Dil-li

A smoked journey to dream land

Fresh breath of nostalgic air

Warm hugs of comfort

Lazy morning of laughter and cheese

A long drawn lunch

Walk to the alley of guitars and buckets

Clouds of smoke, hot tea and singing

Foursome gallivanting on treaded paths

Jokes of bathing styles and masala fries

Metro-ed to the heaven of food

The cozy posters and benches

Chocolat fancies and sinners of gluttony

We are lost and found

Till we dream of the next day.

Egged breakfasts, drowsy and disoriented

Move to the peacock-garden

Big toothed smiles of reunion

A lunch made for three days

Knocked everyone down

Movie motive lost to language and seating

An endless adventure for Burqous*

Practiced Zen at Tao

Night of Mata, her bawling and sweat.

An early dawn of bread and packed lunch

The dreaded squash on the station

An unexpected parting

Walls of love beckoned

Arrival with summer mangoes

Eternal quest for the a/c

Coffees shared and a wallet lost

The wait for the bathed beauty

Un-censored talks and cooler

Carmensita to going Gaga

A walk to the Centre with gallons of nimbu pani

Chai Chat with old buddies

A friend who dresses for Sabarmati. Phew

Keicha, Quereshi and the three musketeers

Midnight mayhem, eating and editing.

Jaaneman and Jan Path

Coloured beads, popping eyes, bargains, bhaiyas

Pre-calculated lunch order and kazoo’s prettiness

Mapping the way back home

Rocky chatter and pizzas

An auto ride to remember for life

Hugs and promises

Sleep.

Day of departure

Locking and unlocking doors practiced

A visit of a grumpy friend

Another goodbye

Lunch over Mongolia and theatre

Dreams of scaling mountains

More promises and adieu

Final calls at the long station halt

Bye

The train hoots

I’ll be back. Soon. 

Solitude

I feel like going on a trek tonight. There are several places in my mind. In the the evening I wanted to stomp on snow and make my way up a mountain. Feel the cold winds numb my fingers and turn my nails blue. Breathe the winter. Freeze time in that pristine whiteness that would surround me. But now, as the moon appears behind the pitch blackness, I am reminded of my midnight walk along the deep woods from university to the monument. It was a mass trek, with close to a hundred odd people. We still managed to lose ourselves.

I remember laughing till tears rolled out as we cooked up stories of having been diverted by a strange man in a white t-shirt, who we morphed to be a ghost. In the dead of the night, a bunch of us were stranded. We had gone around and come around. Or so we thought. In the darkness, all the trees looked cloned, all the branches scratched and all the paths were sparkling with foliage streamed moonlight. It was past Cindrella's time. We awaited a fairy godmother to come show us the light. A light different from the one that was spooking us all.

A man hailed from afar. Our light. The different one. Having sung songs of the past to keep ourselves entertained, we moved ahead after what seemed an hour. Closer to the voice, back on track. It took our group much longer to reach. We took routes the others hadn't. We trailed heights that others saw from below. We did reach, but much delayed. The others were on their way back. Some made fun of us, but we gloated at having passed shrubs and trees that they hadn't, graveyards that they hadn't, experienced haunt as they hadn't. We always were good story tellers.

It was a full moon night. The trek had lasted for about 5 hours. We reached the arms of our cozy rooms in taxis at the break of dawn. Exhausted. We dreamt. Of what, I don't remember. Must have been something pleasant for we slept with smiles pasted on our faces.

Memories have a snowball effect. But the snowball I want right now is the one I'll make for myself. I want my snow tonight and I am not in a mood to share it. Not this time. At least for a while.

My Lee Filters swatch book is lying next to me. I have spent the day painstakingly looking at each filter against the sunlit window. I am still looking at them through the white tubelight. I am not a fan of white light. I like to add colours, maybe thats why I enjoy lighting. I want to rig a spot light climbing up the ladder, focus it at stage centre, put the colour I like the most at the moment and sit under it with my book.

Let the hall be empty.

Let them not know I am here.

Let them not know I exist.

Let them not know I am lit.

Desiderata

I want to sit on a cushion of plush green grass

Let the cold dew drops wet my clothes and skin in patches

Allow the breeze to whisper sweet nothings into my ear

Bring a message from a dear old friend who lives afar

I want to creak on a wooden floor again

Let the dust from the past scrub my feet

Allow the words to echo and get absorbed into the walls

Bring a dialogue into the emptiness

I want to grease my hands with paint

Let the water and not tears dampen the canvas

Allow the brush to make its strokes of affection

Bring some colour into the lifeless

I want to run on that winding road

Let the yellow flowers shower my head and soul

Allow the scent of the trees to warm my insides

Bring out the shawl for a tight embrace

I want to laugh with you in that room

Let the door ajar for the cheer to spread

Allow the gang to join the communion

Bring out the tuck and tea

Its going to be a long night companions

Revelations of a motley mind.

I go through phases of silence and those are moments when I wish to write the most, but thats not what happens. I don't pen what I feel and then regret having let the moment pass without having any written proof of it. I still feel everything but its not the same. There is a constant fear that I will lose it, that I am losing it with every passing second and that I have lost most of it. Slight smiles, a deep sense of satisfaction at the smallest of gestures, a joke between friends that becomes a secret, a walk down a road with shaded trees and scent of mangoes, a train journey with books-sleep-companionship...

Its World Theatre Day again. I scarily remember last year's today with pristine clarity. I remember what I ate, with whom I ate, the conversation I had and what I wore. Not because it was special, but because it was as plain jane as it could be. And thats what scares me about it the most. That I remember the mundaneness of the day. It must have been a vulnerable moment, that which I was going through. For it is etched so deeply.

I travelled again, for my love. It was a successful affair I must say. It was appreciated. But more than anything else, I loved doing it. Lighting. There were the usual reds, blues and pinks but this time I was behind the board. I had my super special blue. The hands slid with ease and I loved every moment of it. Red charts haunted me for days. The sticky tape glued it to my unconscious. It was a true communion that night. A little boy came up and asked for a flower in the purest voice. Our hearts swelled and we parted with the whole bouquet. The sweetest joy of the evening. Packed and exhausted we sat at the station for a delayed train. We were tired but content. We stood out from the crowd but we were together.

The floor was burning. The water overflowing from the tank sizzled as it kissed the earth. It spread and slowly formed a moist mushy puddle for the dog to have its cold nap. The lady shook off the white garments that glowed in the sunshine, from the clothesline. She danced around as her feet burnt on the terrace. The leaves from the trees are browning and thirsting for a shower. Summer.

Fountainhead. I replace Architecture with Theatre and the book makes most sense to me. I love it so far. Scares me in bits at the harshness of the characters. It is true to an extent but I tell myself they are only words and let the fear pass. Each person in it is so distinctly described. I can almost feel them sitting next to me. Roark making his sketches at the table. I can here him sharpen his pencil. Keating banging the door on me as he leaves the chapter. Catherine just asked me for a tissue to wipe her tears. I am going a little insane which is why I have picked up another book to read alongside. Short stories by Parashuram. They make me laugh out loud with streaming tears. What a contrast. But I am dealing with it now. Better, hopefully.

Theatre is not a business, not a career, but a crusade and a consecration to a joy that justifies the existence of the earth.

Sets. Costumes. Sounds. Lighting. Acting. This year. I sign off today as a theatre artist. Goodnight.

Shattered glass and hollow window panes

Sometimes certain words evoke aural memories. The mere whisper of a place can remind you of a robotic voice announcing the station in a metro. Then its a vicious cycle of remembrances. The station reminds one of the reason one boarded the train, the people it was boarded with, the place one actually got off, the songs sung on the train to pass time, the fun one made of co-passengers etc. The scene is cognitively recreated. It feels real and one desires to go back in time and relive it. I have spent the last couple of hours in such a fabricated reality. Its been a comforting journey. I am a lover of the past times. My affair with it is endless. The future is something I do look forward to but not at the risk of letting go of the past. Coward twit, maybe.

The music flowing in my ears is fresh and hopeful. Songs sung by a junior from school. I love them and hope he sings like this forever and that his music reaches out to as many people as possible. They drip of honesty and warmth. I can imagine myself feeling the soft green grass at my feet as I thrust myself on a swing, under an early spring sun that sparkles through the thick foliage of a great big tree, in an open lonely silent field.

There is a strange heaviness in the air. Its been there all day. A melancholic stillness that is turning stale and lifeless. Maybe the spark of the sun will rejuvenate its spirit. The colour of tomorrow might resurrect it. I hope it does cause its seeping in and spreading despair.

Another stage is calling on to me. It will certainly not be the last. I will light it with all my love. Its a play I love. It has actors I love more. It shall be a communion of honesty, something that seems to have shrouded in veils of duplicity and cozenage. But thats true of a lot of facets of life. Theatre, still remains the only place where one can speak the truth in its crass and stripped form. Its another matter altogether that only a few indulge in this heroism. And those who do, have a path of shattered glass laid before them. Scarred and blood-stained, they continue. Its what they live for.

Its so difficult to explain oneself to others. Not as a justification of actions, but just to be able to word and articulate the surge of emotions that arises and drowns one. There surfaces, on certain occasions, a desire for the other to be able to hear one's beat, feel one's pulse and sense the mood and give a i-know-what-you-are-going -through nod. I have given the nod to many this week. Its time I got one too.

Paint that hollow window pane.

Let it show what you wish to see.

Keep gazing at it till it comes to life.

It will.

Just wait.

Do you think there's a heaven?

The stage was set. A neat pile of platforms were arranged in the centre. Each platform breathed of timeless usage. Nails jutting out from every corner. It would be life threatening to walk on them, sit on them or just walk beside them. But that is our set. We will love it for the next 120 minutes.

The lights don't always work. They hang there lifeless and ignored. There are patterns of dust on them that look prettier than a lot of stuff that is sold as modern art. Not that I despise modern art. I just love lights more.

What is a filter? The Japanese wale? Nahi, we don't have them. So, we use the sheets of coloured transparent paper that remind one of class 5 projects/ sweet dhabbas that are covered with 'amber' sheets. We had our blues, pinks, reds, ambers and greens. And yes, they looked blue, pink, red, amber and green. Japanese wale got kicked out of business for one day.

There was electronic music all round. People don't know what a rehearsal means. In a couple of dictionaries it seems to mean a time when one plays loud music, walks across the stage (mind you, they are not actors), runs across the stage (again, we're not talking about actors) while the actors are prettily sitting life threateningly on the platforms delivering lines. Aghast at being seen as absorbed into the stage. Being seen as a piece of furniture that seems to be producing some sound. It did bother. A lot.

But we prevailed. Like always. It was beautiful.

Although the city was pink, like someone said we painted it, not just red but with myriad colours that'll colour our vision for days to come. Maybe months. Maybe years. Actually, maybe this lifetime.

Train journeys are always fun. The laughter over food, games and gossip. The stretched out legs with huge blankets to keep them warm. The cards strewn over them. The solving of the mystery of the missing chappals. The war with roaches in coaches. The morning and evening walks at random stations. Eyeing remote places that we'd like to settle in later in life, once retired, invariably adorned with a big mango tree and vast expanse of open spaces. However, I feel by the time we age to retire the vast expanse will be commercialised. Lets retire now. Lets sit under the tree and tell our stories. Its what we all love doing the most. Lets live it.

The cold kept me snuggled in a blanket. A TV remote was held after months. I've forgotten how one watches TV. But I managed to watch a bit of a movie without guilt. Sherlock can do that to anyone. It was a city known to me. There were places to go, people to meet, but I chose to stay inconspicuous. There was something in the air that told me I won't be able to deal with it all together. Withdrawal it still is. It'll never go but I shall be more courageous next time. Walk down those lanes that have made some of the deepest marks and cuts in my soul.

Its funny how one can be alone in a group. A crowd is different. But in a group you know, you can suddenly feel detached. The strings that were holding you snap. Then there is free fall. A sinking feeling that churns the stomach to a great height of discomfort. Its human I guess, but its also human to want to know why.

The sea washes away a lot of filth. Both literal and metaphorical. The air around always refreshes the body and mind. Clears. Purifies. Detoxes. Emerges out a fresher self. Ready to face more. Ready to get more dirty. Both literally and metaphorically.

I lost a friend. It was tragic. I miss him. I wish he'd called. Told me what it was that bothered him. I would have told him to stop. Would have given him a hug. Held his hand till he stopped shaking with fear. Shaking with rage. Shaking with uncertainty. I will never get to see him. His dimpled smile will haunt me for long. Ironical that happy things become haunting. His number is still stored on the phone. I wonder if he'll pick up if I call. Talk to me from heaven. I hope there is one. I want him to be happy there. Very happy, for once. And for all. I love you.

I want to trap time. I know it can't be done. Still.

Its the kind of evening that makes me want to run down the three floors of my hostel room with my gang to our tea spot. Go for a single cup, but end up drinking gallons of it over crazy, long, controversial, crazier conversations. I want to bump into classmates. Expand the circle of talk till its just us.

Feel the chill and complain about it. Complain about the lack of hot water and hotter meals. Beckon the department store uncle and tell him that his Maggi is our survival tool. That without him our stomach's would be crying.

I want to make fun of the walkers while my own paunch grows in size with the junk consumed. I want to buy little bars of chocolates for my mates and feel their smile warm me up.

Lets run down that lane with our jingle. We were always juvenile. There's nothing to be ashamed of. Shame is something we left outside those walls. Cause within them laid freedom in a sense that will never be known elsewhere.

We are scattered, but there is a bond that unites us now. And will forever. Some are still experiencing the freedom. I envy them. I ask them to enjoy it more. On my behalf.

I want to raise my hand in class and spoil the rest of the prof's lecture. Debate till he/she turns red. Till we exchange winks and divert the boring topic into a needless argument that'll tickle our ribs for long.

I want to read out my paper in class and defend it. Ask for a break cause the eye lids have embarrassingly started sticking to one another. Yes. I want to read the soft-board and yell at atrocities teachers commit on students. I want to sit in a corner of the seminar room and doodle. Let the words spoken in the room form a cozy bed and pillow for me.

I want to shake that tree and let the road be carpeted by the shed yellow. I want to stand there and make fun of Bollywood. I want to see those raised eyebrows and tell myself that they don't know how to enjoy life's moments.

I want to cry laughing at the imitations of professors done by my classically talented folks. Its something that is the birth right of every student. I want to click pictures on my phone of the sleepy heads and threaten exposure on social networking websites.

I want to finger the dust off the shelves of journals and books in the dungeon like library of mine. I want to spend the day searching for that one book. Then heave a sigh of relief when I triumph in procuring it out of a corner. Gloat at myself and issue it. I am shallow in a lot of ways.

I want to wake up early and take my run through the fog around the ring road. Say hi to the mess bhaiya on my way back and ask the menu of the day. Give him a look of disgust. Laugh with him over it and still swallow what he serves and calls food.

I want to wash my bucket of joy and hang them with perfection. Fold them once dry in a manner that looks ironed crisp. I want to sit on the mess table post-dinner squashed between population wanting to burst into debates. Violent discussions that'll rub off sleep and leave everyone dark eyed in the morning.

I want to stick posters. Announce to the world about performances that'll make them scream for more. Obviously, work towards it through the nights with my bunch. With butter rotis and crispy vegs. Gradually moving to rotis and lesser crispy vegs. Pockets torn.

Work on group assignments that'll require more co-ordination than reading and structuring. Last minute be the motto. Then, now and forever. Sit in the visitors room till the guard starts giving out suggestions and offering beverages to keep us awake.

I want to chase the cat munching on my dustbin. Offer it something better. The warden's dustbin. Plan plots to exterminate pigeons from the face of the Earth. Yes. We were ruthless. Only in plans.

Now that I have entered the parallel world I was trying to create and escape into, hi to those are a part of it. Bye to the rest. See you later.

And you know that she's half crazy. But that's why you want to be there.

Though the temperature isn’t exactly as low as it should be, it does look like a winter morning. It’s gloomily cloudy and it smells cold. Yes, funnily it smells and doesn’t feel cold. You should be here to know what I am describing. I would love to go to the beach now. Lie near the shore. Let the water tickle my outstretched feet. Let the warm sand rub my back. Have my book in my hand and let the breeze turn the pages for me. Serene and solitary.

I have switched from the rib-tickling tales of a rebellious priest and his arch rival communist mayor to a treasury of Indian mythology. It’s beautiful so far. The pages are new, yet there is something antique about it. I guess its the ancient tales typed on them that make them different and special. I love the calligraphy on it. Reminds me of the calligraphy pen Pa got me a really long time back. It still has its price tag on it. I was always scared to use it. I know the shelf it’s on. I am far from it right now, but when I get closer, I will use it. Write something for Pa with it.

I am doing something I love more than anything else. It can’t be the only thing I do cause some things don’t change. Some opinions don’t change. But I am proud of myself in a strange sort of way; for having kept the embers of my passion burning all through. They will burn like this today. And they shall burn like this forever.

I want to learn how to weave a carpet. Inspiration: a beautiful picture I just saw of a man sitting behind the wooden machinery that was producing the most colouful piece of art. From barren nothingness arises a splash of design in colours of one’s choice. I know I’ll love the feeling after having completed a piece.

The TV has been endlessly screaming for the past several minutes now. And what is one it makes me nauseous; the sickening background music, intolerable voice modulations and the insufferable dialogues. Just why people watch it is beyond me. I pray sincerely that I never reach a stage where the TV becomes my best friend. Never.

Give me a canvas the size of a wall. I want to splash colours on it. Use anything but a brush to paint on it. Go unconventional. I don’t want to show it to anyone till I finish. Maybe I won’t show it at all. Paint it black after I am done. It will be something I made for myself. It will remain mine. Or, I’ll paint a huge Calvin and Hobbes on the white surface and worship it. Yes, I have a strange sense of religiosity.

And she feeds you tea and oranges

That come all the way from China

And just when you mean to tell her

That you have no love to give her

Then she gets you on her wavelength

And she lets the river answer

That you’ve always been her lover

And you want to travel with her

And you want to travel blind

And you know that she will trust you

For you’ve touched her perfect body with your mind.

Suzanne- Leonard Cohen

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.

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.

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.

Nothing exists except atoms and empty space; everything else is opinion - Democritus

I stepped on those stairs after a really really long time. The sound it made breathed familiarity.

I traced my fingers on the walls that had absorbed the echoes of lost chatter, anger and laughter. The reverberations made my heart skip a beat.

I walked into the hall that I had swept and laid carpets on. My fingerprints are still on them, but they have been masked by the several successors.

I felt the breeze through the window I had sat by. It tickled my ear; it had missed me.

Crumpled manuscripts, stained by repeated handling, were pressed between younger fingers. I have held those papers. The words printed on them were different then.

Faces I knew have more lines on them now. Yet, there is a twinkle in the eyes that tells me that memories are keeping the hearts youthful.

The binding on the books have changed, however, they still smell of the places I took them to; the fallen flowers against which they laid on the ground, when I rested my eyes from them.

The tables have been painted a fresh colour, but they haven't erased the markings I made on them.

Scribbled notes are still passed.

Suppressed giggles are still heard.

Things, actually, don't change as much as we think they have.

Its been a while since I left that place. I have moved on, but there still remains a part of my jigsaw there. It always will. And every time I go back it'll fit into me and rekindle a me that is long gone.

It is a bitter-sweet symphony, that's life.

Dusk Tales

As I hang the freshly washed, damp clothes to dry, something about the evening takes me back to the lush green grounds on which stood a stage and a few lights- rehearsals of annual functions. The hustle-bustle backstage in a curtain-created green room. The long lines for abhorrent hideous make-up that turned everybody's lips a luscious blood red, sex irrespective. The multi-tasking teachers who would pin up costumes to prevent faux pas, do head counts of cast, yell at mischief mongers with third eye vision, gossip with colleagues about other colleagues etc. The last minute stage back-drop disaster management. The munching of dry noodles, chips, gulping of sneaked in bottles of cold-drinks; yes, for many souls it was a picnic, much to the distress of teachers. The constant shushing. The several rounds of truth-dare and dumb-charades while the torturous speeches continued endlessly. All this is sorely missed and more.

The sun sets with a whiff of forthcoming winter. Certain smells always linger and take one to a distant memory; a memory that cannot be relived but felt with a similar intensity. Actually, its not just the olfactory sense that is capable of such feats; there are many things that can rekindle remembrances. The brain is an intriguing organ.

Oh the juvenile excitement fails to die out.

Yesterday my brother brought home the School Magazine. A book that compiles the year's activities in words and pictures. Since he's in the same school as I was, it brings back memories. The book does feel different now. It has shinier pages. Rather all the pages are shiny now compared to the earlier versions that I used to get. Swank.

I remember waiting to get the year's magazine every year, flip through the shininess to find out if I was smiling out of the pages. It was an honour to be on the magazine. More honourable if you were smiling out of it more than once. Well, one would expect the excitement to die down. Mature to know that the school magazine days are over. The real life isn't about shiny pages and is definitely not picture-perfect. Epic Fail statement.

This year's magazine had an old picture of mine. My heart was alight. I felt the same excitement I used to feel when I was 11. It hasn't died down and I guess it never will. Some things never change.

So be it.

The Time of My Life.

Black out

(Slow) Fade in

The warmth of the light brightens your face before a packed hall

The air in your lungs gets caught and refuses to burst out

The simultaneous intake of breath (in alarm) of the audience sends a chill down your spine

Eyes closed- you slowly exhale the first word

Your voice fills the air

Its what they all breathe

You provide it

Eyes re-open to see an ocean of black

A black that rejuvenates you

You walk across the stage and feel the world at your feet

The moment that you'd been waiting for for months is before you

The next few hours pass like seconds for its a time you control

A time that people will remember for you, as you and because of you

You turn deaf all of a sudden

For the applause fills the air

It sweetens the air you inhale

Standing in the centre you feel a void

The ocean before you recedes

The hall is empty again

Awaiting another you

Another time

Another word

Another applause

Black out

29 C

Yesterday, while i was on my way to WCC in an attempt to set my future groundings i found that the girl sitting next to me on the bus was holding a form for Stella. my heart skipped a beat for reasons unknown.

should i ask her which course she's applied for?

should i tell her who her teachers are going to be?

should i tell her who her seniors are going to be?

should i tell her about the ice lollies?

should i tell her who her union members are going to be?

should i tell her about the butt slapping sister H2?
or the fire breathing sister H1?
or or the feeling up of sister C?

should i tell her who to go to in case of an attendance problem?

should i tell her about the watchmen and the ID card song?

should i tell her which clubs are active and fun and which aren't?

should i tell her what to eat and what not to eat at the canteen?

should i tell her about the mutant kakas and how to dodge them?

should i tell her about the secret passages to various rooms?

should i tell her about the oats?

should i tell her that she'd be addressed as a bouquet of flowers on her first day in college?

should i tell her about the third comps and assignments?

should i tell her about freshers day, inter-years, aquilae...?

should i tell her about CR?

should i tell her about P!!!????

should i tell her what she's in for for the next three glorious years of her life?

well this is what i did- i sat listening to "bitter-sweet symphony, that's life" with a grin on my face.

let her Stella years reveal themselves to her.

29C is going to show me the new faces of Stella, faces that will leave their mark after three years. may these faces bother the ones that bothered us, i bless them!

The Penguin Lunch

If the play got postponed by two weeks, the penguin lunch followed the same fate and got postponed by a week. But today it HAPPENED! And here's an overview of the most fun lunch ever.

The tallest penguin informs everyone to be at the reception at one o clock. But, one of the penguins sits at the canteen and socialises while we wait! "What does she think of herself", says the tall one! Within a few minutes all four penguins congregate and leave for their battle ground. Venue changed to meet conveniences that cannot be disclosed publically. Theatre gods bless us as we see one our play comrade going in an ac car towards Casa Picolla- our battle ground! We get a lift to our destination.

Enter battle ground- we seat ourselves near a pillar. The tallest penguin and the penguin with wacky ideas sit together on one side and the youngest and the worried one (i dislike the incriminating title given but for convenience of comprehension sake I'm left with no choice) on the other.

The menu card arrives- we rip it open. Since it was my first visit to this place it took me some time to find the names of the dishes the connoisseurs were throwing around. While doing so we swerve away from the intention and start blabbering about other equally important issues of life. D eyes around to see familiar faces.

The waiter comes and listens to our incomprehensible chorus of names of dishes. We give up on his inability to understand us and ask him to come later.

D- "Can I have some water please?"- she looks around with eager eyes.

T laughs out loud at the very thought that she'll get high on chocolate. D adds cheese as another stimulant. C and I look at each other in dismay! Are we the only sane ones in this world?

Well, we finally decide on what we want and order the menu while T keeps going he he he eh. Now it begins to worry us all. :S Can the thought of marble cake drive someone so mad? Meanwhile, we figure out we're not having enough fun- hence, we start singing Captain Planet followed by the Powerpuff Girl's title track. The neighbouring table had a little girl sitting completely shell shocked at the madness of a bunch of college-going girls who are expected to maintain a certain decorum in public places.

(D- Can I have some water please?)

T explains to the mother that its a post-play production team lunch. Its self-explanatory now, isn't it? :)

The lunch arrives- hog hog hog hog hog. Yum Yum Yum Yum.

(D- Can I have some water please?)

T couldn't hold it now. She had had enough of a wait for the dessert. Pounce! The marble cake arrives and is finished within minutes. For my sake, the chocolate syrup came separately. Not like it helped cause it was accidentally kept next to T who for a moment thought it was H2O!

Stomachs full, sitting like balloons- D- Lets run on the Beach!

T,C,M- What????

It took a while to convince D that a run on the beach at 2:30 in the afternoon was certainly not a penguiny thing to do. Then came the Penguin Snap- which took us longer than eating food cause we had to face problems like-

1. Where can we click it?

2. OOhhh this shop is so pretty! (C- Concentrate on snap location, will you!)

3. Can we trust this watchman with the camera?

4. Is he drunk?

5. Who will click the snap?

6. Not the stairs!

7. How do we all fit in?

8. Fine, the stairs, but do we sit or stand?

Result- We stand randomly in between the passage, say cheese and C clicks a snap- it comes out beautifully. :)

This was probably the most random lunch possible, but then aren't all the penguins random in their own sweet ways? An afternoon i shall cherish for life.

Joyee.

P.S- other things that happened at the lunch that couldn't be incorporated:

1. My obsession with cleaning the table

2. T licking chocolate from everywhere possible

3. D- Salt comes from a spicy place

Pepper comes from a salty place (her remarkable comments while analysing the salt and pepper dispensers)

P.S 2- i think i'm becoming senile- i forgot to mention the yummy garlic bread, T spoke to the mother after the lunch and not before and T clicked the historic snap.

Yet another List

a random list of things/ people/events i'll miss in no particular order:

1. watchman (ID card!)
2. chai
3. sujata ma'am's class
4. GRAM
5. Penguins
6. luv-shmuv
7. samosa
8. sociological theory
9. library
10. twelve angry men
11. deepwoods
12. hunchback of notredam
13. nimbu pani ice lolly
14. canteen tree
15. and then there were none
16. dragon
17. dept
18. social psychology+general psychology
19. 29C
20. BaBaOH
21. paratha kurma
22. magjof
23. common room (even the filth)
24. Sr. Hilda+Leela akka+team
25. F-2-1
26. social thought
27. black chart paper
28. things-to-do lists
29. 0-1
30. shirdi
31. xeroxs
32. aquilae
33. 0-1 stage lights
34. cassatta
35. the green house
36. second year classroom
37. the green patch behind B block
38. OATs
39. inter years
40. veg noodles

41. switch-blade knife

42. red+green+yellow cellophane sheets 

43. ten little indian dolls