Five Point Somethings About Me

I have been tagged to write five random things about myself.
These are five of them…

1. I like to collect knick-knacks. It could be movie-tickets, dried flowers, satin ribbons, etc. All of them will have a story behind them. I think I have two such diaries.

2. I like to use a more than just a dash of lemon in my food, especially the canteen food!

3. I have a thing for really weird bags! Somehow, the bags I buy make many cringe.

4. I feel like a worm if I forget birthdays. Even if it is of someone I can’t really stand.

5. I maintain a diary at random times, filled with random thoughts, and yet I cant think of a nice fifth random point!

I am tagging… Shiv, Kim, Jo, Adarsh, and JP.

Sibling Revelry

I couldn't help but post this snap online. I loved this moment, even though I am looking a little taxed in it (I am the one in the blue checkered dress). Deepthi is trying to smother him with kisses! The hand you see on the left side is my Ma's. Pradeep was a heavy kid, so the concern!

This was taken minutes after Pradeep's first birthday party was wrapped up. We got down to opening all the gifts soon after. I remember that blue police car that we all wanted...

PS: I recently got some of the old pics scanned. I think I will just scatter some of them over this blog, over various entries...

The Morning After

It must have been close to noon. The winter sun hidden behind grey clouds and stubborn fog. I opened my eyes to realize that the place where I lay wasn’t familiar territory. The unmoving ceiling fan was of a different colour. The blanket that cocooned me was not mine. Why, even the socks I wore felt a size too small. After a moment of blankness, the events of the previous day came back to my foggy head. As I sat up in bed and wriggled out of the blanket, I thought about the late night I had spent in this room. It was a long long night. I smiled at the thought. I looked around at the dusty computer. It was still switched on after our little session of technology talks. Well, of whatever little we knew, at least. Sweaters and jackets sprawled on the stony cold floor. Shoes with laces astray. A comb. Some make up. An empty coke bottle. Remnants of wafers and chips. A songbook lay open. Half-written lyrics. The phone was off the hook, to ensure minimal disturbance. The TV still flickered on mute. I got off the bed as quietly as I could. I did not want to disturb. Switched off the TV. Wore the sweater. Tied up my hair. Tip toed to the kitchen and rummaged the refrigerator I wasn’t used to. There were some eggs. I had decided about the breakfast menu. Eggs, bread, jam or butter. Some really strong coffee. That’s how we both like it. In a few minutes time, the clattering of utensils aroused some voices from the bed. Crap. I cursed. I am way too noisy. Oye Moti, kya kar rahi hai… She enquired gently nudging me. We had our breakfast, sitting on the kitchen counter, chattering…

…I just love girly pyjama parties and stay-overs.

Motorcycle Diaries

It was early in the morning when he stood below and honked. The fellow has come on his bike, she thought, he must be crazy to drive around in such weather! They were in the first week of a frigid January. The fog was so heavy that she couldn’t see the house right across the narrow road. Some days, when she pulled the curtains apart, she got to smell the fog that’s engulfed the house.

She wrapped her neck with a colourful long scarf and wore her long black coat, adding yet another layer to her clothing. She pushed her wild mane into the black cap that hugged her forehead so fiercely that she could sense a headache not so long away. She raced down the stairs while he impatiently went on sounding the blaring horn. His shiny black bike was exhaling fumes. Like a horse that just won a race, she mused.

“Where are we off to, today? What’s on the agenda?” she queried while buttoning up her coat and adjusting herself on the pillion seat.
“CP. Loads to do.” He replied as he raced up his favourite machine.

Woollen gloves don’t seem to make the chill any easier to bear. Her nose may have been a few more degrees cooler than the rest of her face. She loved winters. The harsher, the better. She loved the chilly wind on her face. The stronger the better. She liked the fog. It made her dizzy to watch him drive through the hazy streets, but she still loved the whole experience.

The sun didn’t seem to rise without being prodded to do so. No hurry, she smiled. She could see the streetlights still blinking. She saw colour lights shining in New Year’s hangover. Rarely did another vehicle overtake them. If it did, then she trailed the headlights with her eyes, till as far as she could see.

When they crossed West Delhi, there was a marked difference in the quality of the roads they drove over. Wider and smoother. More trees. Lesser vehicles. More speed. Lesser stops. More roundabouts. When they zoomed past the Ridge, she got the scent of a flower that she will forever associate with Delhi winters. The sickly sweet smell, from greenish white blooms, could only be found early mornings or evenings. The scent seemed so delicate that you feel the sun can vaporize it.

The chilly wind stung her eyes after a while. She closed her eyes to moisten them. And when she looked over his shoulder, a few minutes later, she spotted the Cathedral straight ahead. The bulge in his leather jacket, she realized with a smile, was a box of candles. She hopped off the bike and rubbed her blue palms together, while he parked the vehicle and took a moment to adjust his hair by the rear-view mirror.

With a bike ride through the January fog, began their Millennium.

Come September

It is the beginning of the brief autumn that Delhi gets to see. The month brings together heat and cool breeze and your body wouldn’t know whether it should perspire or feel the chill. The leaves fall. Red, brown and yellow. The days begin to shorten. Evening walks end in the dark. Nights are cool. Even coffee tastes better.
I love September.

I stood in the church lawn eager to just go back home now that the Holy Mass was over. A girl comes over and starts chatting. Before I knew it, she took me over to meet her other friends. And just like that, I got into an association that made me most of what I am, today. Countless Sundays of music, fun, friendships, growing pains, and blossoming adulthood...
I love September.

Sitting in front of the computer screen, I realised that I don’t feel the same about him anymore. I wanted to run back to college and tell my pal that. I felt my skin tingle with excitement. Delhi was drenching herself in an unexpected shower. I ran in the rain to let him know that I was in love. First love.
I love September.

Chennai Central must be always this crowded, I mused, while I scanned faces for a friend. In a few minutes time, I would be meeting my father face-to-face. He had been to hell and back, and I was not sure how we would react when we meet. Soon enough, when my friend took me to my father, I ran to him, dropped luggage on the stairs, hugged him tight, not wanting to let go. My father got a new life that month.
I love September.

Close to midnight and I stood washing the last pieces of crockery used. All the other lights were out. A neighbour stood in his balcony, smoking. The night patrol team made their presence known. It was a new house. Slowly transforming into a home for me. What was just a set of empty rooms that echoed whatever I said, had now become a furnished hearth, waiting for my parents to come home to. Next September, probably.
I love September.

And what happened this September?
The brief Delhi autumn began again. The heat and cool breeze and your body wouldn’t know whether it should perspire or feel the chill. The leaves fall. Red, brown and yellow. The days shorten. Evening walks in the dark. Cool nights. Better coffee.

I simply love September.

My Lost Song

Five-year-olds can be tortuous, at times. If they set their hearts on something, they can wail until they finally get it. I was one such kid. She would sing the song to me when I was inconsolable. She would soothe me with the song. Strains of which managed to elude me for many years afterwards. A language that was alien to me, then. The lyrics that did not make much sense to me. But it did calm me.

Years later, when, one hot April afternoon I first saw my ten-month-old niece, she whimpered. I took her in my arms and held her close to me. Out of instinct, I began humming a song for her. The long forgotten song came alive once more. As I sat down and made her lie against my body, and as I struggled with the long-forgotten lyrics, I remembered her.

Sometimes, all it takes is a strain of a lost song to rush back a lifetime for you.
All that we have dismissed to have forgotten are never lost forever.

*I am deeply grateful to Jo’s songs for giving my song back, today.