Home.

I was three when I nurtured the habit of looking out of the windows.

Misty mornings made way for warm sunshine and jaunty evenings waltzed into starry skies.

But the lofty green mountains remained strong and the bougainvillea trees stood still even in the shadows of darkness.

I was four when I felt the salty aroma of air engulfing me as I stared at the endless blue sea.

I collected shells and souvenirs and stood with my toes in the sand as the waves gently lapped me at the shore.

Even as the tides got stronger and the waves, higher by the night, the distant lights always lulled me into a strange quietness.

I was five when I cycled my way through the wide roads to a library my mother visited every evening.

The mischievous world of Bapu and Ramana, the mystical world of Viswanatha Satyanarayana, the mysterious world of Chalam enticed me into their realms.

Oblivious to the value of those writers, I cycled home with the joy of spending another evening annoying the librarian.

I was six when I discovered how the city was surrounded by mountains greener than the greens of my crayons and I was seven when I realized this was home.

I was eight when we moved to a different city, and to another, and kept moving.

It took me more than 8 years and yet another long stay to understand this city is more than just home.

It is first steps and first discoveries. First beach rides and aquarium sights.

It is first friendships and first fights. Of innumerable skating classes and injuries. First movies and first brush with literature.

The first rush of teenage and walking fearlessly into darkness without a speck of doubt.

Over the years, the city is growing older with grace.

Natural disasters have only made it stronger.

The lovers of the beach have slowly made way for the lovers in the beach.

The nooks and corners are flanked with the cosmopolitan glory.

The otherwise conventional people learned to coexist with the modern ones.

So much has changed but the air is still salty and the evenings placidly wander into starry nights.

On the roof of every home, a child like I once was dreams high of becoming big, someday.

To explore the world behind the green mountains and beyond the greenish blue waters.

To travel the cities without mountains around walk in the beaches with a different scent in the air.

Yet come back home, from distances far away.

Maybe it was only that distance that made the heart grew fonder.

After all, home truly is where the heart is, isn't it?

SUCH IS LIFE.

It has been over two years since I've visited my hometown, and I cannot even remember how long it has been since I spent my Summer there. These days, I talk a lot about it -- the beach, my grandparents' home, the orange sunsets, and the starry nights I've spent lounging on the roof. It's been too long, and I am in despair waiting to go back and stay there with no connection to my mobile phone, laptop, or just anything.

On my way back home from work, the traffic is generally quite horrendous. It makes me want to leave everything behind in this city and go back to the place that made my Summers breezy. Warm but not sultry. When I was a child, my cousins and I would gather around my grandmother in the courtyard every evening. Engulfed in the aroma of roses and magnolia, we'd spend countless hours there, forcing my grandmother to narrate horror stories from her childhood. A little later in the night, we would all move to the rooftop which has a clear view of a small lake adjacent to a temple. Occasionally a train would pass by at a distant with its siren sounding like a symphony to us. We did not have an email to get back to, or an important call to attend. We only had to compete with each other to reach out to the faraway lights and the stars in the sky. Everything was just that effortless.

Most of the times, we all tend to forget that in the pursuit of making our dreams come alive, we leave behind the simple joys of life. At least, I do. I forget that while my dreams and aspirations are beautiful, my approach to living them is rather nugatory. I'm leaving behind a lot each day, every waking hour, and maybe during all moments. I can only conjure this - Have I really traded beautiful evenings in the beach for something this flavourless?

This is no fun, man. Such is life, though!

Of Writing Letters and Pen Friends.

I was eight when I made a first pen friend. I distinctly remember writing letters and posting them in a red-coloured post box that was a little far from home. I made two more pen friends over a period of time and wrote different letters to the three of them. I loved receiving letters with doodles and smileys on the corner of the letters. Sometimes, they came with shimmering stickers, and they were more loved. One summer vacation, I visited my grandparents. That year was warmer than usual, and the flowers in our garden were blooming better than ever. I began writing letters to my friends -- I wrote to them about how I relished the mangoes and sorbets that my grandmother fed me, and I wrote to them complaining how my brothers never let me play cricket along with them, forcing me to be a silent spectator every time they played. I narrated in detail how much I loved taking early morning walks along the stream and glide past the high walls embraced with colourful bougainvillaea trees. I remember very well, that I suggested them to read Enid Blyton's books which happened to be my latest found love then. I guess I still remember the contents of the letter only because they were the last letters I sent to them. As soon as I returned home after the vacation, my father was transferred to a different city. In the process of worrying about a new school, new uniform, and new classmates, it absolutely slipped out of my mind that I had to inform my friends that I was moving to a different city. What's worse? I lost their addresses too! For a person who moved often, and changed seven schools, losing things wasn't new. But this time, I was rather displeased with my carelessness. Because there was something comforting about writing letters to people whose names and faces were unknown. We had pen names, remember? There was something ethereal about friendships that withstood miles of distance. And there was something funny about describing how your dog would attack the cats and receive a response that talked about such simple things. That is the magic of handwritten letters, I believe. When I was in school, I knew a lot of people who had pen-friends. I read a lot of such stories too, in a magazine called Gokulam, which was pretty popular after Tinkle. I barely see anyone writing letters now. I am afraid, I see no one. The fact that people have forgotten the art of writing beautiful letters makes me cringe. Why did we stop writing letters? Why did we stop describing the beauty of nature in letters to friends who aren't familiar with the weather in our part of the country? We cannot blame WhatsApp and Twitter for this. They still do not warrant the excuse that we stopped writing letters. I could be really selfish when I am hoping one could preserve the lost heritage of writing letters; wondering if we could ever bring back long, handwritten letters into fashion. The joy we derive from reading letters that we've received as children is quite something. I think even when we get old and have a troubling eyesight, there will be nothing more comforting than words and letters that talk so much about our history and the life we lived. 

P.S. This year, I have written three letters and received two.

Of the Great Unknown and Winding Roads.

Of one of the most important rituals from childhood, I vividly remember my daily visit to a really gigantic coconut tree that was located in a lane behind my colony. For some reason, it was a habit to go check up on the tree every evening when I was back from school. After every visit, I would be so glad. I would imagine the tree was growing with every passing day. I would imagine the tree was expecting me too.

My family moved to a different city and the next Summer when I was in Vizag, I was utterly excited to go see the tree. And I did, only to find out that it was cut down to widen the road. I still remember that moment in my head. Actually, scratch that. I could picture it, and if I made a list of top ten horrible moments of my life, this would definitely top the list. It was so painful that I never went to that place again. I wanted to smash the person who cut the tree. But I was seven, and that wasn’t going to be easy.

For months, I wasn’t able to look at another coconut tree normally. I mean, figure that! In due course, it never mattered though -- something that was so important to me back then seems like such a petty issue now. Of course, a coconut tree might be inconsequential in my life now. I don’t even remember when was the last time I noticed one.

While talking about this to a friend today, I thought about something similar. Or not.

Does present pain turn into something so trivial years down the line?

Take a closer look at what I meant there. There are instances where we lose people. Often there are reasons, often there aren’t any. Separations are always tragic, and we never accept them entirely. The pain is so awful that we lose track of time, and sit in the darkness dolefully hoping the void would go away.

It doesn’t. We make it go away. We fill it. Or we just forget it. It takes time though.

I have never been a great person with losing people. I have always hated it, just like most of you do. It has never been my forte to let go of people hundred per cent. However, if I was able to look beyond the destruction of my favourite tree at the age of seven and still love trees, I could definitely look past a lot of painful things at twenty four.

Doesn't the idea of horrible things turning insignificant seem ever so liberating? Yes, it does. It might be a great unknown for now but when it happens, I would gladly take my long and winding road again.

P.S. It has been a wonderful Saturday!

The Poetry Club.

I have to tell you this.

My colony is filled with cats that are pretty frisky. They play, run along the trees and bikes, hide under the cars and broken brick walls making faces at each other, or simply occupy a cozy corner in our balconies for a pleasant afternoon siesta. But there is one kitten -- almost white in colour with two brown spots on it, that is perpetually isolated. It plays on its own, and often pushes itself to seek company of not just its fellow cats but humans too. It leaves after a while though, you’ll never find it spending more than a scheduled amount of time with anyone. Much to my chagrin, it barges into our kitchen to drink the milk I set aside for making coffee.

Funnily, it reminded me of my poetry club at school where I was like the solitary kitten writing poems on the most mundane things right from civics to squirrels. Mostly, on squirrels because they were my favourite subject. No one would visit my club though. With cool things like science club (Of course, it is quite cool) displaying models of solar system and fancy rockets, which child would pay attention to literature? And that too to a club which had just one member.

I wasn’t the one to give up though. I really wanted the kids to appreciate the beauty of poetry and look at the world with an entirely different perspective -- I wanted them to understand the beauty of stars, and love the sight of a pond full of ducks without getting into the details of science behind stars. I was a romantic and I desperately wanted them to experience the profundity of my mighty squirrel talking about its woes to the ruler of the kingdom. To lure more kids into the club, I decided to create and draw attractive posters and sketches with my poems carefully scribbled on them with crayons and sketch pens I adored. I put them in the classroom, and requested a few of my friends who I traveled along with to put a two of them in their classes too. Needless to mention, they were always dominated with the posters of Parts of Speech, and Global Warming. I remember my science teacher telling me how these things matter, and that I was simply wasting my time on literature. Nothing would come out of it, she claimed. I remember how much I hated her when she would urge children not to read stories like Nancy Drew or Malory Towers in the library, instead forced us all to read Britannica encyclopedias only. She probably never understood a right balance had to be created between literature and science. For the longest time, I was distracted in her class owing to her haughty nature of brushing aside everything that wasn’t science.

Before I digress, let me tell you more.

I joined way too many clubs to talk about mine. I joined the Karate club too, and ended up resenting myself. I quit them all mid-way, mostly because no one really cared about poetry as much as I did. Sniff.

Irrespective of all this, my club did manage to get featured in the annual exhibition where I displayed a few of my poems, including a series on the mighty squirrel with a pride.

Sooner or later, I came to terms with the fact that you cannot force poetry on someone. You cannot make people fall head over heels for it. Poetry too is just like love. When people get a dose of it, it would be the most enriching feeling that will last for ages.

P.S. Don’t ask me about the little kitten in my colony though.

Bookstores & Libraries: Their Stories and Enigma!

“I didn't go to bookshops to buy. That's a little bourgeois. I went because they were civilized places. It made me happy there were people who sat down and wrote and wrote and wrote and there were other people who devoted their lives to making those words into books. It was lovely. Like standing in the middle of civilization.” 

― Jerry Pinto, Em and The Big Hoom

A quaint little bookstore, shelves stacked with a diverse range of books, the musty aroma of the wooden lofts, and more books scaling till the roof. Paradise!

Surely, the storekeeper was old, but he seemed to remember the names of the writers on his fingertips.

He was well versed with what they wrote, and the ones that were good.

Conversations with him were lucid, but strangely unusual. He spoke from the experience that came along with the company of books and words. An experience any reader would lust for!

Again, I felt like a child. I knew this is exactly how I felt when I stepped into a library for the first time ever. 

Don't you feel like an entirely different person altogether when you are in a bookstore? Or for that matter, a library?

And let us not forget those nostalgic second hand bookstores where you find books with dry leaves and roses, feathers, notes written by a mother to her son etc.

After buying a bunch of books and comics from the bookstore, my mother and I, we went home in glee. I believe we cannot buy this glee on Amazon or Flipkart.

The whole emotion of touching the books, reading their summary, and purchasing one right away with the anticipation of unleashing its mystery after you go home is absolutely lost each time you purchase a book online.

No, I am serious. I have got nothing against the online stores. I practically live on Amazon.

However, let us consider this scenario too. We go to a bookstore on a whim. (Yes, these days buying books from an online store or going to a library has mostly turned into a whim for 90% of us.) We walk from one shelf to another; we touch one book to another waiting to find that one book that would turn into our favourite for the next 5 years. 

We look for that one book that will end up being a major part of our memories.

In this process, we also reunite with books that have made our childhoods lovely. We do not go home with one book, but with three more books that the librarian or the storekeeper suggests us.

We fall in love with more writers and their words accidentally. 

We explore. We discover.

******

Come 2020, I am not sure if people will still visit libraries and bookstores. Utterly sad, I know. But I don't know. We are so dependent on the Internet. To top it all, rumours like "No bright future for libraries and print versions of books" because of tablets and ereaders is even depressing.

As a child, I still remember going to a library every evening with my mother. It was a ritual she never missed. And I made sure I was a part of it. Even today, my mother purchases books from the local stores instead of relying on the online stores. So does my father.  Taking the cue from them, I have firmly decided that I would purchase books from bookstores only. 

I am quite obstinate about it.

Let me tell you this. Libraries and bookstores are magical. You will never know what stories they hold high up their chest unless you visit them. Walk up to your closest bookstore or library, and fall in love with a world that will cast a spell on you forever.

We cannot let libraries and bookstores go extinct only because we refuse to visit them. 

As long as human race exists, stories and storytellers will thrive. While we are at it, we might as well give our next generation of individuals a fine experience of being in a library than learn about them on their iPad.

My Diwali!

Festivals offer you an excuse of stuffing yourself with sweets. 

When I was a child, my favourite festival for theoretical (Read 'Your favourite festival' essay) purposes was Holi, though I never really liked playing Holi. But in real world, Diwali has always been my favourite festival. With my grandparents coming all the way from Calcutta and grandmother's homemade food, Diwali was always a grand event at my place. I cannot think of a single child who would not like Diwali. Bursting crackers and meeting all the family members happens just once a year right? 

As I sit down to write this, with the fairy lights hanging up in my room and some soothing music, I recollect all the Diwalis I have spent--Diwalis spent with the cousins I no longer correspond with, Diwalis spent awaiting evenings to burst crackers, Diwalis spent eating ladoos made by my grandmother, Diwalis spent mourning over my grandmother and her special ladoos, the Diwalis spent studying and practicing math, and the Diwalis spent going through one of the terrible phases of my life.

This Diwali was a little different. I might not be happy at this point of time, but this Diwali was entirely different. For starters, I burst some crackers, which I generally do not. We could be eco-friendly but we do not have to stop having fun in the entirety. A little fun hurts no one as long we maintain some limitations. And of course, no sound pollution too. I have zero tolerance levels for high decibels of sound. So, yes, I burst crackers after nine whole years.

Not bad, eh? The things you do to keep your head off few things.

I went ahead and wished a few of my local vendors a happy Diwali. It didn't just make them happy, it made me happy too.

I helped my mother with cooking, which happens a few times, but never on festivals. We lit the diyas together and I turned my balcony into a light house. (Well, almost)

I watched movies with my family, and we all dined together.

Later in the evening, my sister and I went to fetch some food from a stall in our colony. There, I noticed a family with two children--a three year old boy, and a seven year old boy. While the older one was staying away from bursting crackers, the younger one was fearless enough to light up all the flower pots, and he cringed at the fact that his older brother was shying away from all the fun. He did his share, and much to my surprise, did his older brother's share too. 

It almost drifted me back to my childhood, where my cousin brother was always the shy one, and I would burst all his crackers. 

Today was a lot better than I imagined and I am utterly glad that it made me nostalgic and all that. And maybe, just maybe, growing older does not mean you need to stop having fun. You can, but I guess I still did not earn the license of bursting crackers without adult supervision.

Daddy, I am 23. :|

Because You Need To Break Free!

"Check yourself before you wreck yourself."

-Grey's Anatomy

On a rather sunny afternoon, I walked into a bookstore in pursuit of buying "Fish in a Dwindling Lake" by Ambai. I could not find it and decided to order it online. But, I wandered around the book shelves like a lost child, smiling at the favourites, and grimacing occasionally at books that claimed to be Literature. I could be quite judgemental when it comes to Literature, you know? 

I was about to leave when I saw a child dressed in pink, walk into the bookstore with her mother in tow. She split ways with her mother, and headed towards the section full of glossy books by Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, and Dr. Suess. She picked 2-3 books and sat down on a couch, skimming through the pages. Her big, brown eyes gave away how awed she was while looking at the pages full of colours and drawings; I am sure the graphics enticed her. She put all those books back in the shelf, and chose The Little Prince, and walked to the counter, and fished money out of her pocket. Yes, she was one of those children who spent their monthly allowance on books. She reminded me of my younger self and my childhood gigs, she reminded me of the days I've spent ladling myself with literature and words as a child.

***

On my drive back home, I could not stop thinking about the child. Would she grow old to be an artist? Would she turn into a teenager who would shun books to choose boys? Would she just give in to the terms and rules set by the society instead of breaking free?

I've realized the repercussions of being an adult, which is thinking. I mean, even that child would not be so concerned about her life, the way I was. That's the joy of being a child, I reckon. You are free from thinking about future!

Let us take this a level ahead. In pursuit of planning a future, we are all losing out on the present. Even in the slightest and the silliest issues, I end up thinking about the future. You ask me how? I buy a pair of shoes from Steve Madden calling them a future investment, but never wear them. I will wear them on a special occasion, I say to myself.

The special occasion never turns up. My future investment is rotting in that purple box with confetti all over it. (I get it, this is an utterly silly example, but you get the analogy, don't you?)

No, I am not asking you to stop planning about the brighter aspects of your future--education, career, family issues. Aye, all that is mandatory. 

For starters, let us stop trying to control our future. Let it stay unpredictable. Let it bring in some surprises. Just let it.

Let us stop worrying about things that hold no significance whatsoever. Let us stop worrying about getting our hearts broken--you always have ice-cream and red velvet cupcakes to heal you. Let us stop bickering, and for once, let us just stop moping around about decisions we might have to take 10 years down the line. They do not matter.

Let us write notes to ourselves. Let us write long letters to ourselves, no matter how inconsequential they are. Let us shoo away the residue of our past from our lives. (Only if it is horrid. Let those medals and accolades shine bright!)

Let us just stop controlling our lives and making grand plans of future which never work out. Let us just live our lives like a child who would refuse to plan her future and worry about the dire straits. 

Let us just look at our reflections in a mirror and realize how amazing we are, and how much more we could be if only we choose not to wreck ourselves.

Let us stop preventing ourselves from things that have failed us, let us stop getting affected by petty issues and tamper our days because you can find light even at the end of the tunnel. You just need to look for it.

Let us just make a pact of breaking free and smiling a little more today. 

Home: A Short Story

As the plane took off, I kept staring down at the country I was leaving behind. Momentarily or forever.

"I am going home," I murmured in disbelief. How long has it been? A good fifteen years?

Home. India. Home. Hyderabad.

The very thought of home made me wince. It brought back all the unpleasant memories of my childhood, the awful moments spent anticipating the worst to come, evenings spent aimlessly along the Necklace road, the lonely youth, and all the days spent with books and copious amounts of coffee.

I found home in a continent far away from home. I found home in a place called Pasadena which was familiar only on a map fifteen years ago. I found family in a place I never thought I would end up in. The unforeseen circumstances life puts us in.

On a rather sunny day, when I was taking a stroll back from a friend's place, I received a call from my cousin bearing the news of my father's death. I was to go back to Hyderabad, he said. I am the only son, he convinced. And, I am the final fragment of the family that was left, he warned.

I sit back and think of all the dreadful moments I have spent with my father. I cannot forget the fact that he loathed my mother all her life - harassing and abusing her, making her life a hell to live in. I was no exception to the terrible treatment. I received my share. Everyday. Every evening. I recollect all the moments I spent envying my friends who had fathers who went cycling and made paper boats along with them, read stories to them in the night, and had dinners with them. I was deprived of the tiniest joys and festivities. 

I loved my mother dearly. I recollect the days she would come to pick me up from school, wearing a cotton saree with vermillion on her forehead. As we walked from the school to home, her bangles emanated a joyous jingle. It was that sound that I missed the past fifteen years, the jingle that used to tiptoe into my room to check if I was asleep well in the nights, the jingle that surrounded me as she cleaned my room, fed me, and giggled with me.

I fish out my wallet and look at her picture. My mother. I murmur, fondly. 

As a reclusive teenager, I felt lost when my mother died. The pain was excruciating. My mother was the only person who understood me and stood by my side in the whole wide world, and I saw her burn and reduce into ashes in front of my eyes. I still remember the way my father behaved on that day and my abhorrence for him increased to a whole new level and that was the moment I realized I had to leave India and look out for myself.

A new country. Different people. Cultural difference. Demanding course structures. And the pain of losing my mother.

The past fifteen years passed on as quickly as a whirlwind without a thought of my father. I have studied, travelled, met interesting people, travelled a little more, fell in love, got my heart broken, got on with my life, and made decent amount of money. My house is a mantel of memories that brought me an immense amount of joy yet there was something that gave me restless nights.

Was it the forgotten bond with my father? Or the home that I left behind more than a decade ago? Was it the responsibility that I left behind selfishly? I never figured it out all these years, but may be, it was the guilt of leaving my father - a punishment that was too severe.

I have maintained no forms of communication with him, and I wondered how he led the final stages of his life. Surely, the surly old man would have reformed! He would have repented for all the mistakes he has done. I will learn everything about the last fifteen years tomorrow. I will make up for all the time. I said it to myself, more or less out of guilt.

But as I lean back trying to get some sleep, I knew there will always be a part of me that will hate my father. 

Should You Sell Your Dreams For A Lucrative Corporate Job?

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” 

― H. Jackson Brown Jr., P.S. I Love You

You remember how as a child you would dream, dream to do wonderful things, and as you grow up, you cling on to these dreams, hoping one day you will achieve all those innocent dreams you have had as a child.

Sadly, reality comes into the picture when you turn into an adult. The dreams you've had as a child eventually fade and sometimes, you give in to the pressure that is thrusted upon you by your parents, family, extended family, and oh, how can I forget, the neighbours. 

You have mortgages to take care of, bills to pay, and you know, the dream of turning into something awesome takes a back seat. You are confused! Questions like "Painter? What will you earn? Ten cents? Not everyone can become a Pablo Picasso, you know", "Why can't you become an Engineer? Software industry has a better prospect", "Musician? You should get an MBA degree from an Ivy League." become a part of your life. And as much as you want to chide the people who confuse you with questions like this, you cannot help but agree that they are realistic too. Aren't they?

Should you sell your dreams for a lucrative corporate job? is a million dollar question that we twenty somethings face almost everyday. 

Dear parents, we are clueless too. We want to chase our dreams. We want to be a Jane Austen, a Pablo Picasso, a Bruce Springsteen. We want you to understand that we want to stand out and as much as absurd it sounds to you, we do not need riches. Practically, we all need money. Yes, we all do. But we are struggling here, trying to voice our opinions, and yes, we know the repercussions of not taking up a software job. What can we do? Our childhood dreams haunt us. They do not let us sleep in the night. They remind us of what we are and what we can become.

Oh, we totally understand that neighbour aunt's elder son is an investment banker and has a swanky car in his garage. We admit it, we cannot afford it. Not for the next ten years at least. But we are alright with it. 

So the next time you ask us how we would manage our rent, we want to ask you few questions too. When will we find time to travel and gain beautiful experiences? When will we meet intriguing people like us? When, just when can we do major goof-ups and blame our juvenile phase for it? When will we fail majorly and learn all the lessons? When will we fall in love and experience a heartbreak? When will we experience anything, just anything that is remotely different from what we are doing?

Not all of us here are meant to work under corporate honchos, and turn cynical by the time we turn 30. Not all of us here want an Audi. Not all of us here want an insanely ludicrous bank balance. We are happy to live our dreams. We are happy spending our life creating something beautiful. We are infectiously glad doing what we are meant to do. If we spend an eternity living your dreams, when should we live ours? 

We want to take a leap of faith, and is it too much to ask you to believe in our dreams? Because we are wired differently, and we believe in the beauty of our dreams.

To Grandma, With Love!

A rainy evening drifted me into the memories of my childhood. If only my grandmother was there…she would have made me a cup of steaming coffee and sit beside me, knitting and touching my hair fondly.

I vividly remember the first vision of my Grandmother. I remember a beautiful woman getting down the train and I remember running into her arms and inhaling her wonderful scent. I remember how she stood by me and influenced my life.

Every summer, my cousins and I visited Calcutta to spend vacations with our grandparents. How enthusiastic we were to meet her for she stacked up the kids’ room with lovely presents and sweets and above everything, we loved her so much. 

As time flew, we never had much time to spend with her. We hardly spent a ten odd days with her and those were the days when I saw tears in her eyes when we parted. I could never fathom why a strong woman like her had tears in her eyes! Fortunately, I got to spend six months with her when I was in high school. Those were some of the best days of my life; those were the days when she cooked delicious food for me and bought me pretty clothes; those were the days when she sat on the stair-case of the house anticipating my return from college. Six months later, when we parted again, I saw her in tears. Again. This time, I cried too.

Engineering kept me even busier and we met for only five days a year. I missed her but my college life was demanding too. My grandmother always had a habit of being the first person to wish me on my birthday and examinations. It was my fifth semester’s first examination and she promised to call me after my exam. I waited for her call and I never received it because she had a cardiac arrest. I messed my examinations. But I had nothing else in my mind. I wanted to get done with the semester, and go meet her. I waited desperately for the last exam to end.

May 1st, 2011.

Finally, my exams ended and I left for Vizag. She was so happy to see me; she took my arms in hers and cried. I saw nothing but love and fear in her eyes. She wanted to be with us, she wanted to spend more time with her children and grand-children. She just wanted more time. 

Six months later, just when everything was fine, we received a call. The call that changed everything! The call that said she was no more; the call that still makes me tremble! We started immediately and the next morning, when I saw her frail body, I felt so helpless, standing there, looking at her and sobbing. I was devastated. I fervently hoped for all the time to come back…I fervently hoped that she would come back, hug me and narrate me all the stories of her childhood…I fervently hoped that she would come back and make me chuckle loud by cracking funny jokes.

And yet again, this birthday, I waited for her call—the call that would scream a cheerful ‘Happy Birthday’ in my sleepy ears. The call that was the starter of my Birthday for the past twenty-one years!

That Nostalgic Childhood!

Childhood-The very word drifts us into a sweet world of memories, goof-ups, foolishness, fun and you know..a lot more stuff. How many of us want to revisit and relive those days? Those days when little things mattered! Things like playing in the sand, going around your colony on your tricycle, going to school with many toffees in your pocket, attending birthday parties gave you a lot of joy.

The joy of walking home with a Tinkle in your arm, and occasionally an Enid Blyton's book would just make your day. The pocket money you receive from your grandparents, the warmth of your grand-mother and her amazing stories, your play room, playing silly games with your cousins, listening to Michael Jackson and ABBA, waiting for Disney Hour, and CatDog were a part of your childhood.

I vividly remember every part of my childhood. Summers were always awesome.I spent my every Summer at my grand-mother's place in Calcutta. Summers to me meant holidays, shopping, ice-creams, a visit to the library in the evenings, lying in a bath tub, long evening-walks with your cousins, short night walks with your grandpa, a visit to the closest Pani-puri center. Those were the days when we had time for family and those were the days of epic fun. And today, amidst this hectic, monotonic life, we have regular bouts of our childhood and how pretty they were!

These days, we see kids struggling to spend their Summers properly. Thanks to the corporate schools and our crappy education system for they are thrown into rigorous IIT coaching during the Summers. How on Earth can a twelve year old decipher IIT syllabus? But well, who cares? There were days when every kid in the colony would go play in the evening and these kids would make a point to drag the kids who wished to stay home. And today, kids prefer staying home to complete their homework which happens to be more complex than my engineering assignments. No, seriously!

And do I need to mention the cartoons? Yes, the anime cartoons! We had simple cartoons like Tom and Jerry, Scooby Doo, Captain Planet and well, you get the drift. I am really sorry for the kids now for they have to put up with such terrible cartoons that tend to give me a massive head-ache. Books were a major part of our lives back then. R.K. Narayan, Ruskin Bond, Satyajit Raj, Enid Blyton were our stars (and still are); Tinkle, Archies were such a delight. And most of the kids today..umm..read nothing. How unfortunate!

Everyone paints a rosy picture of their childhood. My grand-mother did, my mother does, I do. I just hope that every kid makes their childhood memorable and a period that would bring a smile on their faces instead of sulking at IIT coaching centers and spoiling the best part of anyone's life-the childhood!