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.

When.

Once in a while, when I ran out of thoughts.

When you ran into love.
When we explored dreams that lay with-in and with-out.
When cold winter showers chilled our bones, and we craved for the fireplace.
When I wrote like you once did. When I write like you were talking.
When you taught me to dream the dream. And the dream danced in my head all this while.
When we sneaked through mental escapdes.
When you spoke and I blabbered.
When I fancied chilled strawberry shakes and vanilla cupcakes.
When we lay under stars that seemed yellow with dust.
When iced lemonade soothed the scorch of the sun.
When I stole mom's pearl trinkets for the party. When you smiled at my supposed cleverness.
When we talked wise till the sun arose.
When you let me play pranks on you only to laugh about them later.
When you bitched about the girl who left you.When you warned me to not be fooled by love.
When we laughed at how bad we fared during math exams.
When you wore bright checks shirts and denims for the Sunday brunch.
When I stole caramel crunchies from your travel bags.
When I told you about previous night's dream.
When only I knew where you were hiding.

When I ran out of thoughts. 

What The Sea Brought.

There must be a beach-post. After a beach holiday there must be a beach post.

With so much food and rain and water and people. With shorter clothes and cooler breeze. With coconut and goan curry. With shacks and tiny colourful bottle. With beer and alcohol all over (no takers for it, sadly.) With chatter and laughter and ghost stories in the night. With sea shells and para gliding and salt water filling up right though your lungs.

The beach will always have a special place in my heart. A beach wedding would be dreamy and rather cinematic. A beach house would solve all holiday qualms. Water coming in, going out. Endlessly. White foam gathering on the sandy shores bringing tiny broken shells. Empty bottles and broken sand castles. Beach lovers. Walking hand in hand. Laughing to each other.

The sea never slept. It swayed tirelessly each night. Playing with the winds, battling with ships and cargos. It cradled little boats who thrived in to catch some fish for the night meals. It ran deep down to the core of the earth, still brimming with life.

Its fondness would never die. It would only grow deeper. For it's eternal. Its existence, ethereal.

For Days We Spent With Clarissa.

For bamboo room, winter afternoons, coffee and Post-War London. And the sheer love.

"Peter would think her sentimental. So she was. For she had come to feel that it was the only thing worth saying – what one felt. Cleverness was silly. One must say simply what one felt"
- Clarissa Dalloway.