hopscotch

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, child...

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

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. ---- 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 f...

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.