My flair for writing is profoundly known to any and every person who is a part of the world which I inhabit. There are a few, who feel my strong affinity towards penning down my thoughts, trivial or consequential, is nothing but a madness- the sort that in due course of time might lead me towards schizophrenia. I write extensively. I write here, on Nascent Emissions, I write for magazines, I write articles for friends (which do get published under their names), I write speeches (my best friends in college literally 'use' me for this, 'cuz they promise a pay, and forget the payment), I often scribble short stories, I sometimes try my hand at poetry- All these and more! However, the one aspect of my writing which I am intensely, miserable attached to is writing my diary, or journal, or by whatever name you may know it.

Humans, as per me, are the most artistic creations of God. My English teacher, while reflecting on the same once remarked in laconic terms, "Man is only next to God in divine hierarchy." May be that is why when He made us, He endowed us with aspects that were His' exclusive domains. He is, veritably, the Supreme Artist, one, who painted spectacular, breathtaking images on a blank, imperceptible canvass. He, while creating us, blessed us with emotions and expressions, and a divine right to Create- create a habitat exclusive for our sustenance within the larger ecosystems which come as a part of our natural earthly endowments.

Besides, He hid within us all an artist- an artist exclusive to all, yet common to all.

Caught up in the maze of our mundane, hectic, competitive lives, many of us lamely deny the existence of any such thing as an 'artist' within us. However, this artist is latent only till we allow it to be latent. The moment we close our eyes, keep our hand on our heart, and feel its existence, it materializes and communicates with us. We only need to understand the language it wants to speak in. The manifestations of this artist are many, but the purpose of the manifestations is the same- to express, to put on display the wide array of thoughts which inhabit our inner being.

In my perspective, the most fortunate among these artists are those who articulate through brush strokes, those who paint and draw to put in front of the world what lies in their heart. These for me are the elite class of artists, who at a whim can become absolutely lucid in depiction of their state of mind, and at other times, can symbolize their thoughts in a manner so magical, that despite the creation being in front of all, the absolute meaning remains elusive to most. A private rendezvous is always be on between its creator and itself. Its as if they wink at each other for perplexing and mesmerizing the others, while perfectly communication with each other.

Of the myriad varieties of artists, the second on my list are the people who create musical notes to convey expressions of anger, bliss, hate, lust, grief, alacrity and many others, which can't be worded, just purely felt. Why I respect these artists is simply because of their indomitable skill at touching the very strings of the hearts of the listeners which gave birth to that music piece the heart of the creator in the first place. These artists never make their expressions explicitly public- they pave indirect, subtle (but sublime) paths for their emotions to flow in the air around.

I am convinced I am missing out on many, but the last type of artists on my list are the people who simply, humbly, express through words. Given that words are the most direct tool for revealing innate ideas and feelings, it is still, by no means, an easy task to make words your instrument of expression. Mastering language, at times, takes an eternity. One remains a student of this art, for that matter any art, for more than just a lifetime. For those not born in the silver class of literary elites, it does sometimes become an extremely arduous undertaking, to give voice to the simplest of thought. Yes! This is where I think the catch is- giving shape, words to the most uncomplicated thoughts in such a manner that the reader not only understands what is in front of him in black and white, but also relates to the emotions caught in between lines. (Here is where I fail miserably)

So, it must have become unambiguous that I ascribe to this last modest category of expressions. Besides the numerous things I advocate passionately, writing (in particular diaries) is one which falls topmost on my list. I romance words and phrases and sentences and am ever thankful for making my own thoughts transparent to me. I love documenting my life. I love flipping through the history of my existence. I love learning from my own (and no one else's) experiences. I have had amazing friends in life, but my most consistent, reliable, and endearing confidante have, indisputably, been my diaries, now around seven in number, scribbled around the last few years of my life.

Writing was not a hobby I was born with. I cultivated it after numerous reprimands and black stars of my report card in the 'writing skills' column. Writing diaries was my means of improvement, coerced at first, but gradually my fondness increased so much that today, none of my diaries last beyond three-four months. The only gifts I got on my last birthday were diaries- a total of six! As queer as it may sound, I give names to my diaries- they then become like a compilation of short stories, running with a common theme, the essence of which is encapsulated in that name. This name is also symbolic characteristic of that particular phase in my life.

From those seven, I'd like to quote two as examples-

• IBTIDA- After having gone through some major upheavals, and having been shattered over again and again, I resolved to start afresh. Naming my diary as 'Ibtida'- a beginning, I started scribbling the details of my daily rituals in a manner which kept reinforcing the objective I had set for myself- to get over the past and make this new beginning as fruitful for me as possible. Revisiting the positive pages of that diary, with words written in my then dainty handwriting, my heart warms us, is encouraged, inspired, and I smile 'cuz of the deluge of memories that simply take me over. 

• SEARCH- This is what my current diary is called. I settled on in two nights ago. The present time in my life is pretty satisfied and stable. However, I find myself at an enormously crucial stage in life, one that shall be pivotal in determining if the dream I dreamt forever will actually come true or not. Not knowing where my life is headed, at times I search for a clarity in my dreamworld, which can make my destination clear to me. When the destination sparks before my eyes, I start searching for the path I must embark upon to reach there. When I glimpse the path, I search for (and must find) the focus I need so as not to swerve from it.

It is a neat chronicle of my life, at least the recent bits of it, which I value as my most precious possession. For those who ever enquired would now know the perfect cause behind my near obsession with writing. Better worded, it is a passion- not an obsession. It is my love. Something, that elevates me when my mood is low, calms me when I feel hyper and reinforces my happiness when I don't have another soul to share my smiles with. It is a guardian of even those infinitesimally small thoughts that I can't discuss with anyone.

If you write, I can guarantee, this is one habit that will never disappoint you. In fact, it will give you a chance to know yourself more closely, understand yourself better. A 'search' for the beautiful person that resides within you is definitely an onerous task, but it is a journey worth undertaking.

There is no reason why I should be blogging at this point of time. I am dead tired. My eyes are not just heavy, they are almost shut. My back is aching bad. My bones are creaking. BUT, I can't help it. A few minutes back in my mail, I recieved the sweetest little (expected) surprize.

Let me clear the mist surrounding the above quoted oxymoron. For the past some weeks, me, my department President, and my other department members have literally been going nuts preparing for the Annual Festival of Economics Association, Jesus and Mary College. Our fest, proudly titled, ECOVANTAGE '10, literally became a cause of a consistent, evil headache, which only worsened as the days progressed. However, every single experience we had, good or bad, has definitely gotten engraved in my memory bank. I, having been given the onus of organizing our main event for the fest, MODEL G20 SUMMIT, tried to add little masala to the procedure by initiating, training and setting up the paparazzi- the International Press- imagined as a team of little devils, salivating after gossip. However, given it was the first time, I did not keep my expectations too high.  What I was working with were (wrongly presumed) group of diffident girls, whom I was trying hard to propel towards a confident foray in to the world of cultural activities in the ever effervescent JMC campus.

Our newsletter was named VANTAGE MEMOIRS, and as work began on it, my apprehension increased.All my apprehensions proved to be utterly futile when I received the first completed draft of the newsletter. The sort of commitment, hard work, and results which my IP team has shown me, has not only left me stupefied, but also touched. I am not trying to magnify the very humble product that we have come out with; but, having been most closely associated with the plan, preparation and finalization of the content, pictures and layout of Vantage Memoirs, my elation at the finished compilation which has come my way is absolutely justified. The credit for it goes to the amazing, precocious, eager-to-learn-and-deliver juniors (first years) that I have been blessed with. Although everyone has contributed in a ridiculously endearing manner for this mini project, I still have to mention the name of Akriti Gupta- the smartly attired female who put everything together, whose resourcefulness and focus has convinced me that we can take our initiative at least four levels higher from where it is right now, in a span of two days (for that is all I have).
Alright...when I go senti...I just go on and on, blabbering, trying to give words to every single emotion jumping (literally) inside me. However, I have a huge day tomorrow, and I need to sleep in order to make my committee function in a manner I conjure in my dreams.

(Hey, IP! 'Dreams' remind me of a masala feature that all of you could do, 'cuz most of the seniors are having hilarious nightmares these days- the stress of the fest doing this to them. Please contact me for all inside gossip)

I will end here, but will copy and paste the introduction of the IP, written by my talented junior, Srishti.

"Enough of yawns and naps, we, the International Press of the G-20 Summit here in JMC hereby promise you that the next 2 days you are going to be under the heavy scrutiny of all of us. Behind us is the masala mastermind- Saumya Kulshreshtha- our Editor. Now you know who you have to sue if we publish pics of yours while you were blissfully unaware (Grin!). Both our Sub-editors- Ishani and Riya are equally sharp to pick the best pieces of entertainment which you might provide us while we’re snooping and hiding and creeping behind your backs…so beware! Our team has us- the babies (Smirk) looking for news! Just in case you want to run away when we approach you with our endless questions- note our names:

Srishti Chauhan, Saumya Mathur, Sakshi Kapur, Ritika Goel, Akansha Puri, Kanika Gupta, Aakriti, Niharika and Rohini Gauba!

Here is hoping that what we present to you has you in splits by the time you finish with it! Cheerio!

P.S- We take no guarantee about the stuff that is going to be recorded. Anything and everything you say WILL be used against you….no mercy applications please!"

(I have not edited this article, and am too lazy now to do it. Hopefully one of my diligent IP members will do it. AND, the two beautiful sketches accompanying my post have been made by my angel-in-disguise, Akriti Gupta)

I am no connoisseur of literature. I am just an hapless addict, who is forever beguiled by the rich, commanding, resplendent world that books (novels in particular) offer. My own cute way of referring to the books is not to call them 'my best friends', rather, 'my intoxicants', the only ones capable of elevating me above my surroundings, and drawing me into another galaxy. Mentioned below are five books from my own mini library, which according to me are a must read for every single person belonging to my environment. A curious fact about these books is that they are all authored by Indians, but then, that is how I am prejudiced as far as literature is concerned.

1. 'My Experiments With Truth' by Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi Every Indian, irrespective of caste, creed, age, religion must read this book. It is, for me, one of those books which can be termed as a life changer (and has proven to be for a few people I know). The lesser said about this book, the better, but I would advise everyone to at least attempt to take a peek into the life of that man, who has veritably contributed the most in the making of modern, Independent India.

2. 'Train To Pakistan' by Khushwant Singh

 In my view, Khushwant Singh is the greatest storyteller ever to have been born on the soil of India. His first novel, the Train to Pakistan makes nothing short of an compelling, invigorating, and satisfying read. With one of the most vivid and poignant portrayals of India's bloodbath during partition, this book is written such that at no point will the reader feel detached from the narrative; rather, if the reader is like me, he would end up crying more than once, for the pangs of partition would be too much to bear even for him.

3. 'The Broken Nest'/ 'The Home and The World' by Rabindranath TagoreI've always rued the fact that I can't read Bengali, for Bengali literature is touted as one of the finest and richest in India; but thanks to the translations, I've been able to go through the writings of someone who should ideally be called the Father of Modern Indian Literature - Rabindranath Tagore. These two books make for an excellent starter if you want to delve into the wealth of Bangla literature


4. 'Our Trees Still Grow In Dehra and other stories' by Ruskin Bond         
He is an author for all seasons, for all ages. He looks at India the way no Indian can. He can make you feel attached to the Indian soil the way you yourself might never be able to. The magic of this collection of short stories can be felt only if you read them; my only guarantee would be that Mr. Ruskin Bond absolutely does not know how to leave his readers dissatisfied.

5. 'Ramayana'/ 'Mahabharata' by C. Rajagopalachari
 Although attributed to their original authors, Valmiki and Ved Vyasa respectively, the Ramayana and the Mahabharata have many versions in different languages of India. This version, published by Bhavan's books, has been penned down by Rajaji, the first Indian Governor General of independent India, and has been written in a style that despite assimilating the facts of all the different versions, is striking in its originality and beauty.

Who is God? It is not often that I ponder over a question like this. It was especially not until I lay my hands on this one-of-its kind book, called The Immortals of Meluha, authored by Amish. A book that borrows heavily from the royal pages of Indian mythology, The Immortals of Meluha weaves together myths and legends and modern sensibilities with remarkable ease.


The book cover was immediately intriguing- the back of the mighty Shiva, with deep scars over a shoulder and an arm; long, majestic tresses falling over his back; a trident elegantly positioned at the very centre of his form; and the backdrop comprising of Indus and the magnificent Mountains of the North. This was easily a book I would have wanted to read, and as it did turn out, it was a book I simply could not keep down once I started on. The first of a series of three (called the Shiva Trilogy), this book tells the story of Shiva, the Destroyer, a much hailed and praised God from the Hindu Trinity of Brahma-Vishnu-Mahesh. One of the boldest attempts in the Indian fantasy fiction genres, this book lays down the hypothesis that Shiva was never actually a God. More so, he did not even belong to India (the Saptasindhu, as mentioned in the book). Blasphemy you would say, but so long as we consider this book to remain within the realm of fiction, it is actually amazing how the author has carved out a story with Shiva as a War Hero, firmly supported by accurate facts and descriptions, giving strong evidence of the author's deep knowledge and research of the subject.


The book is set in the Indus Valley Civilization, referred in this book as Meluha (It was only later that my History teacher informed me about the Indus Valley Civilization being called as 'Meluha' by the Sumerians and the Mesopotamians). This civilization was one of the finest the world has ever been testimony to, and is often hailed as the birthplace of men of greatness, because the things they did have not been imitated anywhere, anytime in the world. Before beginning the book, the author makes three claims, the fundamental premise on which his book is based-

I believe that the Hindu gods were not mythical beings or a figment of a rich imagination.
I believe that they were creatures of flesh and blood, like you and me.
I believe that they achieved godhood through their karma, their deeds.

The story begins with an elaborate depiction of Shiva, who is not a God, not even an extraordinary human, but the head of a simple tribe of cattle herders, somewhere in the foot of the Himalayas, ridden with fatigue due to incessant struggles for existence being fought with the other tribes. His assistant, comrade and best pal, curiously, is a fellow tribesman called Nandi. Due to the course of events, Shiva and his tribe migrate to Meluha, the land of Suryavanshis, the descendants of the illustrious Lord Rama. The land of the Suryavanshis is plagued with many evils, and is under threat from the opposite race, the Chandravanshis. To add to their already cup-full of woes, the Chandravanshis have employed the despicable, sinister Nagas, an ostracized caste, to spread terror in the land of Meluhans.


It is from these terrors that the Meluhans seek respite. According to the Meluhan legend, it will be 'Neelkanth', the one whose neck will turn blue on drinking their nectar, Somaras, who will be their Savior. Thus is defined the character and course of the protagonist, Shiva, who after drinking the Somaras is hailed by the hapless people as their Lord, the one who will alleviate all evils from their land. What then ensues is the journey of Shiva through the land of Meluhans, during which, he establishes himself as a warrior of unparalleled might and war skills. At most places during the narrative, Shiva is shown to be spellbound by the superior technology and infrastructure possessed by the inhabitants of the magnificent land of Meluha. Also, as an undercurrent, laced into the narrative is the love story of our indomitable hero and the demure, chaste and skilled Parvati, incidentally the daughter of Maharaja Dasya, King of Meluha.


The narrative of the story is contemporary, not in the least archaic, as one would expect the tone of any of our mythological tales to be. This book attempts to clear the mist around the concept of Mahadev we have grown up with. While reading about this book, I came across interesting facts, such as, long back, in the ancient times, there was no concept of India. The only concept then that has left its traces to be felt in the contemporary times is that of the Aryans, the greatest race on the Earth. What is particularly curious about Shiva is that he is the only non-Aryan entity in the Trinity of Hindu Gods. In the book too, he conforms to what have been his features otherwise- easy to please, free of deceit and trickery (Bholenath), unabashed in his display of emotions (anger in particular- Tandav), passionate lover, substance addiction...and the list can go on.


To conclude my assessment of the book, I can say, it was a compelling read. It was not anything like the other tales of our three crore plus Gods and Goddesses I have read or heard about. Very few authors have touched this particular genre with such marvellous ease, making the reader more and more intrigued by the vivid and precise description of the events which form this story. Worthy of not less than four stars on five, it is one of those books which all of us should pick up, especially if we feel detached from our rich mythological heritage, with a promise that if one begins with this book, he would only be lured deeper and deeper into the mystical world of our tales and legends and myths. Highly recommended!

It's after long that I have gotten down to blogging. The reason for that, simply, have been the rains. I have already published blogs about rains, and still, the most prominent source of inspiration as far as writing is concerned , has only been 'rains'. Today as well, it is no different. Rains definitely form the back drop of my narrative, but, the perspective has altered. The joy associated with raindrops touching my skin has long disappeared. Now, there is a shadow of gloom forever marking my face.

The rains have continued for far too long. Or may be, it is the first time I am perceiving them that way. Hindrances to already delayed constructions works, traffic snarls, puddles, difficulty in commutation- if you(the reader) think these are the sources of the absent enthusiasm in my heart, then you are highly mistaken. These are the things that I laugh at. Then what is it that is letting this tangible, yet incomprehensible melancholy fill my being?

A single peek of sun from behind the clouds makes my eyes shine with alacrity; but this revelry is rare to visit my door. I was sitting today for really long in CP, by a huge window, which gave me the most spectacular view of mud hills lining the roadsides, cars of every color and brand stuck in an unending ennui, white colored Victorian buildings damp and their paints chipping, and a grey, almost-black canvas of a huge cupola of clouds, which seems to have sworn sun-protection to all citizens of Delhi for quite some time now. I was sitting and sketching the scene in front of me. Not that i am good at drawing, but i was just trying my hand at being a bit destructive (of the beauty of the scene), a bit disappointing (of my famous sketching abilities) and a bit disgusting ( to my companion who himself is acclaimed at wielding magic as he draws).

Anyway, point was, i was doing it, and in a very sudden, or rather, unnoticeable manner, an unmistakable feeling of grief started springing inside me. I tried to fight it, but i sensed my mind submitting to it. As a natural reflex, the first thing i did was to figure out reasons. My jejune brain first held Ghalib culpable for my condition. Yes, you are right, the same, old, Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib. Why, i will tell later. I was almost about to take punitive measures against his long deceased soul, when i was held back by an expeditious onset of slumber. It was in that sleep i found answers to my heart's unease. It was a dream...a dream which made things lucid to me...dream-

"I was sitting on a hillside. My favorite hillside. The air was damp. Sun nowhere in sight. The valley was green; it's depth not calculable. Cottony fluffs of clouds were rising from deep down. My side of the hills were iridescent with flowers of variegated hues smiling from both corners of my eyes. I was sitting quietly looking blankly at everything around. Only my eyes were peculiar. Water was running down my cheeks. I am not sure if it were tears, because my heart was devoid of emotions. I felt no stabs of sadness. I only cried. Suddenly, a divine person came into the picture. Filled with clemency, benevolence, and sure 'answers' to my discomfort, he came and sat by my side quietly. I said nothing, just stole a sideways glance at him. He was dressed in casuals- green T-shirt and denims. He had a white, perfectly chiseled face. His hair and eyes were unnaturally black. His lips were pink, with a cleft which could be missed sans close scrutiny. He started gazing straight ahead, where the view of the opposite hills was being blocked by the nascent clouds. He sat observing the clouds. With no warning, he raised his fingers as if a seasoned pianist is preparing his agile fingers for a concert. His fingers started moving in incongruous patterns in the air. I was about to ask him, but he shushed me even before i could utter a word. Gave me a glance which conveyed- "patience". After about fifteen minutes of this queer activity, he gave himself a satisfactory smile. Then, he kept one hand over my head. He said, in his soft, echoing, almost a chime-like voice- "Clouds are my most formless creations, but when I make these clouds my canvas, and my fingers the paintbrushes, my mind can picture them in a thousand different shapes and forms and meanings. I gave these clouds nothing. I gave them a transient existence. But then never complain. They utilize their short life giving shade and hope to the others. When they die, they weep- the only, and the final expression of their grief. But, even as they weep, they lend smiles to many. People are glad for the water, relief, rain, respite but no one cares for the very clouds who carry these droplets safely till they are delivered at their destination. But, they carry on, continue, persevere." His gaze pierced through me as he said the last word."

I did not even see this divine creature walk away. I was woken up as we were getting late. I saw the unfinished sketch lying in front of me. I raised my head for a final gaze, intending to finish my sketch, but the only detailing i added to it were the grey, almost black clouds in the background.

Mr. Ghalib, aptly, can find his mention here. He writes the most beautiful lines, and has this uncanny, unmistakable ability to stimulate that corner of my heart which hitherto was latent. This time, the lines were as follows-
"Dil hi toh hai, na sang-o-khisht, dard se bhar na aaye kyun?
Royenge hum, hazaar baar, koi humein sataaye kyun?"
(It is only a heart, not stone or mortar, why should it not fill with grief?
We will wail a thousand times, why should anyone torment us?)

For me, a better translation of the above lines is- The heart is heart, it will weep. Why should anyone be critical of my grief?

I walked down the footpaths of CP, trying to fathom my dream. May be I did. May be the Almighty was fed up of the incessant tussles i have with him, and wanted to talk about the many basics that i ignore while censuring him for my mundane problems. May be he was genuinely concerned with my listlessness about where to head as i found myself without support, care, concern, love and understanding from anyone i hold dear. And then, he sent me this quote in my Gmail inbox-"You desire to know the art of living, my friend? It is contained in one phrase: make use of suffering"

Whatever it meant. Whatever it was. One thing I will surely laud Him for is the medium he chose to communicate with me. This one voice, i can never ignore. Never.

It was one of those days again. Exactly one of those days. Grey days. Blue days. Whatever they are called. Days, when i ask myself too many questions. Or may be one single question. I let the question(s) take root in my mind, become a part of my subconscious self, assimilate information and experience required to arrive at an answer...and then, answer blossoms in my mind even before i know it.

However, what i was thinking, rather, asking myself today, was both, unwelcome and perplexing. To add another word, the specific time i chose to reflect and concoct answers, also made this question ironical.

"Why do friends become so important to us in life, that after a point, it starts hurting?"
(In case the paradox is not ostensible, it is the first Sunday of August today, which the world celebrates as Friendship Day)

I woke up in the morning, and cast a half open glance at the slightly ajar door of my balcony. Hardly any light was coming in. It was dark, overcast, I could make out. I pulled my knees close to my chest, tightly wound my hands around my bosom, and gave myself the warmest hug I could, to counter the effects of the chilly air flowing into the room, and then sprang out of bed. With eye lids refusing to cooperate, i somehow managed to locate my slippers, but accidentally placed my feet on the icy floor. Within a matter of seconds, a current of chill ran up my legs, and my spine, hit my head, and culminated into a smile. The same, old, faint, silly- my favorite smile. Thus i proceeded on my 'arduous' walk to the balcony, ten heavy steps....

I collapsed on the cold balcony floor, in an attempt to embrace what nature was offering. It was colder than inside the room, so i brought myself closer together, once again pulled my knees to my chest, and started imagining the aroma of coffee beans. Had only been a second, when my 'pet' tree, right across my balcony, broke out into a dance- gracefully swaying side to side first, and then going wild, mad, to the tune of the flowing breeze. My tree was welcoming me to become a part of this private celebration of nature, whatever was left of it amid the chaos of brick and mortar which we call our 'habitat'. Having performed the invocation, my tree invited all the other trees, and birds, and clouds, and winds, and rains, to join in this mad revelry, and they all gladly acceded.

What then ensued in front of me is not in my capacity to describe. Any other person would have described it as a heavy, torrential shower. But, was it just that? There were people down in the street, scurrying in all directions to look for a shelter. Hapless people. The more fortunate of us homo sapiens were the half naked street kids, splashing in the puddles, laughing, shouting, dancing....being purified, washed clean directly by the heavens. I broke into a subtle laughter at their sight, and started enjoying the raindrops being tossed in my direction after hitting the balcony railing. I was happy. Innately happy. Infinitely happy. These weren't just rains. This was the most basic and personalized invite that the heavens sent to all of us, to, for once, abandon our synthetic existence, and befriend nature. I did.

I sent a 'thank you' in the direction of my 'pet' tree, which has been my friend ever since i shifted to my current accommodation. Initially frightened by it's eerie silhouettes in the dark of the night, it soon became my companion for the solitary moments i spent in the open, often understanding and sharing my thoughts. Today as well it was listening, as i asked myself a question, and then quickly rubbished it. This very question had caused an immeasurable disarray in my interiors about a day or two back, but today, it was inconsequential. There was a reason to it. And i want that reason to know that it was the reason for the calm and balance i expreience right now.

I met a friend yesterday. A friend, who has forever been a friend, a close friend, but separated by large distances. When i felt cold today, i remembered the warm hug my friend gave me yesterday. When the damp weather's chicanery was coercing me to become gloomy, I rememberd this friend's laughter and his concern for my happiness. When strange thoughts were complicating my routines, i rememberd his simple ways and his humble eyes. I was elated, elevated, and infinitely comforted.

At first, I could not recognize him. He appeared from amid a crowd, his bag hung over one of his shoulders. I knew he was coming, that is why i was waiting for him, yet, the first glimpse i caught of him was laced with disbelief. I was still not humble to the fact that i would, finally, be getting to spend time, in person, with him. He looked better, smarter than ever i had known him to be. He in no way looked dapper, all his charm emanating from the casual, easy way in which he carried himself. His manner was courteous, yet not even a feeble measure of formality streaked his demeanor. His smile was contagious- i call him my own brand of "happiness pill". The best thing about him- he made me feel at home.

He made me realize that dubious questions, such as the one quoted in the beginning, are nothing, but a travesty of the word 'friendship'.

Sitting diagonally across me, with a hot cup of Mocha in his hands, (and a semi alcoholic Irish Coffee in mine), he incited me into self dialogue as to why such a special friend is to be separated by such long distances. We jabbered incessantly about everything that came to mind. We took short, reflective breaks to understand and absorb the importance of the time being spent together. We gave each other little gifts, for this is the only time of the year we could meet, but those gifts in no way could amount to even an approximate measure of how loved we wanted to make each other feel. "The more I think it over, the more I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people." The artist inside me was failing me. I had wanted to tell him so much more, hear so much more, share so many thoughts, tears, laughter....

Time for departure was too quick to come. I was sad. Little. I was happier to have met him. He has a little thing about him, which revives my faith in everything good and positive around me. I live for my friends; but when it starts getting too much, he inspires me to perfect the balancing act, and not sway to the extremes. The people i love, and begin to hate because of unfulfilled expectations, suddenly become blame free, and i give myself a slight rebuff for letting negativity brew in my head. The good part is, despite being benevolent and magnanimous, he never makes me feel indebted. He says its mutual, and i comfort him as much as he comforts me. I like to believe it. Its so easy to be friends this way. He holds infinite respect for me, as i for him, and while respecting each other, we learn to respect every other good thing/person in our life which deserves to be respected.

My tree still stands there. It has noticed the droplets forcing their way out of my eyes. In its reckoning, i was infinitely happy, so why the droplets? I don't know. May be i am sad for not having been able to give him a last, warm hug as he disembarked from the metro at Rajiv Chowk, and mumble an apology. May be i am happy (mushy-happy), and i have been happy for so long that it can no  longer be contained inside me. May be i am both. One thing for certain- this friend will remain with me, even when that tree dies down. If ever he goes away, I will understand that there must be a reason for it. This season, and the next, and the next...i'll remember to smile whenever the rain fed weather's beauty is beyond description, for it is on one such day, i spent the most marvellous moments of my life with you.

Keep my faith breathing....

It is happening....

It had to happen, but, now, it really is happening.

My last year in college has finally begun. Today was my first day in college. The campus, which till only yesterday was deserted, quiet, and so-not-like-JMC today was teeming with energy. The fuchchas looked apprehensive, inquisitive and excited, and i looked back at my very first day in this very campus. I had still not resigned to the fact that i am fated to remain in this 'all girls' college for the next three years. Coming from a school where i had only (mostly) male friends, it was disconcerting to the eyes to see only female and feminine figures around. I felt irritated to the core when after searching frantically for a 'girls' washroom, it dawned on me that in this campus, there are ONLY girls' washrooms. It felt creepy, and it took time to adjust, and today, the situation is such, that the thought of not being a student of this college exactly one year from this date wreaks havoc with my system each time i set foot in the college.

Me and my emotional attachments are deplorable- i know. However, i cant help it. JMC being the cleanest, greenest and the bestest campus in the whole of Delhi University, it is so easy to fall in love with..umm... the lawns, the canteen, the basement, the amphi, the audi, the library....and the whole college itself.

My friends have taunted me, and have requested me to abstain from any 'emotional atyachar', which they knew was going to be inflicted on them, while i  soliloquised about how a year down the line, we would no longer be permanent residents of this place. The fact is- this hits me really bad. So bad, that keeping my thoughts only to myself is not an option. And since my friends are the package-deal i got from this college, they have little option save listening to my melodramatic monologues.

I'll miss this place, but that will come later. A year later. As of now the thing that i know will no longer come back in my life is the thrill of coming to JMC for the 'first' day of the new academic session, soaking in the beauty of the amazing campus we have, and feeling proud for being a part of this very, very prestigious institution. I will miss coming to college, congratulating others for their grossly, flagitiously, overbearingly good results while mine, in accordance with the custom, were too modest even to be called modest. I will miss taking a college tour, passing new, fresh smiles to everyone. I will miss peeping inside the staffroom to catch a glimpse of all my favorite teachers. I will miss the yearly pledges- "I HAVE to do well this year"- and ruining them even before i could put my first 'strategy to do well' in effect.

But, most of all, what i will miss are the desperately longed for, cozy hugs of my friends, and the smile that instantly lights up my face when i see all of them after so long, and the comfort that my heart silently experiences when it realizes that yes, those people are still with you, around you. I will miss the rigmarole that subsequently ensues. I will miss the first, long hug that Kapoor gives me, the first amazingly captivating smile that Jagga gives me, and the first beautiful gaze that Sanchi's bewitching eyes cast on me.

Two years earlier, when i set foot here, i was not prepared to accept the fact that it is from this crowd i have to find friends who will help me survive for the next three years. Today the condition is such, that survival without these friends is very nearly unimaginable. My next year in college, i want to see pass as a montage of precious, priceless moments, that if i can't freeze into pictures, can at least be safely tucked away in some part of my mind. Will happen. Definitely. Me, my college, my teachers, my friends- we still have one year to revel in our attachments, and then......we'll at least promise to stay in touch.

As for me, it was in ninth standard (five years back), that i first heard this line-

"Hum toh dariya hain, humein apna hunar maloom hai.
Jis taraf bhi chal padenge, raasta ho jaayega"

He said:

And the thought crosses my mind
If I never wake up in the morning
Would she ever doubt the way I feel
About her in my heart
If tomorrow never comes
Will she know how much I loved her
Did I try in every way
To show her every day
That she's my only one
And if my time on earth were through
And she must face this world without me
Is the love I gave her in the past
Gonna be enough to last
If tomorrow never comes...

She replied:

Yes. You made me cry
Through what you said
My lips are dry
My heart unwell.


A dream of glory
Wishing to hope
Nervous to hope
Nonetheless, I hope.
We'll wade through, we'll cope.


A tomorrow will dawn
So what if we stand apart.
He'll watch over, he'll guard.
He'll see us from the same rampart.


One Sun- We'll bathe in its rays bright
One Moon- Will dispel pain, the dark fright
One Sky- Where desires'll seek flight
One Heart- Binding us in divine light
One Soul- Our stanchion of immense might


We'll loosen the ropes of worldly control
We'll persevere, we'll not lose hope


If not in this world
then in the Parallel Universe
We'll experience Grace
Be absolved of the curse.


Providence shall murmur
not cruel, but words sweet
"The ordeal is over, go fulfil
Your need to be complete."

Amen.

Quote from Acts of Faith, Erich Segal
"Deborah, do you want to know my definition of an adult? It's someone who wakes us one morning, and says to himself, 'I no longer care what my parents think'. To me that's the real, psychological bar mitzvah."
(Dr. Barnea to Deborah)