Coming of age in most oblivious ways

My grandfather once gifted me a Ray-Ban, when I was not concerned about its authenticity; I was seven if my memory serves me correctly. I clung to it for years and cared for it like I wouldn’t care for an authentic one today.

Digitization hadn’t crept in yet. My grandfather used to type his way at work. When I visited him at his office, he had all sorts of files and papers at his desk, ornated with stamps of various shapes and sizes. I liked to see him type. The sound of the typewriter clicks and ding of the carriage return felt musical to my ears. On my lucky days, even I got to type my name on the white sheets.

We used to go for walks in the tourist-struck Mall Road, Mussoorie. I had learnt to flaunt those pair of stylish sunglasses back then. I was so fond of them that I sported them until the night dawned and it became impossible to see anything.

We frequently visited small restaurants in the suburbs. My grandfather bought me sweets, and I used to have my fill. There was a particular brand of biscuit that cost him two bucks, and I was more than happy to have it.

My father travelled across India, not out of passion, but his job took him. In those days, I used to write inland letters to him. I filled in half the portion of the letter with my wishlist of insane stuff. I remember once I asked for six kinds of cricket balls and four types of bats. I guess I considered him Santa who’s going to bring me what I wish. I didn’t even think how he would carry all those things along with his luggage. I had not watched a cricket match back then, but I was a fan. That was the hype. Men liked and played cricket.

I see my grandfather now. I wish I could be more close to him in person.

I am in my late twenties now. During festivals and other special occasions, our house floods with sweets of several varieties. They remain in the refrigerator for days and is eaten gradually, to be thrown out at last for fear of food poisoning. The two bucks biscuit did quite well though and managed to stick around until now.

My wishlist shrunk in all these years. And, today I don’t even have a wishlist.

The transition was so gradual that I never paid heed. When I look back in time, I notice everything.

It was my oblivious mind that never let me feel it, and I came of age.

 

 

 

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The college canteen.

It had suddenly started raining after a drought-like week. The whole campus came out of their accommodations to enjoy the beautiful weather. It was also the time of Ashwin’s evening tea. He put his cigarettes and lighter in his shorts pocket and tagged along with his group of friends.

The college campus was a paradise, full of like a million trees, and always imbibed in energy. One could find all the types of people in the world inside the campus.

The shopping complex had gotten overcrowded as an aftereffect of the rain. People were sipping the famous Irani chai which could hypnotize anyone on a rainy day. It was like all the girls had saved their most shiny dresses for this particular occasion.

Flirts were flirting, stalkers were stalking and there were some serious love proposals being made. Everyone seemed so bright that day.

Ashwin went inside the complex to catch a snack. She was there with a friend. But, she was strolling alone, checking things out.

Ashwin hadn’t felt a wave in a long time. He looked at her and couldn’t stop looking.

She met his eyes and after a small, inoffensive stare both looked away. He picked up whatever he could gather and went to the counter where she was still standing, checking out some muffin packets.

The shop was crowded and he felt weird introducing himself. So, he just uttered, “You look nice”, in a way so that she listens to it and he could still pretend that he is shopping.

She smiled.

Suddenly everybody seemed so impatient to pay the bills and stroll out. The bill counter was getting way lot of requests and some people had to move back to make space.

She moved back towards him. They were so close that he could smell her hair. She was still smiling. And, Ashwin’s heart was pounding heavily.

He was smiling all throughout that evening while his friends kept discussing major research topics and politics.

He woke up late the next morning. Last night’s paper writing went up to 4 a.m. Half-slept, half-hungry, he was stroking his bicycle pedals fast to reach the laboratory. He jumped on to the breaks when he saw her pedalling alone towards her classroom.

He stopped close to her and asked, “Mind some tea?”. She said, “Yes”.

 

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Parting

The walk home took about 30 minutes if you could brisk walk. Sunny, usually didn’t like running for no reason. The steep Landour hill required an extra boost. When he was young his mom used to pick him up from school. At the start of the school this year, when winters ended in Mussoorie, he especially told his mother, “Mom, I am gonna be alright. You don’t have to come pick me up from school. And, I don’t like the lunch delivered either.” His mom took a deep breath. She knew this was coming. It would’ve been too early for her anytime.

Mussoorie was cool, I should rather say cold. You gotta take a quilt and a blanket to pass through the night. And, the mornings were freezing too. When you’ve got a convent school at 9 a.m, you gotta be at school by 8:45. Sunny was there by almost 8 every day. The swings served him a great deal. At the expense of time, he got quite gymnastic with them. In days, he could curl his body like he didn’t know he could.

Sunny has a gleaming personality; he had this aura surrounding him that attracted the keen eyes. He was carefree. They called him an introvert. He was totally choosy when he picked someone to talk to.

Sunny waited for the exam time as those were the days when he could get an early leave from school. He loved wandering and going back at a slow pace to his home. Sometimes he and one of his home-walk friend would take a detour and go through the back side of the city. That route had a tree which looked like a human with both hands raised in the air. It used to fascinate Sunny. It was kinda scary, yet harmless. It was more like an obscure saint to him.

Sunny wasn’t fond of the rains. They were gloomy. They took away the spirits of the town until they stopped. Sunny preferred an umbrella. He didn’t like wearing a raincoat and feeling like an alien.

There were two faces of Mussoorie. One, which acted as a facade for the tourists, where all the world went. It was the glamorous version. Video game parlours and overly fancy eateries were quite prevalent. It was where girls strolled in short skirts and had ice cream cones on chilly evenings. Slush kept rolling in machines. People paid huge bucks to look at the nearby Dehra valley from the telescope.

The other face was where people actually dwelled. It was the non-glamorous version. You’d see people on the roads and you’d know where they live. It was very different from the buzz of the Mall road. It was like a huge family of sorts. Children used to play with marbles and cricket balls made out of old socks. Collecting twigs and wood for Holi celebration was a wonderful adventure. Your school teacher and your mother would chat like women while they knit sweaters. And, it was peaceful.

Love is at its peak when the parting is near. Sunny was growing up with his siblings. His father had recently felt that they need to move to the nearby city to look for better opportunities. However necessary it was, Sunny didn’t like the idea. He never realized when Mussoorie had started living inside him.

He hadn’t experienced a real heartbreak yet. Parting from Mussoorie would be his first one. He is going to miss the landscapes of Lal Tibba, the bluish exposure of the serene Landour mornings, the calm faces and those starry nights. He will miss it all.

Years later Sunny is a grown-up man. He had thought that Mussoorie will go out in some time. But, it stayed. Still, today whenever he gets the time he visits his love. He learned to let go at a very young age. And, because he let go, their love stayed.

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Acceptance

It pained him when the memories trickled down like sweat on a hot sunny day, the vicious chill of the emotions. It was a burden that he had borne for so long. Though he was carrying on, yet the memories were weighing him down and making his steps heavier.

There was a lake nearby and he had lost a lot of water. His mouth and his eyes have both gone dry. It was pointless crawling under the baggage when he could run. He just had to shed it off.

This lake was magical. It could take away all your past memories if you drank from it. But, it also disappeared as the sun went down. He was craving for water more than anything right now. He wouldn’t last another day.

Once embroidered moments in all the shiny glitters, his memories have just caused him pain since then. He had grown so fond of them that even though they broke him, he couldn’t let them go. He thought he could live it the same in his memories.

He crossed the damn hot sun in bare skin, burning all along. He had reached the lake.

Standing close by he stared at his reflection in the waters. He could see a bright young man with potential, but the memories didn’t settle. They kept dancing inside his mind in all their bad moves.

“It is time”, came a voice from inside.

He drank from the lake. He smouldered, he cried, and then he accepted.

 

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Tomorrow

The facade of the five-storied looked dilapidated. The paint had formed a crust on the outer walls, and the building looked naked. He passed several multi-storied commercial structures with fancy exteriors and flamboyant interiors to reach his destination. A dark yellowish muddy water was flowing in the outer lane. He had to gallop past that to reach the entrance. He was flaunting his best attire for the interview, and this looked far below expectations. He pressed the elevator button, and it creaked. Suddenly he had an ominous sensation that the elevator will give way when he steps in. He fought the thought and reminded himself of the objective. This was his fifth interview in the past three days. He had graduated a few months back, a degree out of circumstances rather than interest. He had finally decided that it’s high time if he wants to realise his dreams.

He has been here before,
Into the surrealism of the dream long known.
With wings to fly, and a spirited drive.
He never gave in, never too bold to try.
The song was sung for a while,
To yield in and die.

He came out on the fifth floor; the stench choked his nostrils. It was worse on the inside. A bulky, dark-skinned woman was sitting behind a desk, which looked nothing like a reception. She was in her mid-twenties but looked older. She had the expression of an overworked and underpaid professional. When she saw him enter, she gathered her best possible fake smile as a token of welcome. He returned his practised smile and inquired about his meeting schedule. She jumped through her laptop keys and mumbled something on her hand-held. He was asked to wait for a while. He sat on the couch nearby and scrolled through some old magazines. His anxiousness increased. He had been rejected a lot in the past few days, and he wanted a launching platform to start. His spirits were low, and it showed on his face.

The winters are on the surge in Mussoorie. He is standing outside the varsity gate waiting for his friends. He had just stepped on his teens; overflowing vigour characterised him. He was of medium height, though he yearned for more. The early beard hair was showing up, and he flaunted them, feeding for attention. Then he sees her with her beautiful pearly eyes. She wore black pants and a navy blue t-shirt with a brown blazer. Her white home-woven muffler was keeping her warm. She had a puff of disregard on the tip of her nose, a rebel without a cause. A slender body and curly hairs added to her beauty. She wore Kohl on her brown eyes, and they glittered in the sun like a chest of gold. She looked a true Taurus; determined and adamant. Her blazingly gorgeous beauty stood her apart.

He was timid, but this was a different day. She was standing there, not concerned with anything that surrounded her and this caught his attention. In his newfound confidence, he moved forward, and a sudden rush flowed through his veins. They were neighbours who always ignored each other passing through the streets. He said in a puberty-hit hoarse voice, ” Hi, I didn’t know I’d see you here”. She was dumbfounded, yet she gathered herself. “Do you know my name?”, she smiled. He couldn’t take his eyes away from her smiling face. In those brief moments of her smile, he had decided that he always wanted to see her like that.

When she spoke, he smiled, and her words felt like the droplets of rain on the dried-out land. When she smiled, his eyes showered with happiness. She had become the focal point of his life. He fell in love.

Usually, love before 20s is pure and tender. There are no expectations, no desires, no selfishness, just pure love. There are no parameters of compatibility, monetary matters and even the calculation of the probability of living together. This love is not cautious. It is not an arrangement or a pact.

The receptionist returned, breaking his air of thoughts. He was called in for the meeting. He collected himself and went into the chamber of the publisher. The publisher was a shabby looking middle-aged man with a weak built. His face looked hidden inside the unattended hair growing from his scalp and face. He was sporting thick glassed spectacles which looked good on him. The meet went on.

The downward trip in the elevator was no fun. The creaking was even scarier now. It reminded him of the creaks he had witnessed in his roller-coaster life. Having developed an early interest in writing, he started well. He was 7 when he jotted down his first words. If happiness is what everyone seeks, he had realised very early what his happiness is going to be. A spark had ignited inside him, and it will poke him all his life to commit.

He had tried blending in but always remained obscure to the understanding of others. His perceptions and observations were different. Or, he believed in speaking his heart. Of late he had picked up silence to his rescue. He could not talk about things which he did not relate to.

He found solace in writing. In time, he could write about his new experiences with life, pain and loss, the heartbreak, the insecurities, the joyous thunders, the silence, and the strengths.

He had met many publishers, but nobody seemed excited with his unconventional writing style. Many suggested him to write mainstream, the prominent genres. He could not comply. Without his natural style, he would be soulless. The thirst of his soul can only be quenched by the words that he put in. He did not take it just as a career choice, rather he was following his dreams and the struggles followed him.

The dream never vanished. It had many ways to extract the unprecedented emotions out of him. He was overjoyed at times just at the thought of realising it; other times he had a sunken feeling when he was moving far away to get closer to it, a tomorrow he had always imagined. He didn’t judge, he observed. Life happened, and he could not be regular in his endeavours. Years were flying by him, and the realisation that he had not moved forward was very unsettling. The fears crept in and out and left him hollow.

He left the building and waited outside for a cab. The mercury levels were sore, but the cab ride was soothing. The breeze hitting his face calmed down his nerves, and another memory flashed.

A part of him died the day she left him. It had inflicted enormous pain on him back then, and it was still painful whenever she crossed his mind. It starts when he remembers her unmatched beauty and persona, slowly transcending to the realisation that she was not with him. For many years he had crawled in his bed waiting for the night to end. The tears never came out but slowly made him devoid of emotions. He smouldered, and the pain made him stronger but machine-like.

The day passed casually, in thoughts of the course of his life, the turns it was taking and shaking him up at all the speed thwarts. He lit a cigarette to get past the thoughts. He had every leisure in that small room of his, but it lacked vigour. He was a nocturnal and daytime projected itself to him as the unproductive phase. He started when the night started gaining strength. The soothing sensation of the moon inspired him and calmed him down. A solitary creature of the night, he kept awake, thinking. He started, then hit a baulk, then restarted and often came up with some magical words. He lived for such moments; however few they were now.

He relished his evening tea with another cigarette. He had often questioned his ability, but the answer kept him going. The sun was going down and leaving its traces through the last edges of the door. With the dying sun, his spirits rose. And he set out on his trip into the unknown, buried bounded emotions within, overflowing to be crafted into words. When the moon rose, he knew he had found a companion to guide him into a tomorrow of dreams.