Thursday, 24 June 2010

What do you think of me?

An old colleague of mine wanted to know what memories we had of her. The one that immediately came to my mind, wasn't a particularly nice one, especially so because it was kind of personal and had to be put up in a public space. I did it, nevertheless.
And, that as usual, set me thinking.
If I were to ask what was the first thing people remembered about me... what would they say? I am cluttered with thoughts and memories and as usual confused.
I did ask two people on chat and got no replies. Maybe they had BAD memories.
What if I were to ask myself about five memories/incidents that mean the most to me?
They are:
1)My marriage
2)My mother's death
These were the first two ones that popped into my mind. Life altering ones! I am yet learning, coping, adjusting and loving.
I can't think of three more memories, in order of importance/cherished ones, that is.
The images that are crowding before me are some from my post-grad days. A girl, who is in turns, whining, childish, stubborn and forever eating softies.
A girl, who is often distracted by books being sold on the pavement. A girl, who loved nosing through yellow-coloured pages of old, tattered books.
A girl, who hit a child on streets of Pune, while learning Activa. And, who after that had cried buckets and buckets and also vowed to never drive again. Had made umpteen calls home and said how bad she was and she was no good and apologised over and over again.
A girl, who was forever, on phone. Talking away into the nights.
A girl, who loved writing pages and pages of letters to friend and pen pals.
A girl, who loved the smell of mogra and looking at the star lit skies.
A girl, who slept with the walkman on, listening to songs.
A girl, who lived on waran-bhat (that's one thing I haven't given up)
A girl, who had a full-throated laughter (something which I am still ashamed of)
A girl, who didn't want to grow up.

If you guys know me, tell me what you think of me. Good or bad.

Wednesday, 9 June 2010

Story of Ambu

This was written for the kids studying in vernacular medium.
(God! Two posts in a day!)

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Six-year-old Ambu sat under the shade of a banyan tree, tears pricking her eyes.
“Dear God, in next ten minutes, I want to grow up like Anu, Raksha, Aju and Abhi. I don’t want to remain limbu-timbu,” Ambu prayed her eyes shut tight.
After sometime Ambu opened her eyes to find that she was still the same.
She wanted so badly to be in the cricket team, to hit fours and sixes off the full-toss ball. But Ambu was made to run and hunt for the ball in thick hedges and remain at the beck and call of the players.
Today she threw a tantrum, but the teenagers gave her sage advice, “Grow up limbu-timbu.”
Thus sat Ambu wondering how to grow up…when she heard herself being called. There were the others, coming towards her waving and beckoning.
“The ball has disappeared. Will you hunt for it?,” said Aju, panting.
Ambu was about to refuse when he said, “You can bat, if you find it.”
“Really?” Ambu’s eyes were shining now. He nodded.
She jumped and rushed to find the ball.
And soon limbu-timbu Ambu was hitting the ball with the bat.

For Aai

This is for you Aai
(I had written this sometime back)

Aarghhhhh! Not again…where’s the key? I mumbled to myself, digging into the pockets of my bag. I could feel the elusive key as I dug deeper into the bag, but instead of producing it, my fingers touched something soft and prickly. Rose petals…some soft, some crushed and leaves with the thorns intact. The aroma of the petals engulfed my senses. My thoughts went back to the not so distant past.
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Every trip back home meant coming back with flowers – roses, mogras,
jai-jui, lily, raat-rani, marigold…Most of them used to wilt by the time I reached Pune.
“What’s the point if they are not going to last long? My bag smells, the flowers make a mess…” I tried telling my mother, hoping to dissuade her from giving me fresh beautiful flowers every Monday morning. It didn’t work of course.
“It’s a ‘Best of Luck’ flower. The flower will bring you luck and success in whatever you do,” my mother used to tell me, thrusting another flower in my hand. I used to shrug my shoulders and plonk the flower in the zipped pocket of my bag.
For days, the dried-up flowers used to stay inside the pocket except when I used to turn the bag upside down looking for a lost key, a pen or perhaps a piece of paper. The whole process used to irritate me, wondering why mothers behaved the way they did.
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Now, when life has changed irrevocably, the care, love and concern of the giver leaves me with a lingering pain. This is for you Aai

Monday, 7 June 2010

Miserable June, Sept and August glory

Well, June didn't spell any good news for me. In school days June meant picking up the bag and hopping on to the school bus. Now, of course its the same. I just don't hop on to the school bus. But I work for school alright. Miserable month. The rains, the work - I'm hating it.
And, m dreading September.
The only thing to look forward is August. My Independence! LOL
I complete a year.