In praise of slowness

Well, what do I do when I cannot find anything new to post? I plagiarise. Now don't give that despising look. I actually copy from the pages of my own old diary and pass it as a new post. That's not such a crime, I presume. So here it goes:

"There's something about slowness that is particularly attractive. And here I'm not just implying physical slowness, but our mental slowness as well. Slowness, often derided as a negative attribute, has its own charm. It resurfaces at unexpected turns and reveal to us a whole new world, a world that moves in its own indifferent way. And those among us, who are more susceptible and sensetive, may even fall in love with this slowness. They may be just as happy to let the world pass them by. There seems to be a beauty in slowness if one pauses to look at it. But, in a sense, slowness is also about the way we perceive things. Indeed, most of us, when confronted by slowness, feel tremendously bored, rather than getting enticed by it. Therefore, slowness is also supposedly a mental state of being. Not everyone is capable of extricating the pleasure out of slowness.

Now, this same slowness also applies to our emotions. There's always an inherent sense of slowness in all our pains, yearnings, and dreams. And it is this slowness that lends poignancy to our feelings and makes us understand them better. Happiness, as we commonly perceive, is a fleeting feeling. It never stays long enough to make us really happy. But our moments of despair, failure, and loneliness never seem to leave us in a hurry. They seem to fit better into the definition of a friend."

Here, I'd like to give just a little background about this piece of writing. I assume this was written on a foggy winter day when I was depressed, confused, and jobless. (I assume because I cannot ascertain the date; my diary entries had always been erratic and haphazard.) That was a dark period of uncertainity and I was almost on the verge of a breakdown. Well, it is again a flawed piece of writing (most of my writings are flawed anyway) but I like the whiff of melancholy and despair it carries -- reminds me of those lonely, desolate days.

Bicycle days

I remember I got my own bicycle, after much coaxing, when I was in Class IX -- a spanking new Hero Ranger. Till then I was using my father's bicycle occasionally, but I hated that bicycle. I would ogle at my friends' new bicycles and would be convinced that life without a bicycle was no life at all. So you can see, to me, to own a bicycle was a matter of immense importance.

Looking back, I wonder how absurdly delighted I felt the day I got my own bicycle. It was a heady feeling as I rode my bicycle and zoomed past everyone. There was much pleasure in maneuvering it. And a shiver would run down me whenever I applied the brakes and the tyres skidded, producing a screeching sound and stopping with a mild shudder. I don't think I ever got the same kick anytime later in my life. It was pure bliss. Almost heavenly.

For years to come, that bicycle would grow into a companion. It would take me to the tuitions, to the school, to the market, to the library, to the unknown little lanes and dusty roads, and sometimes, when I'm particularly upset, to the places far away (as far away as a timid teenager could go, that is). Like a true companion it would see me through my moments of pleasure and pain. It would help me find an escape whenever I needed one.

In those angst-driven teenage years, I must say, I always looked for an escape. With wind in my hair and a song in my heart I would imagine myself cycling to eternity, breaking free of everyone and everything. But, in real life, I could never gather the courage to go anywhere farther than the nearby village roads, the bank of the river, or the highway; I could never think of running away from my familiar environments. I guess, teenage days are a little like that: lots of dreams, imaginations and rebellions, balanced by an equal amount of insecurity and fragility.

Living alone, far away from home, I sometimes wonder what happened to that timid, extremely self-conscious teenager who wanted to escape far away with his bicycle. It seems the bicycle could not keep up with him. But I would like to believe that he still fondly remembers his bicycle days.

You

"I don't understand... ," I hear your voice trail off. There's a pause at your end. I wait. "It's just that," you end the silence, "I don't know how to put it. At times I feel there's a demon inside me who fights against my happiness. When everything seems to be going fine this demon raises its ugly head and starts nibbling away my happiness, leaving a vast gaping hole inside me. It's such a terrible feeling to be defeated over and over again. It keeps me reminding what a big waste my whole life is."

"Maybe you're being a little hyper here," I try to interrupt. "Surely, things are not as bleak as you are trying to portray."

"But they are," you almost shout back. "Everything is so frustratingly bleak that I don't find any reason to continue like this. I don't find anything happy about myself. I don't find anything happy about my whole existence. Everything is so mundane. So boring. So utterly desolate. There's no spark of happiness. Nothing to... "

Here you fumble for words. I don't say anything. The silence lingers between us. I can almost see you now. I can imagine your posture as you talk. I can see you pacing in a lonely room in a faraway city, your face contorted with pain, one hand holding the cellphone to ear and the other moving animatedly, as if trying to grasp the unspoken words out of thin air. I wonder if you are drunk tonight. Or have you smoked a joint? In any case, you are not in your normal self. But I find your voice undistorted and your words still distinct.

"You know the other day I was feeling like this, utterly dejected, and I went out for a walk in the city," you begin again with a surprisingly soft voice. "I roamed around the streets for hours. I like the anonymity the city crowds offer and I often let myself loose like that. Finally, after much aimless walking I sat down on a quiet park bench. It was a beautiful day and as I sat under the shade of this leafy tree, without my knowing, I began feeling happy. Yes, I must say I had been happy. All my worries melted away with the breeze. I don't know how long I was absorbed like this but the moment I began realizing that I was feeling happy something snapped inside me and all my happiness evaporated in a few minutes. I could feel the change taking place in me. Yet I couldn't help it. And afterwards I got so terribly depressed that I went home and shut myself for the rest of the day. It was just one instance, you see. I face this day in and day out -- a fleeting moment of happiness is engulfed by an eternity of dark depressing time."

You again pause for a moment. And your words keep fluttering in my head like a bunch of butterflies.

"Perhaps happiness is overrated," I finally say with as much conviction as I could muster.

None of us speak for the next few seconds. Silence spreads its tentacles again. I take a quick glance at my cellphone screen. The call is on.

"Perhaps," you say finally, "I don't know... "

Books by my bedside

Ever since I moved to this new city I found myself in the company of books again. This happened somewhat out of compulsion though. What possibly could a socially inept person like me do when he lands in an alien city? So these days you are most likely to find me curled up in my bed (yes, that's where I read most of my books) with a book. And it's actually not as bad as it sounds. I'm enjoying it.

Since there's nothing much happening to me otherwise, I thought of writing about the books I'm reading. Presently, there are four (I shuffle the books according to my mood, you see).

Okay now, here's my take on them (please don't expect any serious discussions; these are, at best, a rambling account of a book enthusiast):

1. The Great Indian Novel by Shashi Tharoor

I'm halfway through this book. And so far it's been an absolutely delightful read. The sheer reckless humor of this book has had me in splits. Already, on multiple occasions I've found myself rolling in my bed laughing out uncontrollably. In this book, Shashi Tharoor weaves the story of the Mahabharata with that of recent history of India. And he does it with such elan! Brilliantly conceptualized and masterfully executed.

2. Collected Short Stories of Roald Dahl by Roald Dahl

This is the first time I'm reading Roald Dahl. And I am engrossed in the well crafted stories. Roald Dahl builds his short stories gradually, in carefully measured steps, and gives us a typical short story twist at the end, much to our delight. I found the stories clever, witty, and sometimes even bizarre. But I somehow didn't find the stories 'hauntingly beautiful' (like some stories that stay with us long after we've read them) -- they have the feel of a subtly modulated plot at times -- but they are taut, exciting, and immensely readable.

3. Short Stories from Pakistan (Edited), translated by M. Asaduddin

I must say I don't have much idea about the literary scene of our neighboring country, except perhaps Sadat Hasan Manto's short stories and some stray readings of Faiz and the name of Bapsi Sidhwa. Actually, this book was lying unread for quite some time now and I fished it out the other day while I was rummaging through my books. The collection begins with with a translation of a short story by Sadat Hasan Manto, Khol Do. I remember reading this story elsewhere, long back, and feeling disturbed for a long time after I read it. I haven't progressed much with the other stories so far but I'm particularly struck by a story by Hasan Manzar. In this story we find a young couple whiling away some time as they wait outside an abortion clinic. As they wait for the clinic to open, they converse, and the boy narrates the girl a story from his past, about an abandoned infant girl whom he once wanted to adopt. There're only two characters who converse through the story and there's not much movement in the story either. Yet, there's a poignant beauty in it. I liked that.

4. Surely You're Joking Mr. Feynman by Richard P. Feynman

Another book which I started long back but hadn't been able to finish. This is the book containing the anecdotes from the life of Richard Feynman, a Nobel Laureate in Physics. And I must say this is an amazing book. For those of us who think that scientists are a crazy bunch of people who're pathetically dressed and horribly clumsy, this book serves as an eye-opener. This is an account of a person whose passion for life runs us over. His humor is infectious and as we progress, each chapter shows the life of a genius who derived ordinary pleasures out of his pranks, adventures, and practical jokes. And he tells us all these in a language that is mischevious in its tone and yet utterly adorable.

So that's all I've by my bedside now. As and when I pick up something new, I'll post about it.

A nonsense rhyme*

Sunday night
No sleep in sight

Had been sleeping the whole day
Now I have to keep awake and pay

So I thought why not make use of this time
Write some nonsense and make them rhyme

This was no easy task, I soon did realize
I was out of practice and the words did not oblige

I found the words drifting carlessly
And I watched them wistfully

I thought of old days when my pen could strike them down
But now they were jeering at me making me look like a clown

As I sat defeated I suddenly had a cue
An old word of acquaintance, by the name of 'Lonely', came to my rescue

Now 'Lonely' was a timid word, always so alone
Nodbody ever saw him talk, even on his cellphone

So, 'Lonely' was sitting alone on my writing pad
And I thought of bringing him a companion, lest it looked very sad

I did not have to wait for too long
A chirpy feminine word, named 'Rain', walked in with a song

'Rain' sat beside 'Lonely', chirping like a bird
But our young man was not amused, he felt rather awkward

Now 'Lonely Rain' sat on my writing pad with wonderful possibilities
And I left them there washing my hands off all responsibilities

There's a world beyond rhyming, you know
I have to wake up in the morning and go to office tomorrow


* This was written as a proof that I could still produce horrible rhymes if only I applied myself sincerely to the task.

Elsewhere

I like this word -- 'elsewhere'. It has an other-worldly ring to it, something illusory and impenetrable. Indeed, however far and wide we go, we never reach 'elsewhere'. It's simply unreachable -- it remains elsewhere, forever away from us.

Last weekend, on Saturday evening to be precise, while sitting at the foot the Gateway of India, the word came upon me fleetingly, almost imperceptibly. It was a perfect evening; before my eyes lay the vast Arabian Sea and behind me the fabled city of Bombay (Mumbai), teeming with life. I tried to absorb the evening with all my senses. But, without my knowing, I felt something amiss, as if something was not quite there, as if something had moved elsewhere.

I felt this way before, I knew. I felt this way when I stood before the majestic Taj Mahal. I felt this way when I saw the awesome snow-capped mountains of the Himalayas. I felt this way when I visited the haunting ruins of history in Delhi. I felt this way when I flew above the clouds for the first time (on an aeroplane, of course!).

It was the same feeling of elsewhere.

Whoever said that wishes were like wild horses, was right. They gallop away all the time, to elsewhere. Everytime I reach a place of my longing I encounter the same feeling -- not here, elsewhere.

Suddenly sleepless

I tossed and turned in my bed trying to get a wink of sleep. But it was one of those sleepless nights. I tried all the sleep-inducing methods I knew -- counted a lot of imaginary sheeps, read Oxford English Dictionary, gave a nice tel-maalish to my head, turned on the radio (yes, I'm a little outdated that way), put the ceiling fan on full speed -- methods that have worked for me in the past. But nothing worked tonight.

Sleep, although one of the most divine experiences, can become a nasty thing when it doesn't obey you. So I lay in my bed, wide awake and deeply irritated, feeling unadultrated jealousy towards all those happy souls who were having a good night's sleep. It was frustrating. I felt like screaming at the top of my voice and waking up everyone. But although eccentric at times, I'm not completely insane. So I dropped the idea of shouting my lungs out and retreated to the cosy orner of my balcony instead.

Outside, the night was startlingly quiet; nothing moved except the faint breeze. Dark silhouettes of trees stood there with a stony silence. The occasional barking of a dog or the flapping of a nocturnal bird only helped deepen the silence. There was nothing I could do but stare blankly at the darkness of the night and feel the silence seep into my body.

I know a dark silent night can lift the lid off different turbulent emotions. But all I felt was rather calm -- my agitation withering away with the passage of time. And standing there on that sleepless night I got to know loneliness all over again.

From a distant afternoon

It was a drowsy summer afternoon. The sun was fierce and the roads were all empty. The air was still and hung like a heavy curtain, not a leaf moved anywhere. The nighbourhood was absolutely silent -- only a faint sound of a radio occassionally wafted from somewhwre.

In the courtyard, under the shade of the mango tree, however, a little activity was going on. Handfuls of earth were being dug up. A young woman was doing the digging while a little boy fetched a mugful of water. She poured the water on the dug-up mound of earth and kneaded them until they became soft clay, ready to be given shape. She rolled one small clay ball and started making a human shape. When the hands and legs were created, she took a smaller ball and made a little head out of it -- complete with a little nose, a tiny mouth, two little button-like eyes, and two protruding ears on each side. The little boy was looking at the procedure intently, hunched on his knees, and insisted that he also tries his hands. He was given a lump of clay and he tried imitating what he saw, but his result was disappointing. So she took his tiny little fingers in her hand and helped him mould the clay balls. And after while there stood another identical little human figure. The boy was thrilled at the result.

"They look beautiful, maa", he said, beaming.

The mother smiled too and said, "Yes. But they are still soft. We'll have to leave them in the sun to dry now. And you can play with them tomorrow."

Then they left the two clay figures in the sun to dry and went inside the house, the little boy trotting happily, his hand clinging to his mother's fingers.

Untitled

And then the evening descends. Neons light up the shops, vehicles crowd the roads, and people race against each other to go home. The roadsides come alive with vendors and hawkers. Bargainings go on. And despite the diesel fumes, dust, and honking vehicles I see people sighing a sense of relief -- the day has come to an end.

Isn't there something festive about the way each day ends?

I watch all these from afar, from the distance of a moving bus. I watch the bustle outside and say to myself, "But I'm in no hurry. I can afford to be late." Since I am not worried about reaching home, while commuting from work, I distract myself with little games -- often with words. I pick up random words and, in my head, arrange them into sentences, and sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into.... Well, it doesn't go beyond that. I lose track.

Thus, when I sometimes pick the pen and paper late at night, I find stray sentences and odd words coming out of my pen. Sometimes they fall in place and a little piece gets written (like this one). But often they don't and remain buried, unfinished.

Two lines

Once in a while, when it becomes too swollen to put it in my back pocket, I have to unburden my wallet of all the junk that are periodically deposited in it -- odd bills, old ATM slips, visiting cards of people whom I have forgotten, papers with indecipherable numbers, photocopies of once important documents and things suchlike. Yesterday, having nothing better to do, I thought of cleaning up my wallet.

While I was digging out worn out, unnecessary bits of paper, a particular piece of paper caught my attention. It was a yellow piece of paper from a stick pad that are so common in offices. This piece of paper was all empty but a couple of lines scribbled in Hindi. As I read it I found out that it was an Urdu couplet, popularly known as shaayari .

I tried hard to remember where I had picked it up. Raking up my memory cells I finally found out that I had picked it up in my last office, where one fine morning I had found this solitary piece of paper lying on my desk. I had no idea who had put it there but something about the written words must have struck me and I had slipped it in my wallet and had carried it since then.

Well, if you are by now a little curious to know what was written on it, I reproduce it below for your benefit.

"Kaif bardosh baadlon ko na dekh
Bekhabar tu kuchal na jaaye kahin"

P.S. These lines must have struck me because I also have this premonition -- like Kaif, the author of this couplet -- that I might get trampled someday while watching the clouds above.

P.P.S. I still don't know whose couplet is this. Googling the lines didn't help. Is it Kaifi Azmi's? Have anyone of you come across this couplet before?

Coming back to life

To those who thought my blog has died a natural death, this post must be disappointing. Yes, this blog is alive - it's trying to mutter a few feeble words again.

I have no reason to defend this long hiatus. Agreed, I was a bit busy travelling - first, to McLeodganj; then, to my hometown Dhubri in Assam; and finally, to Pune (where I'm stationed now and hope to be here for quite some time). Meanwhile, I have also quit my last job and landed up in a new one. But despite all these, I had ample amount of time in my hand. The excuse for not writing is, therefore, nothing but my legendary lazyness.

Anyways, there were a lot of things which I wanted to write and failed - My last few days in Delhi when winter was setting in; The last meetings with friends whom I knew there; The loneliness I felt when I landed in Pune Airport; The few acquaintances I made in a new city. For the kind of nondescript life I am used to, these were all too alien. Moreover, things were happening so fast that by the time something registered in my head, it was already over. In short, I struggled in my new environment, as always.

Now, as I am writing this, things are a little better. I have devised means to keep myself busy. I read to kill time, spend long hours in the office to surf the net, and resort to daydreaming when I am bored. So, you can say I'm gradually getting back to normal life.

Okay, as I close this post, I'm leaving you with these few lines from a Vasko Popa poem, which for some unknown reason had been sitting in my head for the last few days.

"From every pain
We do not mention
Grows a chestnut tree
That stays mysterious behind us

From every hope
We cherish
Sprouts a star
That moves unreachable before us"

- from "Far Within Us # 1"

An examined life

He lives a pretty ordinary life - mundane and boring. But he never accepts that. He actually thinks his life can serve as a 'case-study' for posterity. I also think so, albeit for an altogether different reason.

He works for a living and pretends to be enjoying it. But the truth is, he has no idea what he is doing. He often writes substandard pieces, which he thinks are of high literary value. But they are as trash as trash can be. He keeps daydreaming all his waking hours. And he actually bugs me with all his incredulous adventures in 'dreamland'. He also does read a book or two at times but he definitely exaggerates his knowledge as if he's a know-it-all. And did I tell you about his lazyness - it's exemplary. Although he justifies his inactivity to his detached worldview, he's often found hankering after all the material pleasures. So, in a word, his is a 'pathetic' life. Beyond repair.

So, it goes without saying how annoying it is to live with a person like that. I wonder how many of you have to live with such species of people who attaches extra importance to themselves. My sympathies to you all. I'm myself living with such an impossible person for the last 26 years. Don't I deserve a pat on my back?

Waiting for the words...

Contrary to what I used to believe, a lot of things were happening to me of late. In fact, I was so overwhelmed by these happenings that I fumbled for words to express them.

How possibly could I have expressed in words the emptyness I felt while walking back home on a full-moon evening? Or how could I describe what I felt when a familiar smell from yesteryears wafted from somewhere, evoking nostalgia? Or the effortless drift I experienced while I lay awake late into the silent night? Or the subtle pleasure I felt while reading a certain passage in a book? Or the longing for a familiar touch? Or the craving for some long-forgotten taste? Or the irrepressable desire to talk to someone whose face is all hazy now?

It was difficult to translate them in words. And I did not want them to be written just for the sake of writing. So, I waited for the apt words to appear. Words which would flow effortlessly to create something out of my jumbled up thoughts. But, I later realized that I was waiting in vain. Words don't come to those who don't pursue them.

And this post is proof enough that I have failed to pursue them.

Obscured by time

"And you run and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking
And racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in the relative way, but you're older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death"
-'Time', Pink Floyd

The eternal race is still on. And the truth is we will never catch up with the sun.

These days I have an edgy feeling. I get paranoid whenever I look back. I keep asking myself, "Is this the place where I wanted to reach?"

Then one morning I see the sun rise. I see the world come alive. And I realize the insignificance of our personal existence. Now, don't get me wrong. I don't always look at life so philosophically. But at times the usual and mundane things of life throw up the little nuggets of truth. Looking at the rising sun helped me come to terms with myself that day.

And now I have decided not to care about what all I haved achieved or squandered.

He who writes...

"Anonymous is a person who lives within me."
- Anonymous

After a particularly barren spell, I almost force myself to bring out this post today.

I had been in dilemma for the last few days. I was trying to figure out why I was writing what I was writing. And how much importance do I need to attach to it? Is this a totally futile exercise? Two conflicting persons were arguing inside me. And I couldn't really figure out who was the real me.

One of them argued that this was just a waste of time and I should rather put my energy into something more practical. He even said that publishing these personal posts online just shows how desperate I am to get noticed. Simply put, this was a kind of 'show-off' according to him.

I was about to agree on this when the other person, who had so far been listening intently, spoke up. He argued that although getting noticed could be one of the reasons it was not the sole reason. And he was completely unwiling to accept these writings as a waste of time. "Not everything you do should be weighed in terms of profit and gain," he said.

So, here I am stuck up between the arguements. And I don't even know, between these two, who actually made me write this post.

Melancholic

"Melancholy is the pleasure of being sad."
- Victor Hugo

Friday evening is certainly not the time to feel sad; I have a fresh weekend at my disposal, the rains have brought down the temperature in Delhi and everything around me just looks fine. Moreover, I have no particular reason to feel sad. Still, melancholy is the only word which can describe my present state of mind. There are times when I feel that way, for no reason at all. This is when I shut myself, this is when I long for something I myself don't know, this is when I take refuge in darkness.

Reading thus far, you might be mistaken that this is my frustration speaking here. No. On the contrary, I am trying to tell you how I feel a subtle pleasure while I am actually feeling sad.

Let me not complicate it further. Take an example. Whenever you feel extremely happy, don't you remember about something/someone which/who would have made you happier? To me, this is this little pain of not having something/someone by your side which actually makes your happiness complete.

I pity those who never felt a tinge of sadness in their moments of happiness. They have never really known happiness.

On forgetting

Of late, I had been forgetting things with alarming frequency. I drop my wristwatch somewhere and then I can’t remember where. I put my wallet in a corner and then I go totally blank. I keep looking for a T-shirt for two days only to find it on the terrace (apparently, I myself had left it there to dry). Each day I have to struggle really hard not to keep forgetting something or the other. And pretty often I fail miserably. And, of course, add to it my dilemma over not being able to remember names when it matters the most. I’m awful at remembering things, I accept.

This morning I reach office and at the gate I find that I am not carrying my access card. I go to the security for a dummy card but, for some strange reason, they can’t locate my information in the database and hence can’t allow me in. I call one of my colleagues to escort me in, go to the badging room, get my information updated, come out to get a dummy access card and then enter the office. ‘A perfect way to start a Monday morning,’ I say to myself as I enter the office premises.

Now, given a chance I would have liked to forget so many things. But, these, I never seem to forget. They keep resurfacing from my memory at unexpected turns and make me cringe at my foolishness.

Well, one more irony of life: things we want to remember will be forgotten, the things we want to forget will be remembered.

Walk in the mountains

"Once you have lived with the mountains, there is no escape."
- Ruskin Bond

I don't know if I have got that quote right. (I'm just relying on my memory here. And my memory, well, is not very reliable. So, an apology in advance, in case my memory has failed me.) But this quote was the first thing in my mind when I started writing this post. And I just couldn't find anythig more apt to begin with.

Away from the scorching heat of Delhi I spent the last weekend in Dhanaulti, a quaint little hill town in the Himalayas, about 25 kilometers uphill from Mussourie. The hills are quiet there, the slopes are lush green with pine trees, and the clouds keep wandering about this place on their whim. Needless to say, it was just the ideal setting for a walk. And walk I did, for all three days of my stay there. I walked leisurely through the drizzle, climbed up the narrow mountain trails and sat up there with the clouds. The wild flowers were in full bloom and the air carried with it the fragrance of the mountains. What more could I possibly want?

I'm back from the mountains now, but as I am writing this I can still see the wayward clouds, the smoke rising from distant hills, lone little huts in the slopes, and the bleating goats grazing around. I guess, one needs some time to get out of the mountains. But what if one doesn't really want to get out of it?

I just wish I could retire to the mountains some day.

PS: The Dhanaulti Rock Show, for which we decided to go to Dhanaulti in the first place, was a big let down though.

A trail of memories

I open my mailbox tonight and find an invitation from a friend to join an online community named Orkut. I promptly join in. And for the next few hours I just keep digging out faces from it - people whom I had once known, talked to, shared a laugh with, made a bond, and then forgot. Each face I knew carried with it a trail of memories...

It amuses me much to see that they they are now scattered all over the country (some abroad as well), doing pretty well for themselves, and moving ahead with life. But I somehow cannot associate with their new looks. I can only think of them as I had seen them in the hostel corridors, classrooms, canteens, college fests, cricket matches, or even in the Lovers' Lane. But then we have already spent so many years without seeing each other that even if we meet now we will probably end up behaving like strangers. Well, it might sound a little harsh but this is the way it is. I don't know what all has happened to them in all these years, neither do they know what all has happened to me. We are no longer the same persons we used to be. And there's nothing good or bad about it, actually. Just need to accept the change.

Well, this post is not about the end of good 'ol friendships. Rather, it's about rejuvenating ourselves with a healthy dose of nostalgia. I myself have, after a trip of Orkut, come out refreshed. And as I'm writing this post I'm smiling alone, thinking of all those memories of ecstasy and agony.

PS: Thanks Somnath for inducting me to Orkut.

When it rains

The moment I came out to the streets this morning I could smell rain in the air. The overcast sky and the humid air announced imminent rain. And I didn't have to wait for too long. Halfway through my regular cab ride to work raindrops started pattering against the glass panes.

I don't know why, but whenever it rains everything become so silent (or perhaps I overtly romanticize it). So all of a sudden I could hear nothing but the mild drone of the moving vehicle and the gentle tupur-tapur of raindrops. Then, as we were driving past a row of golden amalataas trees silently standing in the rain, I just lost all my hearing senses. Rains sure do strange things to me!

Now, I hail from a place where a week-long incessant rain is viewed as a pretty normal occurance in summer. By that standard Delhi rain is minuscule. But it still never fails to make me run out of my senses. After all, rains have always amazed me, rejuvenated me, gave me hope and made me happy again. Unfailingly.

I don't know how many of you have ever been woken up by a midnight rain or have silently stood by the window watching the raindrops falling into darkness. Trust me, it's sure to do strange things to you too.