My short sabbatical to an internet free zone was spent with my nose poking deep into the pages of Down The Road- A collection of short stories by various authors about life on campus, edited by Ahmed Faiyaz and Rohini Kejriwal. What I felt about the book shall come later, but I must share with the readers that I was often found by concerned family members sometimes sharing a ridiculously personal smile, at others a worried pensive stare with the pages of the book. It was not merely because the book was handsomely engrossing. It was certainly because the book shared stories which seemed personal. 


Life on campus is a rigmarole for most of us. It, invariably, occupies a very special place in the chest where we preserve our precious memories. Growing up, finding ourselves, making friends, understanding love, learning, unlearning, failing, trying, enjoying, crying- you look back at college and you find yourself enveloped by a dozen emotions you once lived through, the ones which have played an important part in shaping you as you know yourself today. Quite obviously, I had my hoped pinned high on Down The Road, especially because I am fresh out of DU, and still not quite over the feel of campus life.

The book lived up to its name. Quite effortlessly, it took me down the memory lane. It is a fresh and pleasant collection of short stories by young authors from diverse background and with diverse writing styles. It tells simple tales of incidents we've lived through in school or college. Most of the stories which appealed to me dealt with love and friendship- the discovery, the innocence, the misunderstandings, the whole experience in fact. The book is divided into five sections with 28 stories by 16 authors. The individual authors have explored many different facets of campus life including elections, politics, ragging, teachers, passions, lessons, crushes, placements inter alia.A thumbs up to the editors for selection of stories included in this anthology. Some of the stories will make you smile as you remember the hazy face of that first crush, some others might touch you where you are most sensitive and feel some pain or regret. Narrated with an almost personal tenderness, many of these stories make you reflect on those trivialities which seem to acquire meaning only in retrospect.

What I did not enjoy was the last section of the book, with two essays about campus fiction and campus based movies. I was riding high on the nostalgic atmosphere which the stories created around me, and quite honestly, I did not feel like forcing myself through those passages which seemed a little dry after the wonderful and touching stories. I would give the book 3 on 5 stars. It is worth a read, in fact a few stories are worth reading many times over. Some warmth and some nostalgia you are sure to feel while you involuntarily find yourself living your college days.

My favorite five from the stories published in this anthology-

1. Smells Like Home by Aashish Mehotra
About the reluctant return to his homeland of an NRI student, who experiences comfort in the company of a girl whose presence he takes for granted.
2. Bellow Yellow by Chinmayi Bali
A commendable, mature and intense story about the darker tendencies which inhabit a student's being. Well narrated, delicately handled.
3. The Music Room by Ira Trivedi
The forbidden love story of a bright young student and a docile, out of place music teacher.
4. The Cafe With No Name by Sneh Thakur
A gently narrated tale of the brewing relationship between a student of limited means and a concerned and doting Parsi owner of the roadside cafe. Heartwarming.
5. Remember Me? by Ahmed Faiyaz
This one because it made me revisit Ruheen and Aditya's love story, one I had gotten quite attached to while reading Another Chance.

With the Masterchef India Season 2 drawing towards a finale, I was fearing that my weekends will now acquire a dull hue. Not to be. At the perfect moment was launched the third installment of Dance India Dance, indubitably India's finest and most loved dance reality show. Whether the simplistic original, the cute children's special or the recent doubles- I have followed each episode of all these three variations with frenzied devotion, much to the chagrin of my not-so-enthusiastic-about-dance family members.

Geeta 'Ma'

I carry a little spirit of a dancer in myself. I am not trained, neither very nimble on my feet, yet I can pull off Odissi and Bharatnatyam performances with deceptive ease if I stick to the basics. Learning ballet was a childhood dream, lost sight of in childhood itself. Folk was masti embodied in music, spilling over easily to flamboyant yet graceful dance movements. Dancing for me was like talking to the flowing wind, smiling at almost nothing, and a medium for expressing angst and resentment for things not fine in life. During school time, dancing was perhaps my only workout, the absence of which is my college years was visible in the pounds piling on around my tummy. Eschewing my attachment to each single distinctly remembered performance, I can safely claim that I was happiest when I performed a musical drama as a protagonist beleaguered by the conflict between inner and superficial beauty. My mentor combined elements of puppet dance, jazz and contemporary to create a performance which was lauded and remembered for days to come.

Remo D'Souza- "Gabbar"

Anyway. So today concluded the Mega Auditions of the show ruling my mind, DID Season 3, with the selection of top 18. These have been divided into teams of six to be mentored by three choreographers who are now cult figures- Geeta Kapoor, Terence Lewis and Remo D'Souza. While Geeta Kapoor, more famous as the often jested about sobriquet of Geeta 'Ma', claims all my predilection, it is Remo Ke Rangeele who seem poised to become the favorites once the Gala Round kickstarts on next weekend.

Terence 'stylish' Lewis

For those of us who ridicule dance as a long term career option or write it off as at best a hobby, the auditions of DID Seasons 3 provided some nice background stories to convince us towards a fresher perspective on dance. True, melodramatic flashes into the personal plights of contestants may be a put off when the competition is in full swing and the vote count critical. But during the audition stage, it is these documentaries shot about the personal lives of the contestants which add just enough zing to keep me glued to the television set even during repeat telecasts of the show.

The top five stories which I will try and remember from the auditions of DID Season 3.

1. Furkan- This is a story from the neighbourhood. Uttam Nagar's Furkan is an auto driver's son who earns a daily stipend of Rs. 70 by volunteering for trafiic management of haywire West Delhi roads. Since financial situations at home are bleak, it is from this stipend that Furkan manages to fulfill his needs, primary among which are videos he procures to learn dance. And when this boy comes on stage looking lost, nervous, unsure, but pulls of an astounding Robotics performance wittily choreographed to "Teri tirchhi nazar ne..", you are forced to sit up and take notice.

2. Raj- He comes from Ranchi, has no formal training, but different to most like him who lack a Guru, he does not even have the privilege of watching videos and aping them to train himself. He just has music, an enthusiastic heart which gives him a sense of rhythm, and a talented mind from which originate smart and hilariously entertaining choreography. He couldn't survive the tough DID competition, but upon being eliminated, all he sought was a chance to see his huge portrait decorating the background once to his heart's content. Him, I hope to see again in the next season.

3. Mohina- Or I should say Princess Mohina Singh of the Kingdom of Riva, Madhya Pradesh. One of the few happy stories from the auditions. My reading on royal women informs me of the added restrictions on their movement (and flight) for they carry on themselves the burden of royalty, with izzat and maryada as the ruling keywords. But this princess broke free, and with what charm! Besides her talent, what was heartwarming was to see her father in the background, informing the audience of their traditions, yet standing behind his daughter as she set out to pursue her passion.

4. Pradeep Gurung- When this lad from Guwahati performed an air cartwheel with stylish ease, I stared at the television set in disbelief. He runs a successful dance school back home, but his insistence on making a career out of dance won him disfavor with his mother. He had to move out, has not met his mother in years, misses her, but knows in his heart that if he is able to attain success while following his passion, it is his mother who would be the happiest and proudest of him. His audition performance was dedicated to his mother. Touching. Amazing.

5. Neerav- He was Terence Lewis' assistant in the first two seasons of DID. He participated in this year's auditions without informing his mentor to whom apparently he is really attached. He had wanted to participate earlier, but being the bread winner for his family, continuing with a stable income had been an unspoken mandate on him. This season he felt he was at ease, but some awkward, surprise filled glimpses from his stunned mentor were enough to lead to copious tear showers on the set. His dance was just about okay, but his story, quite compelling.

Pradeep and Mohina are the only ones who have made it to the final leg of the show. I have picked my favorites, but am waiting for the curtain raiser of the gala round to be sure of people I will be rooting for. Until then, I'll keep irritating my folks with this revived penchant for dancing.
:)

The quote I have used as the title to this post I came across in one of the episodes of the musical travelogue- The Dewarists. It intrigued me, and stayed somewhere at the back of my mind. A day back, I used the same as the opening line for a Guest Post I had been invited to write by a blogger friend, Gopan. Guest Post- I had not quite known of this concept, till I came across a few blogs which encourage different writers to come together and air their views on a common portal. On my part, I felt ecstatic at the knowledge that a person who knew me only via my writings wanted a splash of my thoughts on his blog. I was given an absolute free hand to choose the subject of my article, only with the appendage that something on social issues would be slightly more appreciated.

I did not exactly pick a social issue, but something close enough. Like most of us, I too have had a tumultuous adolescence. Growing up had its beauties, but it also gifted me an alternate set of experiences which could baffle, obfuscate, frustrate, anger, depress, irritate, and cause a deluge of many more not-so-positive emotions to infect my brain. Transitioning into adulthood, looking back at the period which has left the most pronounced effects on my current and lifelong personality, I could discover a lot of thoughts inside me which I wanted to put to paper. I have always been a worshiper and admirer of the beauties which lie within subjectivities- and it has always beat me how people care not to appreciate or understand the innate subjectivity each human carries in his demeanour, emotions, psyche,  and (needless to say) in a combination of those three.

My reflections on adolescence as I had experienced it, primarily hinging on the lack of understanding which as adolescents we faced in our times, the impacts of it on our individual and collective psyche- combined with the pathos of the subjectivity which remains most consist in the Universe, waiting to be included, appreciated and not ridiculed, form the broad basis of my article, titled Understanding Them.

The wonderful blogger who invited me to contribute to his portal, quite aptly named My Open Voice, was gracious enough to post my article without any editing on his blog. His name is Gopan. A Kerala resident, soon to be flying to UK to pursue further studies, Gopan, as I found out later is, academically at least, a bright psychologist. I was initially skeptical to attempt a piece of writing which naively touches upon psycho-social contents for the perusal of a psychologist, but his balanced appreciation of the same has left me glad for having done it. I would be happy if my readers would visit the link specified below and give me their feedback, even if it contradicts my beliefs as projected in the article.

Understanding Them 

@

My Open Voice

Coupled with the happiness of having written my first guest post, was the mirth of having completed 100 followers on Nascent Emissions. Thanking each single one of you for all the support you gave, I would specially like to thank Nishant Jain, who, a little after midnight on 3rd January 2012 officially became my 100th follower. For information's sake, Nishant is a dear buddy from school, and had insisted that he be informed as soon as my blog completes 99 followers, so that with a little promptness, he could have the distinction (insignificant, I know) of being the 100th name to be associated with my Nascent Emissions. Graduating to triple figure followers base does feel amazing, and a cup of coffee is what I shall be treating myself with.

 

 

The Christmas tree is said to have its roots in the mysterious concept of the "tree of paradise". Of the more credible stories I have heard about it, one relates to Saint Boniface. Saint Boniface was the patron saint of Germany, a missionary who preached Christianity during the 8th century in the Frankish Empire. A legend of the Christmas tree, perhaps the earliest, relates to the time St. Boniface (Apostle of Germany) was sermonizing against idolatry to a tribe of Germanic Druids. To prove that oak tree was not sacred and inviolable, he fell one on the spot. As the tree toppled over, it crushed everything which came in its way, except for a small fir sapling. Saint Boniface conjectured the survival of the fir as a miracle, and proclaimed it as "Tree of Christ". It thence became a tradition to celebrate Yule Tide by planting and nurturing fir saplings.

As a child, I did insist on buying a glitzy little replica of a Christmas tree which I would decorate with shiny bells and stars humming away "Star of wonder, star of light." I knew many carols in my innocent days, which are now fading away from my memory. One which I remember distinctly still is

Long Time Ago In Bethlehem
So The Holy Bible Says
Mary's boy child, Jesus Christ
Was born on Christmas-day
Hark now hear the angels sing
A new king born today
And man will live forever more
Because of Christmas-day.

This carol has a nice chime to it, which recreates all the memories from my school days, where our teachers genuinely endeavoured to inculcate in us the spirit with which the festival should be celebrated. Whether it was those innocent 'Merry X-Mas' cards we made, or the repeated story telling sessions of 'A Christmas Carol'- there is much I miss as I type out this post with my fingers freezing over the key board. Yes, a nice family dinner, complete with a ritualistic plum cake will form a part of my celebrations. What I do not have this year, though, is a nice Christmas Tree- which I really wanted to decorate and which would have added a glow to the otherwise blanketed by winter, lazy atmosphere of my home.

However, not having the tree is not really making me morose for now. In fact, thanks to the plethora of wonderfully positive statuses I have read since oooo hours on facebook, conveying wishes from virtual unknowns to more unknowns, I have this feeling which has begun to grow on me with surprising intensity. I'm being lulled into believing that occasions like Christmas are to step back and invest time on counting one's blessings and making efforts to preserve and cherish them. The wonderful charisma of the Yule festival does, for some signify the impending close of a year- for others, it brings with itself the optimism of preparing and planning for an altogether, yet untouched new year with promises and opportunities we neither know nor can guess about. More often than not, life becomes pretty or ugly simply by what we choose to see in it. Said a very smart man once- 'Twixt the optimist and pessimist/ the difference is droll/ the optimist sees the doughnut/ the pessimist the hole.

Alright, so now I am happy, and looking forward to not just a day, but a whole week of fun, optimism and celebrations, till I settle down into a new year with some new responsibilities and some old dreams firmly planted in my heart and mind. What is the most beautiful thing about Christmas for me? It is the description defying aura which this festival builds around itself. So powerful is the spirit surrounding the festival, that it ensnares all- who own this festival and those who simply choose to flow along with its bliss. I began my Christmas by making a wish- a secret and seemingly impossible, but a wish nonetheless. Baking a cake is next on my agenda. Calling friends, catching up on missed details will form a sure part of my day today. And when I am done laughing and sharing this festive mirth, a Christmas movie, tucked away in front of the tv in a warm quilt on my couch, would just be great to end my day with. Should it be Its A Wonderful Life? Or, no. Since romance is the flavor of the season, may be Serendipity, with all its lucky coincidences, and faith igniting madness would be a better prescription for my romantic health.

And for all the lovely people I know, and who know me- I wish you a very happy holiday season! I hope you all have the best time of year today, and still better times as more days and years go by. May you create the happiest memories for yourself and others, and learn to value everything of value in your life. Count your blessings, if you are to celebrate the day as I will. May be, share with me what are the things that make you feel blessed, or simply happy for existing. The love and blessings of our parents, the warmth and comfort of near and distant family and the infinite care/concern/love showered on us by a few close friends are the common blessings we all should be happy about. I know I can witness life's largesse in the small blessings it bestows on me. I can imagine my whole  elusive tree in a little fern which serves me more than that tree as a favorite bookmark surviving all the seasons of a year. I'm sure with a little effort you all can see God's infinite  grace too.

Psst...for all my special ones, and you all well know I am talking about you, I do remember you all in my prayers. No kidding. I actually do. 

To end, the SERENITY PRAYER

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,

Courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference."

The kind of happiness an impromptu re-union can give you, its quite unique. We leave our academic abodes- schools and colleges- with loud promises keeping in touch, being integrally involved in each others lives, and always being there, with due emotional emphasis. But by now, all of us have been through and known, that even the most genuine of such commitments are often not able to stand the test of circumstances. We move on. We carry few faces firmly forward with us, but leave a lot many more behind. Often, the people we leave behind are the ones with whom we perhaps shared more intimate association while still in their obvious company. There remains a guilt, but there remains a helplessness.

And this is where the concept of reunions catches steam from. Reunions sound ultra grand- sound like a homecoming of sort; but the more they are planned and ranted on about, the more they fall flat on expectations. When invited to reconnect with people whom you shared your pens, pencils, notes, and your very heart with in one era, you can sometimes feel awkward by the pace with which things and people have moved on. You yourself, of course, being no exception. But when reunions are random and unplanned and impromptu and fixed over sleepy calls at the break of dawn, suddenly the excitement associated with them increases manifold. And then, who land up in your company are friends, who really want to be there with you enough to jump out from bed half dizzy and head towards an old hang out without a second thought. Despite it being a Sunday, they shift, alter, delay or cancel plans to experience that coveted tryst with memories.

And yes, though my ramblings might seem exaggerated at points, they do total justice to each emotion I felt during the course of the day. I studied in Laxman Public School, an institution which remains irreplaceable to my existence and to which I will proudly remain associated till even one known face exists in its precincts. What made one of my routine trips to the school even more special today was the coming together of the best of my friends, after an eon, with all the ease of the good old days. Teachers, building, classrooms- everything/everyone was greeted with the familiar mischief, familiar loudness, and familiar warmth. The day was great, and was made better with the lightness of everyone’s demeanour.

We saw a few changes. We don’t know for good or bad. We ended up criticizing them. Alterations, good/bad, associated with things which have a sentimental value are not always welcome. Traditions are sometimes best left untouched. We also found ourselves a little grown up. We began by indulging in the usual fun-banter about teachers, but ended up apologizing to a few for our unpleasant acts committed while we were too young  and adamant to realize it.

After a great time, albeit reluctantly, we parted ways. This time too, loud promises were made of keeping in touch, being involved, and being available. I am not thinking about that. I am just happy that today was. 

Thank you all, friends and teachers, for making LPS such an awesome experience for me. We might not always be in touch, but our common roots are enough to ensure that we remain connected at some level, always. 

Anjali ma'am. Not just a teacher, but a friend and mentor for life. She stood by me when I felt lonely and dark, and made me learn things which cannot be found in any text books.

With Tyagi Sir and Tyagi Ma'am-the best Chemistry teachers ever! I owe all my boards marks to their strict and disciplined, yet fun teaching.

The 12-A2 gang, collecting outside the school gate. From left to right- Piyush, Nishtha, Tarun, Myself and Mayank

Seema ma'am- junior school math teacher. She was the only one who could make me do math. Later, I only deteriorated.

We do miss you.

The Google doodle today, i.e. 17th September, bears an imprint of perhaps the most intrinsic part of my childhood. I have no memory when I got introduced to Tinkle comics, I just know I used to have a huge collection of them; every single comic prized. Like many other children who grew up with me, I too was into the habit of calling the remarkable creator of these comics as "Uncle Pai", and had a secret resolve that some day, when I am worthy enough, I will have Uncle Pai pat my back. Unfortunately, earlier this year, this enterprising and affable educationist, formally recognized as Anant Pai, passed away. My secret, innocent childhood resolve, struck my mind again, as did the thought that the resolve was best forgotten. Uncle Pai, who had guided me through numerous science projects, given me witty stories to reproduce in class and connected me to many more readers my age via their personal stories, is gone. I always wanted to, but never wrote to him. May be today I should, however silly it seems.

Dear Uncle Pai,

A very happy birthday to you. 

I have been one of your greatest admirers. When I was little, I never understood the manner in which you were enriching my life. Today, I do. In February, when I heard of your demise, I opened the neglected and dust ridden trove of my childhood books, only to glance back at the wonderful comics you made. Those comics did not even adhere to the definition of comics. They were educative, and yet, very interesting. For the most precious years of my young life, I have remained hooked to them.

Wasn't he the cutest?

I had a December ritual of rereading all the issues published during the year in just about a week. It was as if, I did not want any single story to be erased from my mind, so I kept on revising them. This much of dedication I never showed to my class texts- this loyalty was reserved for Shikari Shambhi, Kalia the Crow, Suppandi and Tantri the Mantri exclusively.

In my early days, I never enjoyed Anu Club. I needed to grow up to appreciate the effortless knowledge which came my way even through a very cursory reading of his experiments. My Science Projects, one I definitely remember on Sea Creatures, has been simply copy pasted from the informative features which were sine qua non of these path-breaking and endearing comics.

 
There was this feature, "It Happened To Me", which regularly appeared in Tinkle. Every interesting incident that took place in my life is carefully recorded in my journal, with me each time imagining as if I am writing it to Tinkle and young readers are gasping and laughing at my stories. You, Uncle Pai, made me pursue my diary writing habit with fondness, something of which, I am very proud. However, if today, I were to tell you a story for you to publish in the same column, then I would perhaps tell you of my very old friend, whose name is hazy on the pages of my memory, but whose face I distinctly remember. Some ten years back, he had come to Delhi from Nagaland to pursue the better quality of studies on offer in Delhi. My class teacher made his sit with me, but he never would talk to me. In a week I realized that he was very sad, and lonely; for he acutely missed his family, his friends, his toys. I was sad, and tried to be really good friends with him, but after school, he had nothing to do. No one to talk to, given that he was an introvert. So, I decided that every weekend, I would him give some copies of Tinkle to read- what better friends could there be for a lonely introvert. And this trend became the happiest memory of my bond with him. When he left school, he thanked me profusely, not for my friendship- but for sharing those comics. The excitement in those pre-teen eyes for getting some new copies of Tinkle to read still warms my heart.

The letter is long, but it won't end without me expressing remorse, and giving you a promise. The famous Amar Chitra Katha series you published- I could never lay my hands on it. I did, however, hear about the uniqueness of those books at introducing nascent minds to the royal mythology of our country which spreads much beyond just the staple epics- Ramayana and Mahabharata. I feel sorry for myself, as I had to take more circuitous routes, read more arduous texts to understand the same mythical stories which you told so simply through your inimitable story telling skills. I do, however, promise, that when I have children, the first books I would introduce to them would be your books.I hope my copies of Tinkle survive by then. And I earnestly hope that Amar Chitra Katha is still sold then by benevolent bookseller who are already facing competition from the electronic world. 

Uncle Pai, I hope your legend lives on.
I sign off as a little member of this huge extended family you created.

Saumya.

Vasavadattas story- in Uncle Pai's peerless style

 

It all began with this photograph. Madhuri Dixit in a Marylin Monroe avataar. I first saw this photograph some years back. I was amused for a while, and then fell in love with it. Today morning, I came across it again. It lent me warmth, and a familiar smile. And then some sadness. Splashed across all newspapers is the dismal news of passing away of the most iconic photographer Bollywood has ever been testimony to, someone, who will be forever hard to find a parallel of. Gautam Rajadhyaksha. A name which is reverential for upcoming photographers; a person, the shock of whose sudden demise was more than palpable as I opened my twitter account to check random updates. 

I am not much of a follower of photography. However, a die hard fan of Bollywood I incorrigibly am. Along with many others, Madhuri Dixit has been among my top childhood obsessions; someone like whom I wanted to dance, and smile, and even act. Collecting photographs of favorite Hindi Cinema stars was a charming occupation while we were still kids. This picture, and another one carrying a fresh from sleep, yawning Salman Khan, are fond favorites, both iconic, both clicked by the master himself- Gautam Rajadhyaksha. 

I googled him, his photography, and arrived at some unmissable photographs. Gone are those days when we would endeavor to neatly cut out favorite pictures from newspapers and magazines, and daintily paste them in happy scrapbooks, along with footnotes murmuring of our playtime obsessions for years after. Now we just log onto Google, click on images, and have the whole universe of images unfold right before our eyes. I did the same, and found some portraits which I would want to paste here, as memories of a man I did not know, but whose art has has more than mesmerized my eyes. A small ode to a great artist.

Simplicity at its best. Is there any other instance we remember of seeing the sisters share a melodious laughter with such a candid ease?

The sensuous beauty, Rekha, reminiscent of some ancient queen, some Indian Goddess.

Smita Patil- her beauty and grace has over powered me for ages. I bet this is one of the photographer's personal favorites.

Hailed as one of his best works. Shows the master batsmen conquering the world; the ball being symbolic of just the same.

Salman, as he looked in his nascent days. At that time, I have fantasized about him.

I just sat there on the carpet. Quiet. Leaning against the Deevan. My head, cuddled in my own arms, rested on it. My legs folded. Lips curved into a smile. A thousand thoughts in my heart. No words on my lips. Just a smile. And a very special person, sitting very close by.


This was me. Two nights ago. It was me, unlike me. I am known to be garrulous. I am extremely (in)famous for elevating the levels of irascibility of people close to me through my incessant chattering. I enjoy talking. I enjoy talking because I enjoy sharing. Unfortunately, for a really long period in life, I thought talking was the only way of sharing. I could not have been more wrong. Someone very special taught this to me.


This special someone is a very reticent person by nature. As a child, it was this very trait of his which irritated me most about him. When I grew up, I realized that this reticence was perhaps a strength which accentuated his personality like nothing else. He is a person I am veritably, crazily in love with. And he is one of those whose love is accessorized by a silent sharing of thoughts. My extremely special bond with him is carved out of sublime understanding sans words. Of late, what I have begun enjoying the most about us is our silent companionship- the deep knowledge that we're around each other even if we cannot hear each other.


'Silence is Golden'-we've all read this note prominently displayed in our school libraries. (My college library did not have one, they simply chucked us out if we as much as uttered a word). However, the silence which accessorizes love is better described as 'silver'. This silence lingers around you, helps you realize the value of your company, makes the thousand thoughts scurrying in the insides of your heart come to a rest, and still, it never ostentatiously stares you in the face. It, as I said, gently lingers around you. It is a comfort factor. Anyone with whom you don't share a comfortable relationship, you would never be able to share fond moments of silence with. Silence, then, might irk, for you would, most of the times, will be lost in a guessing game.

Any relationship begins by talking, matures with understanding, and stabilizes at the point where two people can sit together, not uttering a word, and still be glad at the time they break away from each other for having lived, perhaps the most perfect and memorable of moments together. It happened with my two nights ago. I was, as I said, with a very, very special person. Just so the romanticism of the narration is not misconstrued, I must mention that this special someone is my elder brother, cousin actually, who filled that void in my life which did make me crib ceaselessly as a small girl. While I would be crying silently to myself as I saw other girls of my age being pampered by their elder brothers, cursing my luck for not having one of my own, this person was always around. Looking out for me. Watching over me. He just never spoke much. Dumb me, I construed the lack of words on his part as his absence. He, in fact, has had the longest, strongest, and fondest   presence in my life; more than anything, a presence which I can blindly rely on, a presence which dispels any insecurities characteristically borne out of extreme levels of attachment. I know he'll be there. And he'll be taking care of me.


He's given me everything a real brother could have and should have. That too, sitting at a distance. I, proudly commanded a tiny portion of his first salary. He, even before it was in sight, promised me the first gift he would give out of his 'own' money. He looks after all my needs. A single phone call, and they are all answered. He'll never question me. He's is subtly protective of me; I, aggressively so. I can't have anything hurt him. At times I wish I never came to know of things not so fine in his life. Yet, whenever he shared things with me, gloomy or happy, I could not help but feel a little proud. Of all the people close to him, he chose me. Call me thrasonical. I'd still feel equally happy.


We talk a lot on phone, but forget how to interact once in each others company. What cannot be found amid chatter, is comfortably perceived in silence. It is through him I categorically understood how we need silence to touch the heart of people close to us. Most special moments of my life flashed behind my eyes. The feelings generated by them wafted upwards from where they were buried in my memory. And I felt happy. And thankful. Thankful for many special moments life has bestowed on me. Most thankful for the one when I walked a long distance holding the hand of a very special friend. We were talking, and I remember nothing of it. I only remember how it felt. True, people will not remember what you said or you did, but they'll always remember how you made them feel. Feelings like this are best assimilated when your lips are shut and your heart talks. Those feelings shimmered like silver through my eyes. Once again, I felt infinitely happy.


Silence makes the real conversation between friends. Not the saying but the never needing to say is what counts.

In advance, of course

Its my birthday in about two hours from now. In a very usual, nonsensical fashion, I await this day with a lot of excitement. Its not that my birthdays are massive celebrations which the whole city comes to know about. Its not that my birthdays are those unique occasions when all my acquaintances converge at one place and profess how special I am to them. They are just average days; but they are average only on the outside. Inside me, a whole feeling of rather justified but inexplicable happiness is galloping. I find it so fantastic to be existing, even more fantastic that it was 'this' particular day I saw the world, and the world saw me. It is easily one of those amazing days I can call my own, my exclusive, and keep flashing those wide silly smiles which I just like to flaunt forever, most of the times without reasons.

No one paints the town red for me, but yes, everyone does go one extra mile ahead to make me feel loved, to lend me that extra smile. Teasing and taunting does, for once, take a back seat- my birthday is a day none can find faults with me, none can mock at me. Contrary to tradition, I don't treat friends, they treat me; as if in their own subtle way communicating that they would unburden me whenever life becomes to cumbersome. There are people sitting in distant corners of India, who effortlessly, and remarkably make me feel intimate to them merely through power of their enchanting words. It happens just once a year, on my birthday, that everything that everyone speaks seems to be trimmed to perfection for me. My usually restrained friends do not stop my from uttering lame (but meaningful) 'I love yous' to them. Rather, despite my day being totally non alcoholic, the most amazing mushy and cheesy, and all of my most coveted words are thrown in profusion at me. Yes, this is perhaps the sole day I am not ridiculed for being ultra cheesy. My cheesiness is, ah well, if not appreciated, is at least tolerated with grace. 

All this, and much more. If I try the grand perspective, my birthdays are just ordinary. If I try the humble perspectives, birthdays cannot get grander than this. As a little child, I was starved for the attention which my other friends got while they celebrated their special days in school. They distributed toffees to my classmates, we sang an ill chorused 'Happy birthday to you', and the teachers blessed them, often gave them little chocolates out of their purse, leaving me enormously jealous. My birthday, falling at the height of summer, never entitled me to such pleasures. Summer break. However, my parents adequately made up for it. My mother prepared the most sumptuous delicacies, all my favorites, all made with the culinary dexterity uniquely attributable to my mother. My day has been always blessed with those characteristic power cuts which nearly everyone in Delhi starts dreading at the very onset of summer. If there is one thing that has not altered all these years, it is the consistency with which power cuts try their mighty best to hinder our routines. But nothing would dampen my birthday. Now in stead of candles just on my birthday cake, there would be candles all around in the house. Candlelight birthdays during the cruelest of summers are not exactly a romantic prospect. But they were what I got, and I made sure I enjoyed them

Yes, I did not have a lot of friends to share my day with, as most of them were away on vacations by now; but what I did have on my birthday was the company of my cousin brother, the only definition of a friend I had known for fairly long in life. Summers would mean his annual visits to Delhi from Mumbai. My birthday would mean an excuse be treated as I wanted to from him. 

A delicious nostalgia climbs its way right into my eyes now as I remember those days of carefree childhood. I, then, did not associate much with my birthday, except for the once a year opportunity to be with him, be with my best friend. Funny how we drifted apart, but such things are inevitable and uncontrollable. Now the world, and its dimensions are altered, enlarged. My birthday brings a hundred different expectations, excitements, and a lingering smile. But perhaps, that time was more special when my birthday brought nothing but him to me. 

(Back from nostalgia. First call for my birthday. It has to be my Mausi, one blessing in my life. She is habituated to wishing people a day in advance for their birthdays, and she does not forget to wish anyone, ANYONE. Ever.)

Below- few frozen frames from my childhood. 

Me and Ayush. He looks incredibly cute.
The banana just spoils it for me.

Ayush-solo.
He was the first love of my life.

Finally, me.
Trust me, I have much better pics.