She Lives. She Loves.

There is something about some people you come across. Something unusual. They might not be your closest friends but you know they are there. Their presence is inevitably known to everyone in that space. In some way, they just have to be known by everyone around them.

I had one such girl during my graduation. We weren't the kind of friends who would share our problems or secrets the way girls do. Or maybe I never did. Her presence just made me happy. Whenever she was around, I expected a stream of laughter to start echoing in minutes of our interaction. She was always ready with a story to tell. And her story, a rather simple one, drew people towards her. She loved narrating them in fact.

In a span of three years, I had become privy to so many stories about her life, that I felt I was close to knowing her well. From how she smoked her way to college in an auto, to how she passed days in her depressing convent school, to how she danced all slutty at the party last night and rushed for a morning lecture. She was a favorite at the cafeteria. Sipping iced tea even on the coldest mornings, she carried a bag with no books, a wallet flooded with loose money and a story. I never saw her tell a sobbing story though. It was as if in her mind, she was a celebrity being chased by the paparazzi of the city.

Initially, I hardly spoke to her. In fact it took me time to understand her sometimes-blunt responses. To the ones she loved, she loved immensely. To the ones she disliked, well. The heaviness of English Literature was whisked away in her humor and lines we made jokes of. It's not like she didn't face problems or was never broke or didn't have a fight. It's just that she was the way she was. Always on a high.

I'm glad to have spent my days of graduation with her. I don't remember not recalling any incident that she shared with me, and not laughing. I don't think I came across anyone like her again. I'm at a loss of words when people ask how was she so different. I'm just glad I met her.

To you, pole. I wanted to write this much earlier. 

The Man and The Photograph.

Everyday, he woke up to a photograph of her. Rather, the photograph. He lived with it. It was a part of him, now. Even after so many days, so many years, the picture remained his loyal. Her expression in it never changed. She never argued or questioned him. She never replied back during his conversations. She was the silent woman. Smiling, as ever. Available, as ever. The woman, every man like him would desire. Blessed with the power of submission. Submitting, while smiling calmly in that photograph, to her owner. There was never a spark of the feminist rebellion in her. Obedience was her motto, as it were. And peace, her existence.

He spoke to her all day. He ate with her. Kept it aside on the pillow while he slept. He covered the photograph will a soft muslin cloth while dressing after a bath. It was his live co-existence. Many had deemed him a lunatic. They would hush into each other when he walked down the street to buy groceries, while the tip of the photograph sneaked out of his linen pockets. Shop vendors would jestingly ask him, how the woman was doing. Attempting to revoke an answer - incite agitation or a retort. They never got any. All he did was smiled, picked up his packets of pulses and sugar, payed the money and walked off. The world didn't seem to affect him. His indifference to these remarks was as profound as his love for the woman in the photograph. Both were unshakable.

New residents in the town asked their neighbours what was the underlying mystery behind this benign man. Who was angelic, almost. Who never spoke to anyone but the photograph. Who smiled to himself when the town was storming with action and exchange.

Years ago, he had gone to the town festival with his wife. The air was filled with joy and elation.Everybody was celebrating. As festivities would have it, there were local photographers clicking pictures of couples, children, families and old men. The camera was a new fantasy in the town and only the privileged could afford to get clicked.

The man and his wife also posed for the cameraman. He shot a picture, that was as bright as their marital days. Swelling with happiness, he kept the photograph safe in the inner pocket of his jacket.

But as the evening proceeded, it turned out to be rather poignant than one would expect. The man returned home, alone. His wife, lost in the crowd, kidnapped or killed; it was unknown. Fate stood still to challenge the man's days of joy. He searched everywhere he could, but in vain. In all these days, he had also forgotten about the photograph. It was shoved into some corner of his wooden cupboard.

After days of futile search, the man decided to leave the town and go. He felt devastated and saw his future as a redundant existence. As he started collecting his clothes from the cupboard, the photograph fell down on the floor. He picked it, gazed at it for a while.

He kept back the clothes, cleaned the house and prepared the food.

Only recently, his neighbour, a new resident in the town came to meet him. The neighbour was little young boy who had been observing the doings of this man silently from his window, for days. Unable to understand the man's association with the photograph, he came up to him and asked what was it.

The man, replied, in a rather short answer. Belief he said. He had rested the energy of himself in one photograph, along with a belief, a rather staunch one that she will meet him someday. That, she will return home to him. And, the belief kept him happy to prepare things she liked. To be able to manage in case she suddenly returns. The belief kept him going.

Ten Reasons Why My Dad is Awesome.

I wrote about fathers and daughters some time back. And their relationship as it usually is. For some unknown reason, I like talking about that relationship. It makes me gleeful. Not that mom's are any less loved, or I'm not fond of my mom, or whatever. I love her immensely.

Somehow, talking about fathers is special. It could be due to whatever Freud said about the Oedipal Complex (and let me know, if I repeat myself, again).

Or perhaps, mine is such a flamboyant and benign soul that I cannot stop gushing about him. Some days, it's like I have suddenly woken up to my dad's good looks or sense of dressing or way of talking or handling people who seem annoying to the others.

For one, I think he is the best dressed person in my family. Relatives older or younger watch and ape him. He loves to shop for himself, right from cufflinks to bandgala jackets, belts and watches. And thus, he understands why one would need so many pairs of shoes.
Two, he has the most amazing collection of perfumes. And he lets me steal them quite generously. (Yeah, some perfumes are kickass for everybody to use.)
Three, he never scolds me. Ever. It's always cool between us.
Four, he has amazing people skills. He manages the most sticky people with a grin and the next minute, you wouldn't know if someone tried to test his patience.
Five, he doesn't ask how much money I need. Just gives. And being the nice person I am, I don't take advantage of that. It's true.
Six, he loves travelling far and wide.
Seven, my girl-friends had a crush on him when I was younger. And he starts smiling funnily whenever I tell him that.
Eight, he has enormous amount of patience. I mean, people can come and borrow some patience from him, it's so much in abundance.
Nine, he is the one who distracts mom and me from having heated arguements.
Ten, well, he's awesome. Period.  

Outgrow The Years.

Simpler things these days are a rarity. It's as if everyone's running into complexities of existence. Blame it to our lifestyles? Or technology. Or whatsapp's last seen. Or parties and after parties. Or money. Everything is made into a complex gumball that we stick to ourselves and move around as programmed complex creatures.Wow, that's one term. Anyway, so yeah. We sit on our window sill, on rainy afternoons, dipping into nostalgia or deep thought- wondering how simple our past years were. So on and so forth.

The other day, I stumbled upon some old pictures. Not that old, though. They were pictures of friends whom I was not really in touch with now. Maybe we think of each other time and again, but never really met as we used to. I laughed over how each year we had one big fight, that involved a lot drama. How we used each other's names as excuses to meet a whole bunch of other people, rather discreetly. How we spent that long span of time just among ourselves.

And how, we barely meet now. I don't even remember when did we speak on the phone. There is no speck of animosity between us. But then, one day, I read somewhere that sometimes we outgrow certain people. And I could not understand whether I agreed to this, or otherwise. How do you outgrow people? Does moving forward in life imply ougrowing people who made your past worthy? Then, I also thought of some possibilites. What if I had met all those people, now. In the state of life I am curently. When I have a better understanding of things. Would we make better friends now? What if the settings in which we sustained our relationships were different? Would I have been the same person, if I did not have their influence on my life back then?

So I came to a conclusion that outgrowing people isn't the best idea to stick to. Probably it doesn't work for me. Maybe it does for you. I wouldn't know. Sudden realizations of a lost friendship did not embark my mind, no. But it definitely reminded me of the good days that were. Days that were spent with people I liked being around. And I'm quite sure, that would not change if I meet the same people again. Eventually, I came up with my own version of that phrase - You outgrow the time, not the people you spent that time with.

Just let certain things be simple.

Resolutions Are Meant To Be Broken. Are They.

We all make New Year resolutions. To improve ourselves, our surroundings. Begin with a bang, slow down mid way and probably by year end just laugh over how resolutions are meant to be broken. January's promises become December's jokes over New Year Eve's dinners. Of course, it's enjoyable. We laugh on ourselves - about how we resolved to wake up early and do yoga, complete the pending treatment at the Dentist, learn driving, be more honest, spend more time with the family, quit smoking or reduce procrastincation.

But what if we ditched the New Year's time to make such promises to ourselves. No, this isn't a self help post that will awaken your you from the shackles of your grey existence and bounce back ! Or maybe it will. It's only a thought that struck me when I reminisced over the resolutions I made and achieved, half baked. Yeah, so why choose New Year's to make resolutions. What's up with New Year's? Just because you begin the year are you bound to load it with self uplifiting moral promises. You have the whole year for it, man. Or is it the air of resolutions and promises that float around you on New Year's Eve, where there is a whole range of resolutions to choose from. Your best friend's or boyfriend/girlfriend's list. So many options, is it? 

Well, I have been noticing this for two years now and have realized the futility of making New Year's resolutions. Not because they don't survive. But because when I'm celebrating and partying, who cares about waking up early for yoga, going to the Dentist for root canal, or improving my driving and so on. (I don't smoke, so that's one respite from resolutions already.) I will make a resolution when I want to. I don't feel like making it public; or maybe those self improving tips don't hit my mind when I'm partying. And since I won't make my resolutions on a December-January cusp, there won't be an obligation to fulfil and guilt to ignore them. Maybe one made some where between the year, will work better for me.

PS: Also, I read Robin Sharma say somewhere, that it takes any person about 30 days to get used to a new habit. The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari wasn't the most intriguing book I read, though. Just saying. I'm trusting you with this one, Robin ! 

How We Spent Our Days.

I had a girl in my neighbourhood once. We lived adjacent to each other. We also went to the same school, in the same school bus. Each afternoon we returned home together, and in the evening went out to ride our respective bicycles together. Nothing was surprising in that occuring.

We were friends, but we weren't too fond of us each other. In fact on several occassions I would come home and complain to my mom about how she tried to act smarter, or cheated in games, or stole my hairclips in the school bus. And each time, mom would diligently calm my juvenile worries. She probably did the same to her mom, when she fell down the bicycle and I rode ahead, instead of helping her get up. We often played these petty wicked revenge games with each other.

And then one day I came to know that she was shifting from the neighbourhood. Her dad had been transferred to another city. She was to leave in a week's time. Each day that week, we would be trucks being loaded with packed belongings. The house was bustling with shifting activities; the door was mostly open, with boys rushing in and out carrying carton boxes and what not.

She barely came out to play in that week. Her bicycle had been transported along with other belongings. One day, when I knew she wasn't at home, I peeped in through the rot iron door- the house was vacant. All belongings had been shifted, except ones of bare necessity. The slightest of voice would echo in such a house. That afternoon I realised, how much I was fond of her. I was missing her already. Thinking of how she wouldn't be accompanying me in the school bus now, or ride along on the bicycle in evenings almost made me cry. She was my closest friend. We fought each day, only to meet again next morning and go to school together.

I went home. And no matter how clichéd it might sound now, made a card for her. I even scribbled something that probably was an emotional outburst. Went to her place in the evening and gave it. She was happy to receive it. Her mom fed us with biscuits.

Funnily, neither of us felt the awkwardness of how we disliked each other, in absence of the other. While together, we were normal. As if nothing had happened. Probably nobody thinks of awkwardness or discomfort at that age. Emotional outbursts are momentary. We get over things faster. She went away. We grew up. Though we hardly kept in touch on a regular basis, I heard about her family occassionally from my parents.

And each time I thought of her, I smiled at the sheer simplicity of our childhood.

Because one rainy afternoon, with no particular reason, Love beckoned. Dramatic, eh.