I am good with nostalgia. Really good. I can feel nostalgic about almost everything I have had an association with. For the past three years, I created an illusion around me. An illusion of having grown up. Growing up with an ability of tear-free moving on. So far, the illusion did not seem treacherous. The numerous farewells conducted in the college- in music society, the Economics Department, WSDC, and the big-grand-college farewell itself- none of them could lead to even an allusion of moisture in my eyes. It was so different from the school farewell, where I shed an epic amount of tears, right from the beginning, till the very end, and may be later as well. But now, as I graduated out of college, it seemed like the most natural course of things- not even for a second was I in denial. Everyone graduates, some with smile, some with copious tears, some with fondness, some with grudges- I think I was largely impassive. And that was because the emotions had not yet knocked on my door.

"I'll miss you"- this one sentence, when spoken at the end of a seven minute conversation, by a diminutive figure with benign eyes and a humble disposition, a person who epitomized respect, diligence and everything astute during college life, a lecturer who made you want to study, can make even the most somnolent feelings of loss which thus far you had been suppressing away to an obscure corner of your heart come alive. Dr. Ela Trivedi- this name was reverential in college. It still is. And after a rigorous lecture in International Trade to the nascent third year students, as she stepped out of Room 308 yesterday when I visited college, I could realize, with force that too, what will never come back to me after embarking on a journey beyond college. She meant well, inquired meaningfully, did not show any hurry- in short, she sent my way every emotion which did not reek of the slightest formality and which made me realize the strength of my association with this grand institution called Jesus and Mary College- its grandeur more palpable now when I look back as a spectator, not a part.

As she walked away, a faint tear did try to force its way out of my eyes. I wanted to just walk over to the fabled 308 balcony- where naps were taken, fests planned, books read, notes completed, rains enjoyed, gossip sessions held, secrets confided, sadness shared, photo-sessions undertaken- and spend a quiet moment with myself. May be I once again wanted to look down at the parking lot and guess by looking at the assortment of cars which teachers would definitely be inside college. May be I just wanted to stare at the JMC gate and imagine my friends approaching the building, their hand waving fondly at me. Or may be I wanted to just look at the sky and seek an answer to "Where now, what now?"

Yes, my heart did feel heavy, but it felt alive too. I was on a well deserved leave out of the plush corporate ambiance of Gurgaon offices, and breathing in the odours of familiar corridors of JMC. These were the corridors to which we were expelled when we forgot to carry a Sydsaeter and Hammond or an Allen Webster to class, and these were the corridors from which we shouted out desperately to get that one extra attendance when our lecturers did actually expel us. Now the same corridors were brimming with faces, both familiar and unknown. Around ten of these faces came forward to give me the extra-special hugs, typical to the kind of bonding which develops amid JMCites. Two of these faces held my hand and dragged me to the quiter corners of the college to ask, share, discuss everything that came to their mind. I don't know for how long they will, but right now, my juniors do miss me. They wanted to tell me so much, ask me so much- and all I could do was to apologize for the dearth of time. In this one day respite I got from buying and selling currencies(my current occupation), I had to live at least a thousand more moments which office life heartlessly deprives me of. It does, of course, more than compensate by giving me fun moments of a different kind; but the charms of the carefree yet responsible college life do inveigle me as of now.

Remembering the highs, consciously forgetting the lows, I write from this room which sequesters me from the travails of the life being led and the uncertain future to follow. I am, right now, allowed the luxury if being engulfed by memories which make me smile into nothingness. And as I do so, I remember faces
My professors-irrespective of the way we opined in college, they were not just the best professors, but sometimes, more than just professors. Friends do tag along, but these are the real treasures we leave behind.
My mentors- Nivya Nair and Swati Iyer- two seniors who lent me that knowledge of music which I never had the luxury of understanding..and they helped a lost kid find some comfort, some solace.
My juniors- they just made me feel like the most special person in college. The respect and the love I got, and I still get, leaves me indebted.
My friends- few,  but prized.
My best friends- fewer, but mine for life.

PS- And the book-shop wale uncle. I don't think anyone in the college can function without his kindness. I owe him so much, monetarily. Hopefully, my first salary will lessen the debts. Only the monetary debts. The near filial benevolence he showed, how can I ever pay back for that?

It is not often that I am compelled to express my disappointment with things. However, of all the things, this time, a little book left me disappointed. Books are ideally supposed to elevate me from whatever lows I am traversing through. This time, the reverse of it happened. And I do not reckon I am overstating even a bit. It was a book which I almost bought about ten times, but a quick calculation of the sum left in my already very light wallet had I actually bought it prevented me from doing so. Why I wanted to buy it? Simply because it appealed to my eyes. Its cover is a remarkably attractive shade of purple, with a title that would certainly make the non-guilty fans of chick-lits like me salivate. "Hello, I Love You, Good Bye"- Now I know that being in love with chick-lits is kind of derogatory for people who call themselves devotees of literature, but for once, just think yourself to be a fan, or at least fond of these light, funny and romantic tales and imagine how imaginative this title can make you. It certainly influenced me, to my huge despondency but.

For all those who looked down upon me when they caught me reading this supposed chick-lit, let me tell you, its not. Okay fine. My fault. I should have checked. It is not even proper fiction. What am I saying? It is not fiction at all. Not a story, but a travelogue. Now, travellogues should be exciting, shouldn't they? This one was not, because of the anachronistic setting. This book is the tale of  world odyssey undertaken by the protagonist, the author himself, who does only a decent job of creating imagery of the places he visits. Quite frankly, his travels would not even enthrall you for the lack of imaginative element if you do not occasionally flip over to the black and white photographs he has made the effort of including. Having said all of this, what I did truly enjoy were

1.the little anecdotes littered here and there in the book suggestive of the human touch which subtly binds the world together,

2. the learnings acquired by experiences both harsh and sweet,

and,

3. the travels near and within the subcontinent, which despite belonging to an anachronistic global political scenario sounded familiar- closer home.

Wondering what such a catchy title has got to do with a tale of travels? Well, the most genuinely deserved compliment I can bestow on the author is for the choice of title, which, in the most laconical manner establishes the very essence of the predicament and desires carried by the author in his heart throughout the narration. Apologizing for the unavoidable usage of slang henceforth, this is the story of a frustrated and hapless and indecisive man, who looks forward to screwing a female at every stop during his journey, but for reasons too many to remember, is never able to. His interactions with women- sometimes fellow tourists, sometimes arcane locals, and at other times plain whores,- somehow remain restricted to saying a hello, building a conversation, and developing feeling. The next step towards the actual act invariably ends up in a dejection- a goodbye- sometimes fond, sometimes difficult. And, at every such encounter he is reminded of his (assumed) lady love back home, who for her own insecurities had rejected his proposal before the beginning of his expedition, but he is positive that one day, probably at the end of his trip, he will win her back. Does he? I would not tell, for I do not know. It is a tiny book, which for the lack of intrigue even after reading 80% of it, I had to abandon before the climax. Of the story of course. Oh, just to mention, this lady love of his, he did not have any luck with her too. That is where it all started, you see.

As for rest, I would request you not to be fooled by the very beguiling book jacket, which you will come across many a times at local book stands. The popularity of Mr. Steve Reichstein authored memoir may be guessed from the fact that a google search yields not even a single review- good or bad- of this book. Mine is the first. If  you do happen to google it, you might just be tempted to assume I am lying, for you will come across the review of a book called Hello, Good Bye, I Love You but please, do notice the subtle difference in the title. This one is not the tale of a frustrated traveller, but a 'touching tale of a guide dog for the blind', as one the review quotes it.

Read at your own peril.

:)

Friday
11:30 am
Tower 9A
Cyber City
Gurgaon


Here I am, sitting in the office with a fork in my left hand poised to attack the wonderfully delicious looking maggi which rests in a plate on my desk. My right hand, now tired of typing numbers continuously since an eternity is lazily howering over alphabets, keen to put my thoughts into words. Right over my head hangs a bunch of white and red balloons, attached to some glittering strings of decorative curtains extending all across the office. They were put in place to surprise our boss, whose birthday was celebrated with much gaity last evening after work. The chocolate trufle cake from Barista and the informal atmosphere the celebrations created left with me fond memories from my first week at work.

Yes, it has now been a week since I have been coming to work. Work is a big word. I have not exactly been working. I have been toiling hard, alright. Have been tiring myself. But whatever definition of work be applied- I am not working for sure. I have been honing up my typing skills. I have been trying to get ease with numbers. I have been lending an eager ear to office gossip, which truly lives upto its reputation of being an ultimate entertainer in what would otherwise be a drab office feel. I have been meeting people, lots of them- batch-mates, seniors, watchmen, cooks, etc- and learning, or simply fooling around. I have been clandestinely peeping into my favorite web content from office- my actions surreptitious for we, officially, are not supposed to be doing so. I like it here. It is warm and comfortable and friendly. I can sit idle and think. I can gulp down unrestricted amounts of free caffeine. And I like the work. I really do. Skepticism inducing thoughts about my future do often manifest, but the excitement of doing what I am doing comfortably washes that away.

Reclining back on my chair, as I lazily stare at the ceiling, my eyes gleam with the reflection of red and silver bunting adorning the entire ceiling. I cannot help getting dreamy, especially after someone texted me that it is raining in Delhi. I miss being out. I do not totally abhor being locked away in the corporate ambiance on the eleventh floor of a majestic tower in the heart of Gurgaon's Cyber City, but I would have liked to be out. I would have liked to be sitting in the Central Park if its not wet, or beside the huge picture window in the Janpath McDonald's, and reading the umpteenth number of time the weather beaten copy of Wuthering Heights. Or, I would have been writing a story, about a girl, lost among the alleys of love and longing. Or would have simply been gazing at the pearl dotted window, glistening with trickling down raindrops, with my hands cupped around a cup of Cappuccino, its aroma filling me with fondness. One thought leads to the other, and against a backdrop of cacophonous sounds emanating from the idle chatter of my colleagues, I again start pondering over the forbidden question of how right or wrong my decision of taking up this profession was. I would have definitely been happier at a few other places, had things happened the way I planned. But that is the beauty which life presents. Plans do not always become reality; except for those of us who are resolute enough to tilt even the heavens in their favour. We often have to make the most of what comes our way. I think that is what I am trying to do at present. And I think I am doing well. 


Balloons and Caffeine. That sums up my first week at work.

Flowers- to say 'thank you'

Ritually, as soon as I log on, I open my Gmail account in the first tab and then display Nascent Emissions in the immediate next tab. Its like I cannot do without seeing my blog page opulently displayed on my computer screen less than twice a day. As for more, there is no limit. Of late, one of the fetishes to have become for me a source almost unfailing alacrity is an involuntary scroll down the blog window to the Comment Box. This box has without disappointment been providing me with the most kind of words which I in no way feel worthy of. Nevertheless, since modesty is not my forte, I smile, laugh and sometimes even jump when people I least expect leave some words of appreciation which just make my day. A big, heartfelt thanks to all of you. When skepticism related to my writing begins to take seed in my head, positive feedback from all of you  simply weeds it out. It is not like a hundred comments litter after my blog posts- but whatever humble number of comments I get, I assure you, they are deeply valued. 


Very specifically, a very earnest and warm thank you to Vrinda Aggarwal, Aavika Dhandha, Achint Mathur, Aakriti Mallik, Nikita Sailesh, Bhargav, Mayank Saroha, Shakuntala Ma'am, Dipesh Mittal, Pallak Jagga, Namit Joshi, Sushruti Tripathi and Snigdha Menda for always keeping my spirits up.


However, there are a few of my coy friends, who routinely leave their feedback to me in a more personal manner- through text messages or mail. I do not understand why they do it; I would much rather have them express themselves here. Anyway. Its not important. Important is that they let me know what they felt, they recognize it is important to me. And, receiving feedback is most important to me when my blog posts are dedicated to someone (they most often are), from that someone. While rummaging through the now yellowing pages of my diary, I stumbled upon this comment left for me via a personal source by someone very special. It is pasted below. I could not do without sharing it. These are the most special words someone has ever used for me. With all my heart and lots of love, I thank you.

"Life is beautiful when you know you have someone so special, who stands by you forever, come what may, whose hugs mean the world to you, who is the happiest when you are happy, who is with you in moments of pain and glory, who rests her head on your shoulder and feels protected and pampered, who makes you feel so positive just by being around, who is a true companion and a selfless lover. Life is truly beautiful when you know you are loved and cared so much- all this and more is about you Saumya. Thank you. The post mean a lot to me."

PS- Before ending this post, I cannot do without thanking, very suitably, one of my most decorous friends-cum-critics, Akshat Mittal. When he appreciates my quill, I know it has worked wonders. Thank you, for helping me stay humble. 

"Humne zindagi mein paisa toh nahi kamaya, lekin izzat bahut kamayi hai"


Sounds filmi. Doesn't it? This, was a pet line of the autowallah who dropped me home today, all the way from Lajpat Nagar. And, at the end of a journey costing more than a hundred and fifty rupees on the meter, when he refused to take a paisa from me, I was forced to believe each part of his life's story, narrated lovingly to me, with exquisite detailing- at times making me stop and wonder if everything he said was actually true.


He was a happy man. A very happy man. Driving auto was a pass-time for him. What he actually did was sing sufi bhajans of Sai Baba, professionally.. I have his card, which I received with a smile in return for a forced payment of half the actual amount on the meter. This is the second time an autowallah has refused to take money from me, though both stories belong to extremely different contexts. His', like many of his ilk, was a life of struggle. But, if I go by his version of things, he had emerged more than successful. More curiously, it was not success that intoxicated him, it was devotion to Baba. He was a man, who no doubt still met with troubles, but the image of Baba in his heart took care of all. The story was the same (forgive my nonchalance)- his father expired while he was still young and the onus of running his family fell on him. This drove him towards his current occupation, but the love for Baba kept enticing him. And today, when his whole family is settled- his first sister married in UK, his second sister an air hostess with Jet Airways, his younger brother an aspiring IPS ("I'll do everything to make him one"- he said with a father's tenderness and concern), and his two little daughters secure under a father who, under the evil shadow of skewed sex ratios prevalent in our nation since forever, takes pride in not having any sons, takes pride in having daughters who "at least ask me for water when I reach home fatigued. Didi, its only daughters, sons don't do this."


Yes, he called me didi, and it was refreshing to hear him talk. He was cautious. When I looked too much into the mobile screen for texting my friends, he immediately withdrew from talking. The disappointment in his features, so clearly visible via the rear view mirror, ached my heart. I have not done this for the closest of people, but for him, I abandoned my cell phone, and heard him through. And I do not regret it one bit. He spoke little of his family, a lot of Baba, and how singing for him made him feel like the most fortunate of people alive. It all started at a phone call, perhaps to invite him and his mandali for an evening of Sai bhajans. After inquiring a little more, tho Sufi chord struck. He sings Sai, and I sing Bulleh Shah and Khusrau- both of us have immense and inspiring respect for each others devotion. To call me a novice and him a veteran- both would be understatements.


My mother would scold me if I ever, even inaudibly hummed while travelling in an auto. May be she found it embarrassing; but sometimes, the weather would be so inviting, that I would be led on, beguiled to sing. Today, as the fickle weather played its cards, and transformed the day from a scorching morning into a pleasant, rain washed evening, I was once again forced to hum a sufiyana song, which I usually sing for my little angel, my cousin. Only this time, I had familiar and agreeable company. The autowallah did not join me to sing, but when I stopped humming, gave me a few tips for polishing my singing, which left me both, astonished and thankful.


There is a lot which still comes to mind, and not all of it I can record here. I do distinctly remember him shedding a few tears, given their due time to flow out, and then suppressed and forgotten behind a striking, yet a calm smile. He disclosed philosophies with which he lived his life, and there was an unmistakable truthfulness in them. In today's time and age, where Delhi autowallah are infamous for all their notorious behaviour, people like Deepak Chaddha (oh thats his name, I have his card, remember?), help re-instill faith in the goodness of human existence. Things even out. Even when I met the most annoying autowallah, I endeavored to keep my cool, and be as nice as possible, for fighting, calling names, never helps. Because of the remarkable man I met today, all of the previous ill memories of autowallahs I would hate to travel with except under situations of extreme duress were wiped away effortlessly. I never talk to autowallahs, I am scared of them. Today, when I did talk to one, I felt I met a really noble soul. Not being judgmental about people helps, doesn't it?


My only regret, I wish we spoke more Sufi. Right before I got down, he quoted one couplet, one of the most common ones- "Laali mere laal ki, jit dekhoon ut laal/ Laali dekhan main gayi, te main bhi ho gayi laal." I do not remember the context he uttered it in, but I was convinced this was going to be the line that'll ring in my heart when I sat down to pen my journal at night. Not quite. What remains in my heart is the line below, which he uttered along with his exceptionally simple and humble smile.


"Aadmi bada paise se nahi banta, vyavhaar se banta hai. Main aapke liye baba se dua karoonga."

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.

It is all happening! I did plan to take up a job one day, and was excited for it too , but now that it is finally happening, I am scared. Yes, the most admirable of people around me find this fear irrational; somewhere, I do too. But I cannot at the same time deny the fact that when I woke up this morning, I felt a little numb. Sweaty. It had got something to do with a dream last night, a very unpleasant spectacle. I do not remember the content. I only remember the feel. I saw myself failing. The fear of failure lingered on even after I opened my eyes. Today too, like many occasions before, I felt doubtful of my capabilities.

This fear, its been a part of me for quite sometime now. And it is a new experience for me. Also, it is not the most unnatural of things for me to experience when I see almost everyone around me well placed in their life. Those who are not are at least sure of where they are headed. I am none. Not settled. Not knowing where I am headed. In school, I have given many speeches in morning assemblies about the crippling effects of this fear of failure, have quoted liberally the immortal line of Shakespeare- 'Our doubts are but traitors, and make us lose the good we might do, by fearing to attempt'. I was silly, all this while, not to have realized that this dubiousness, this basic lack of confidence I am allowing to take roots in me will lead me to the same state of detriment which in my innocent tongued speeches I had warned the students and teachers of my school against.

All this, I began pondering over while watching the last episode of Sa Re Ga Ma Pa Little Champs. Before I get to 'the' incident, a little word on the programme itself. If you love music, and if you love music the way I love music, there is no way in which you can miss this programme. The quality of singers and the kind of music put on display is stunning to say the least. People on that show- the judges, mentors and the participants- know their music so well that a single episode of it sometimes serves as a tutorial for training-deprived-aspiring-singers like me. Anyway, so the incident I was referring to was of a girl, who stopped singing midway. She said her throat did not feel fine. I know why her throat did not feel fine. Twice I have given up singing midway during my performances. On both occasions, my throat did not feel fine. On both occasions, I  sang much better than my caliber in the last rehearsal before taking to stage. The doubt about being successful as I ascended on the stairs to stage transformed into an insurmountable fear as I started singing. In the midst of a performance, I had no clue how to deal with it. Worse still, I chose not to confront my fear. I chose to keep mum about it. Shied away from telling people. And since then, it has only grown.

With whatever little experiences I have had in life, I know for a fact that the best of opportunities are shaped during the worst of problems. At my level, I did try my best to fight this fear. I went on stage to put myself to test more than I did before. Those who stood with me know that my knees shook till convulsive limits. Those who saw me from the audience saw a faced accessorized with the perfectly confident smile while addressing them. I do not know if I can call this success- the fact that my body shivers and my temperature rises because of nervousness while I am on the final leg of executing a long planned event, but at the same time, people who see my performing end up admiring me for some or the other reason. 'You mask your nervousness brilliantly with that smile'- that's how one of my friends puts it. This I do not in the least say out of conceit. I do say it out of genuine confusion.

I think all of us have our fears. Also, all of us have our independent mechanisms to battle our own fears. Prolonging them, ignoring them, confronting them, or fooling them- most of us choose from these. I, mostly, try to fool my fears. I think that is what most people around me do when they are not brave enough to confront and dismiss them. "Tell yourself you're the best"- Isn't that what all of us are told to use as a invincible antidote to fear of failing? People say it's evoking belief in yourself. I think it's saying the cheesiest thing to fool yourself. Its also what those who're the closest to you tell just after you've proven yourself to be the perfect loser. Support comes for you in copious terms once you fail. Or are fearful of failing. When you dazzle with confidence, people are with you, not to support you, but to celebrate you. Just to rephrase it- You're supported through your failures, and given company through your successes.

I know categorically, its support, and not company that I have yearned for in the recent past. I have never really gotten over my fears; but I have perfected the art of masking them at least. I don't know if this will help in the long run. Sagacious thinking says it won't. Fear and laziness, I was informed by one of my friends, have led to the greatest of inventions throughout history. There is much truth in this line. As much as fear in projected as an empowering tool for progressiveness in the above line, I know the kind of fear I battle is crippling. It hinders growth. Entering into an unknown world excited me always; that was till when I did not associate any probability of failing once I entered the unexplored. Its visions of failure which I need to dispel. Why they are there, I don't know. How to get rid of them concretely, no clue. Guess I'll fool myself a while longer.

PS- Having said, rather typed all of this makes me feel better. Even confident people fear failure. Its only about time. I think it'll go.

There is only an extent till which you can fight, I often quote. Thereafter, even you are a staunch disbeliever in destiny, you cannot do much, but wait and watch as it plays its cards. I fought to the best of my abilities, and my fight ended yesterday. Good or bad, I can no longer influence the results. Regrets? They always remain. You always feel you could have done something more, something better once things are beyond your control. There remains some regret after every exam for not having studied that one extra hour actually spent watching tv, or talking on phone, or simply gazing into nothingness. I have no such regrets, except may be an abstract pain somewhere inside my heart which says that something more could have been done to ensure victory. What more? I have not the minutest of clues.

So, basically, I'm confused. Obfuscated, as I like to fancifully call my state. I am putting up a brave face, trying to chill, but in reality, I have never been this scared in life. Honestly, I have never felt so much is at stake. Yesterday's performance was based on two years of practice and preparation. The result will determine if I can progress to the next level or will have to repeat whatever I did in past two years. Till then, confusion and fear reign supreme.

And, what does not help me at all in this scenario is a basic lack of ability to pray. I don't know how to. I never have. I wish I did, for when there was nothing concrete I could do, may be I could while away time, praying. "It was fear which first created Gods in the world".I am fearful, but I can't locate an object to pray to. Blessed am I, that there have been so many who've put faith in me, who are praying for me, and who, rather selfishly, I am asking to pray for myself. I just hope I stand to justify all the love and astonishing support I have gotten in the past two years. I hope there does eventually come this day when I can rush to all my friends and sport the brightest of smiles which conveys just everything to them. If you're reading this, and have in any measure liked or loved me ever, spare a second or two of your praying time for me. As I said, I can't. And, for the first time not being able to is making me feel crippled.

Hoping the light spreads faster