It has to fall in place, eventually. All of it. That's how it's meant to be.

Grand Pa.

The IPL season is back. Most cricket lovers are glued to matches and all the related trivia. I particularly see some ardent fans defying the logic of technology and collecting posters and pictures. Setting up their walls with their favorite batsman's poster.

It reminds of me a very distinct memory. It was the first year of IPL in India. And I was in 11th grade. The fervour across the nation was gripping. Being at the stadium to cheer your favorite team was a luxury. Newspapers to radio channels, residential societies to corporate offices - all were caught in the momentum

That was also the year, my grandparents and moved to their new house. Which was right next to our house. Merrily, we would spend the night watching every single match. My grandfather has been one of the best sportspersons of his times. Needless to say, he makes, even today, a very passionate audience. He would watch every cricketer's performance critically, grilling them on every shot they played. Sometimes I wondered why. But I loved sitting with him, occasionally listening to his stories of swimming through whirlpools and what not.

One morning I woke up early. And what I saw amused me to no end.

Every morning, my grandfather would collect clippings of the previous night's match, and carefully pack it under the shelf. When I sat there long enough, he took me to his cupboard, opened the door and showed me a rating chart of all the teams. It was scattered with small ticks all over. He told me that each night, after the match he would tick against the team that won, count the points it earned and then sleep. His goal was to estimate the correct team's name that would reach the Finals. And he did. With much precision.

I laughed with joy and pride on how smart he was, though I felt slightly envious for not sharing that passion. But for me, watching him enjoy those matches was extremely delightful.

He's grown older today. Older than I thought he would. And no longer stays in the same house. He speaks lesser than he used to. I wish I could meet him more often that I actually do. And tell him how much he means to me. To all of us. For teaching us so much. But of all the things, how to collect match updates like a boss!

Love.

Narratives.

Narratives are so important. Every experience, whether oral or written is alive only because of its narrative.

I studied a lot of narrative styles during Graduation. Sometimes, I'd try to imitate a certain favorite writers. Influenced writing and copied perspectives make for amusing memories, I guess. I perhaps tried to steal the thought process not understanding that those narratives depicted a certain time zone, circumstances that cannot be duplicated. But I'm glad I attempted it. To every extent.

Today, as I begin to write - there are flashes of tales in my head. Situations, or possibilities. Experiences, or occurings. As I begin to pen them down, there is a recurring desire to let go of the narrative. To leave it mid way. Unassumed. Undescribed. As if a satiating narrative would break down the essence into its crux. Too much meaning can wash down the impact of a thought.

And so, I began writing about moments. Basically, flashes of experience. An interaction. An emotion. Unfinished narratives would perhaps give the mind a chance to imagine. To think of possibilties. Perhaps make it more real. More close to our realities.

Let Go.

Letting go was important for her. At this point in time, crucial for survival. A happier survival. She had to shed what had built her then. And what was tryingto break her. Life was such a blessing to her that getting morbid was almost a digrace.

Then she opened the door. The chilly winds gushed through her hair. Kissing her face cold, her nose turned red. She started walking out through the door. Her purple socks felt slightly damp with the fog settling on the floor.

She saw the highway ahead of her. Dark. Black road. Devoid of commotion. As if lying calmly for a traveler. It was 3 am. Late enough for girls to be home. But for her, it was just the right time. Break of a new day. And closure of a life going by. She stood at the cusp. Literally, on the white strip - the indicator that glowed under street light.

And she sat down. Crossed legged. She sat down in silence. Not a vehicle crossed. Not a spec of noise. She sat down. With her arms spread wide. She opened her soul to the Universe. As if asking it to relieve her. She breathed deep. As if watching it all go.

Then she got up. Diligently walked her way into the house. Shut the door and lay on the bed. And smiled.

And said, thank you.

You're Your Best Person.

It's May already. Which means, it's that time of the year when most of the kids look forward to the blissful two months of summer vacations. Obviously, schools try to spoil it with bundles of holiday assignments; but nonetheless. Vacations are always special. Moreover, I've no summer vacations now. Started working and what not, bro.

But I have this particular fond memory of my school days when I used to be fat. And how I used to dump my school uniform into the cupboard to not see it for the next fifty to sixty days. Needless to say, I would gorge my way through the summer. And wear loose breezy clothes that made me uber comfortable in the heat. What else are vacations meant for? But what would follow was rather disappointing.

My uniform's skirts would not fit me. I would get stuck in them so bad that I wanted to tear those pleats at that very moment! At the same time, my mom would be waiting with a grumpy expression, as if knowing I would not fit into them. Those days, I wondered, if she knew I would get stuck why didn't she just buy a bigger size before hand? Similar situations arose when I had to buy denims. God, how much I hated trying those pairs. I've gone through that phase to know how it feels when those clothes lying in your cupboards for months just refuse to fit you. You just have to stuff them in and buy bigger sizes in a hope that one day you'll go back to the older smaller ones. However, this is no sympathy note for people who feel they are gaining weight. Or already have.

Many people tell me, you won't understand our dilemma because you're thin and your waist size has only reduced in the last two years. Well, it has. No denying that. I'm nowhere close to what I used to be.

But size does not matter, really. Pun unintended. If you feel you relate to even an inch of what I wrote, I just want to share a moment of empathy and tell you, you're your best person. And keep it that way. Always.

The Journey.

The traveller. Uprooted and rolling. For whom the journey was the only fascination. He strived for no destination in particular. Because destinations are conclusive. They become finite and make you conform. And thus, he never chose to pinpoint on a specific destination, when he spread out his map made of old handmade paper every weekend. He chose the route, the one which was most enticing, the one that caught his fancy. That would make him go around every geographical embodiment Nature has ever created. Sometimes, he would also digress from what he had initially planned. Who cares. The final destination was never binding on him anyway.

It's always interesting to write about travels and travellers. They is a certain nomadic air about them. A sense of uncertainty, of not finding them the next morning when you wake up. And a carefree countenance, indifference almost, to the worldly routines that draws you to them. It's like a cinematic sight that you see dreaming to play the lead role instead.

So, each Monday, when the larger part of civilisation gathered themselves to hit their chores, he embarked upon a new journey. A week full of new experiences, new people. A new life almost. As if he was chosen by God to only foray into untraveled lands and explore. A divine mission as it were. An old rustic bike,  a camera dangling round his neck, some beer cans and some food that he frequently gathered along the way.

He was no loner. He made several acquaintances through his journey. Countryside folks often looked up to him with an amusing fascination. Young village girls found his rugged bike and dusty appearance a fresh change from the conventionally clad village boys. Wherever he went, he mingled and celebrated with the local residents who often fed him and sometimes offered shelter. In return, he would click their photographs. Lots of them. Those photographs were his means to tell the tale of the place he visited. The joys and sorrows he witnessed. Every place was so distinct that he was but compelled to capture it. Through the week he would click incessantly, from the countryside to cities. And over the weekend, reminisce a part of his life spent on exploration.

Travel brings power and love back into your life 
- Rumi. 

Love's a thousand desires.

Love like the olden golden days. There is no state of being in-between. It's pure and wanting of corrupted egos. Say it'll work, to see it working.

Each passing day, he saw her down the street. Such a typical sight. To watch an ordinary girl trail through the ordinary street. Love of the ordinary. It was simple and straightforward. He liked it that way. He made no effort to glorify its existence. To push it to the superlative. Because the superlative is unnatural. He liked himself that way. To watch her, write about her, think about her. That state of happiness gave him the power to conduct himself. It brought him no complexity. He knew she is his. She knew he is hers. They did not have to necessarily discuss it. This blinding faith was intimate to each of them. Faith, drunken to his countenance.

That's how I'd want it to be. Simple. Agreeable. It should have the power to settle the turbulence on other fronts. The power of fulfil desires, whatever form they choose to take. It should bring endless joy, each passing day. Should be divine.