be cold, but the blood runs warm.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there's a field. I'll meet you there. - Rumi.

Maybe thats where home is for most of us.

God ain't a he or a she, but a It.

Its a quite afternoon. There is a soothing warm breeze dancing around the wind chime. There is silence, except for a few distant honks and the buzzing fan overhead. I could do without it, but I'll let it spin. It would be natural for one to feel drowsy on an afternoon like this. Not me.

Music is something that connects one to the soul. Not just of oneself, but even to that of the instruments and the players/singers. Its a strange communion that leaves one feeling light and loved. It may or may not have words. Words, one may or may not understand. It still feels the same. Mostly.

The Colour Purple is depressing. And I depressingly love it. The characters are raw and innocent. Their sufferings genuine and heartbreaking. I will finish it soon and not know what to do.

Theatre has, and will always be my first love. I love the stage at my feet. The wood creaking with each step, urging me to move and conquer it. I have done it before. Its time to do it again. Soon.

Appreciation for poems varies the most I think. What one might think is a masterpiece, will turn out to be a piece of rubbish on which another can wrap his/her chewed gum for disposal. Its actually fascinating, more than frustrating, at times. I think a lot depends on how you read it. The intention you give it. Unlike prose, where the author has an overstated meaning for each line, poets like to leave everything in oblivion. If you like to paint yourself in that oblivion, you'll breathe it and survive.

Choices are something we all complain about having in reduced numbers. We never get enough to choose from. This can't be relative deprivation if it is universal.

There is something so comforting about old hindi songs. Actually anything old for that matter. Photos. Books. Friends. Coffee shops. There is a pervading sense of security. I may be wrong, but I don't feel it now.

I am engrossed in Arun Kolatkar's poetry. He writes the simplest things in the most beautiful way. Who ever thought the description of a baby being bathed would be a fantastic theme for a poem! I love him and will continue my affair with him now. Adios.

Jupiter is catching a bus this year.

I turn the music up, I got the records on

From underneath the rubble sing a rebel song

Don't want to see another generation drop

I rather be a comma than a full stop

Its the penultimate month of the year and as always, it seems to have come too fast. Its been a life changing year, like every other year. A lot of new people have been met. Old doors have been knocked. Unperceived goals have been sought. Familiar places have been re-visited. A few favourites have been revised, furnishing the pages with more fingerprints. New books have been inked to the list. The taste buds have feasted more. The nights have been haunted with bizarre dreams and the feet have tread more gradients. New hugs have given warmth, while lost ones have been missed.

There are heroes in the sea weed

There are children in the morning

They are leaning out for love

And they will lean that way forever

The Jupiter is closest to the moon today. Apparently, it happens once in a hundred years. Hmmm, I feel historic, now that I have witnessed it. But it isn't the breaking news on TV. For once. The sky has always been an intriguing space. Small dots, that are actually magnanimous in size, wink every night- tirelessly.

The buses haven't changed and thankfully, neither have their fares. The conductor gives me a glace of recognition. He's seen me before. A gazillion times. Its the same girl who lost her balance every day, while trying to hold on to her several bags, sanity and the pillar together. Its been a couple of years, but I have still not lost my charm. I still fall. I still stumble. I still like my bus.

Where did I go wrong, I lost a friend

Somewhere along in the bitterness

And I would have stayed up with you all night

Had I known how to save a life

The Colour Purple beckons me now.

P. S.- The lyrics incorporated are a result of my listening to them while writing this. And the title, well lets just say that a fall in the bus shook my sanity out.