Sunday, October 14, 2007

A fond picture book

As I woke up today at 10 in the morning, to open the door to my insufferable landlord demanding the monthly rent, I realised that my life had descended into a comfortable yet a claustrophobic rut. Stuck out in Sector 62, the veritable boondocks of Noida, something was missing. What did I desire? An escape. I hadn't the faintest idea. I still don't.

Did I really want an escape? I was happy, wasn't I? I liked it here, didn't I? Perhaps I longed for the times in which I was truly happy. The feel of a home in which you are welcome and a home you longed to return to. After I saw my landlord off, contended with the thick wad of Rupee notes tucked away in his trouser pockets, I promptly fell asleep. Only to be woken up by a turbulent dream. A hazy picture of a home no longer.

The day was chilly. The onset of the winter of the North. I needed to clear my head with a mundane activity. I cleaned my apartment. I swept and mopped the floors, took out the trash which had piled up over two weeks and organised my wardrobe. The absence of my room-mate gave me the peace and quiet I so needed. Tired of the heavy cleaning, I stuck my head under the shower. My hair badly needed some cleaning. As I stood under the shower with the cold water pouring over me, I felt at home. Yet, I wasn't home.

As the cold water pitter-pattered on the floor and the cold breeze chilled me further, that hazy picture of my dream came into focus. I had dreamt of college. My college during the beginning of the seventh semester. The days of true happiness before I had so gloriously fuck'd up. The cold water and the strong breeze reminded me of the few days in the beginning of seventh semester, in which I, on the third floor of my hostel, welcomed the hey-days of the monsoons of Mangalore with a sheer uncontrollable bliss. I remembered the days on which the water drummed fiercely on the young leaves of the trees, cleaning off their dust and bringing to light their bright green faces. Returning to the hostel soaked from college only to be mesmerised by the bright, throughly drenched, greenery that surrounded me.

As I sat in my third floor room, with the windows wide open with little regard to the computer lying right next to them, I sat soaking in the spray brought in by the fierce breeze that blew in from the sea. The rains always came in at about four in the evening always accompanied by the breeze that brought such joy. As I sat getting drenched, there was nothing on my mind, but the fine cold spray which brought such freshness to my world. As the rain ended, the leaves dripping with water on the road to the beach made the picture complete.

For me, the monsoons of Mangalore are no longer. That chapter of my life has been written. The time to write a new one has arrived. Only when it is finished can I say whether it is worth reading again and again. Much like a fond little picture book we thumb through when we are feeling down.

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