As I See It

Month: August, 2013

secrets and dreams

 

There is that thing, something you’d not give up in exchange for anything, something that you want so badly, so badly that you cannot contain the desire; you feel a constant urge to want to verbalize the desire yet you don’t. You don’t for the fear that someone will destroy all that you’ve built in your mind, so meticulously, brick by brick, stone by stone. You don’t for the fear of your desire being belittled and taken away somewhere beyond reach.

Every day, every other hour, you dream it. Your dream, your private cinema, is the closest and easiest way for you to see it. Some part of you believes you may never get there, you may never live it, but you don’t let go. You’re addicted to the dream, to the possibility. Like you sniff your fingers after a drop of perfume leaked on them, you don’t really like the smell, but you can’t stop sniffing; it’s probably to check if your finger still emanates it. You dream your dream to see if you still can, to see if it’s still the same, to see if you still feel the same way. It doesn’t matter that you haven’t taken a step closer in the world outside your head.

You know so certainly well that they are all going to shake their heads resenting. You try a couple of acquaintances, not the ones that matter for you fear that a rejection from the latter would stab it deeper. The thought, merely the thought makes you nervous. You are worried they might program your mind and mold its ideas differently. You’re scared the dream might evaporate before you realize and will never telecast itself for you another time. You, hence, hold it close. You protect it like it’s your secret chest  kept away in a safe corner where nobody can peek, where nobody has a chance to disparage. And in the world beyond your head, you‘re still there, the same place, no progress, living a life you don’t enjoy, counting days one by one and getting through. Still there, smiling in the dreams, wishing for it to happen, knowing it never will.

Someday, a wave of courage hits you. What’s to lose? A dream, a thing? Can it go away while you hold it so tightly, so close? You decide to fight for it, that one thing you feel devoted to, that one thing that requires no effort to love, that one thing that makes you feel like you belong, that one thing you always wanted to be. That day, you decide to fight. You decide that you cannot not get there, so you decide to get there.

You walk over to one of them – the closest ones, your feet sweaty and slipping from the smooth surface of your flip-flops, your mind scuttling from thought to thought, your eyes confessing your apprehension. You talk about your thing, you talk about how it began, how much it means, words pour out flowing free into the afternoon air, filling the room with tufts of all that you desire. You show some supporting ideas, work, proof, some more. You look on anxiously. You do not want to see it, the expression of dissatisfaction and disapproval, the one you so surely know is looming. You leave it there, the work, the proof, the person and move around in restlessness. You walk away, not wanting to see that second that kills it all. The person looks up, calls for you. You walk back, sweaty footed, anxious eyed, mind still unable to settle at a thought, hands cold. You know what’s coming, from the serious face facing you. Wearing a changeless expression, in a tuneless, emotionless voice, the person says something. It so almost sounds like ‘You should do this’. With hope sprouting out for the first time ever in your mind and ascending an infinite peak at immeasurable speeds, you look up uttering nothing except for a loud, mannerless “WHAT”. You get a smile in return and the same words another time, this time clearly. You don’t know if you heard it right, you were never ready for this, you’re so thrilled, your mind is still in its ascend of hope not stopping knowing it has won, your head is feeling dazed, your mouth curves into a smile all by itself.

You dig your head into a pillow, your favorite one – the only one that deserves to hold memories of this moment, letting some overwhelmed saltiness escape your eyes and trickle into your mouth, you dig further to muffle any sound. Staying that way, you dream your dream, knowing for the first time that the end isn’t in your mind. Your dream, your thing lies far ahead, even outside the boundaries of your head. And someday, you will live there.

Credits: Searchquotes.com

Credits: Searchquotes.com

catching up with time

Sometimes, life feels like a constant ceaseless chase after time. It’s stressful and traumatic, quite like 12th standard was.

I would wake up after 23 or so alarm beeps and kukarekus (Mine is a Russian rooster – an attempt to rupture my bond with what is known as Indian time) and look around. It would dawn on me that time had gotten ahead, again. I’d chase the hand that’s the median – neither the tortoise nor the sprinter. I can picture myself, phone in one hand, backpack weighing me down, phone hand up in the air jostling the falling backpack back to its place, eyes ahead, running a funny run inside the grandfather’s clock in the living room –  faintly resembling a cordless phone, one with an antenna, one that’s stuck in a clock. I dread being chased, cause the worst hit is the one you know is coming but you are completely unaware of when precisely and cause of my restricted only-forward vision. The most painful part is the wait before a punch – you want to be done with it but it just doesn’t come, and just then as you relax a moment and loosen yourself, it lands on your face like a thunderous thud. The anxiety is agonizing. In this case, it’s the longest hand I’m afraid of and the looming strike on my unsuspecting back. It would always get the better of me, it’s quite an athlete. With its unbeatable momentum, it’d knock me down even before I accelerate enough to reach my best. Just when I manage to gather myself up and mobilize myself again, it’d strike me. Again. Then Again. Again.

Staggering, feeling the angst, I would try to scuttle – one long hurried step at a time. I’d turn around to check, I’d bend down at every real and

Credits: 4.bp.blogspot.com

Credits: 4.bp.blogspot.com

imagined sound, mostly the latter. To complete as many steps I can, before the bang and the tumble. This would go on, a to-do list in my mind, time

dashing in ease, following and over-taking- and following, unassumingly somehow, yet assiduously. Like that was all it had to do, run – the same unvarying, humdrum pace, strike some anticipating, other unwary but all harmless men. A synchronous run – three runners: the athlete, the median and another one: the small tortoise, dissimilar distances, yet same time period – that goes on forever. A race to get ahead of everyone.

I, still at home, writing hurriedly and groping for words, in pyjamas. Time, already at work.

At work, with nerve wrecking code, time’s at the code review.

Still at work, with the same code, Time’s jogging back home.

I get home, loads to do, time’s done, now it’s just running for fun.

I’d decide to start earlier the next day, before time could get where I was. I’d have the unfair advantage, only it‘s quite fair – time is battery run, so. I’d wake up to the 8th kukareku. I’d pat my own back, good start. I’d begin there. I’d think about how I’d kick time’s buttocks, it’s time for retribution. Bang, a hit – I’d stumble and roll. I’d get on my feet and dart ahead, angry as ever. I’d master the pattern, I’d lie flat every fifty nine steps, letting the longest hand pass, realizing that as much as it’s fast, it’s dim-witted. I’d rise and run again, always staying ahead of the median – the second hand, this time I’d stay ahead of time – the merciless trio that’s pointlessly running in circles, a run to the future, without living today.

Once I sprinted so fast, got much ahead and took a nap. I woke up to realize I was still ahead. The nap feels good only when you’re ahead, otherwise it only adds to the guilt. This wicked group of ruthless athletes can never be slowed down, can be beaten though.

Now, life seems easy and in control and certainly less painful – now that I‘ve learnt to evade the butt-thumps.

“You delay, but time will not.” – Benjamin Franklin (This is the best picture I could find)

“You delay, but time will not.” – Benjamin Franklin

lost memories

Seated at the back, along with mom, Akshara looked out the window at the seemingly newly set pavement as dad drove through the “surprisingly” traffic-less road. “There were barrels of cement lying around last week, remember?” mom asked. Her eyes were wide with expectation; they appeared prayerful. Akshara shook her head sadly, not wanting to disappoint those eyes. Helplessly, she noticed the muscles on her mom’s face droop in dejection and the excitement fade away as she closed her eyes and leaned her head against the seat’s headrest. Akshara wasn’t sure of what to say.

There was quietness.

Dad turned up the music and “Aasai Mugam“ played interrupting the overshadowing silence. Relieved that her wordless time could go on without the constantly screeching echoes of soundlessness, she continued to stare outside at inconsequential objects they crossed. Akshara hummed along with the speaker as she tapped her fingers to the rhythm. Dad joined her with his incongruous combination of swaram and shruti. “Nesam marakavillai nen-n-n-njammm , enil ninaivu mugam…” Mom smiled with her eyes still closed listening to Akshara; the sangathi she just sang sounded almost divine; gushed out like current in a flowing stream; swirling, fast yet rhythmic. Akshara was fondly called the Saraswati of the family by her grandfather. “Kannan mugam maranthu po-o-onal, intha kangal irunthu payan un-n-n-do-o..” Interrupting the beats, the ambiance moving to them, the music player and two singers – one adept the other somewhat inept, mom sat upright. Her eyes wide again; this time wider – a certain harbinger to something big. Her face, her mouth looked like they were obstructing something they wanted to drive out, something they couldn’t utter. Engulfed by emotion, she covered her mouth with her palm, while staring at her daughter. She then opened her mouth and mumbled a multitude of incoherent words at the same time, words that would have normally been incomprehensible. This time, it instantly dawned on everyone in the car. Akshara had just sung a song she had learnt when she still was a kid in a frilly frock, a song from much before the accident. She had just been able to recollect the song, the tune, the thalam, all of it. The car immediately shed its grimness; there was joy and mirth in the air. All the way home, they sang together rejoicing, just the way they used to.

Dad slammed on the brakes right outside the gate. He looked at Akshara expectantly. It was a routine practice; he’d stop the car, she’d open the gate for him to drive into the garage. This time, she was oblivious to everything in the car; she was still singing while looking at the house eagerly. She seemed to have no memory of the house she had lived in all these years. Taking a deep breath, he drove in as his wife opened the gates for him, praying for some magic to better things.

Akshara walked into the living room, she appeared animated. Dad, seeing her keenness decided to take her on a tour.

One side of the living room had a set of wall-sized windows adorned by an umbrella of hand-painted flowers on stained glass, the other had a marble staircase fenced on both sides by burgundy wood that stood on parallel intricately designed metal verticals, spiraling its way upstairs. The room was large and painted in fresh colors, like spring in a room, having no likeness to the nondescript hospital room she had just vacated. She climbed up three steps and slid down the wooden railing in glee. He showed her the sole antique piece in the living room, the one that stood out awkwardly among the younger walls; his favorite he told her. A bronze figurine that faded into black towards the woman’s feet, a woman with pixie hair and broad shoulders who would require her posture – ladylike, graceful and undeniably sensual – to corroborate her femininity. Akshara nodded politely, keeping her thoughts to herself. The living room’s floor was mostly occupied by three mammoth sized couches: healthy and fluffy with their brown leather gleaming under the light that fell in through the glass windows. Akshara’s eyes darted around, side to side, up and down, revealing delight that as much as was a welcome emotion, it in its way confessed to her dad her inability to remember anything in vicinity. He couldn’t help that it slightly dampened his hopes; he had believed that the house would do the magic.

She wanted to see more of the house that, from what she had been told, had seen more of her than she could remember.

She entered a bedroom that she was told was hers. The walls were a pleasant shade of mauve except for one side that was painted deep violet. The queen sized bed looked welcoming in its purple striped comforter. The rack of shoes stuffed to its capacity told her she might have had a fetish for footwear. She didn’t know if she was as neat as the room looked or if mom had taken up the job during her absence. The study table made her question her academic abilities and scholarly interests. The medals and trophies made her wonder if she was a champion. She had other questions too, some which her parents could answer, some others that had gone away for eternity. Just like that. Like someone had pressed Shift+Delete leaving no trace of her childhood and her life anywhere in the world. She wished she could insert a memory card into mouth to retrieve all her memories and inject them into her brain.

She felt like a stranger in her own room, a stranger to herself. Her physical form was the only testimony to her existence. She had no past, at least not one she could speak of. She had a life to live again, from its start.

By now certain that this was going to be futile, dad perfunctorily led her to the dining room at the center of which stood an oval shaped black table with mica surfacing, surrounded by some uncomfortable, scrawny looking chairs. The table was a crammed one; almost knocking over each other were cutlery, water bottles, jars of homemade snacks, bottles of jam, pickle and maavadu, a dish that dad told her, used to be her favorite. Curious, she held the bottle close to her nose, peering through the glass at its contents that looked to her like bloated brown bulbs floating in gooey yellow-brown fluid. Noticing her face squirm into a warped expression, dad urged her to smell it; she cringed her nose as dad brought the bottle closer. The scent wafted its way into her nasal cavity bringing along a settling feeling, one of familiarity, causing her to sniff 6 times in a 60 seconds, causing the cringe to transmute into a pleased expression; one that gave away that the aroma had managed to titillate her brain into recognizing it and loving it again. She was overjoyed; the feeling of familiarity, one that is barely recognized as a feeling, one that’s undervalued and assumed as granted like the air around, was her new favorite. Dad grinned at the idea of maavadu of all other things, having rekindled a scrap of her memory.

Mom insisted Akshara be shown the puja room. The drop of fire at the end of the cotton thread doused in oil in the lamp shone brightly, lending its yellow-orange hues to the room. The smell of agarbathi (incense sticks) filled the room. Dad jiggled the bell that hung from the ceiling, letting it resonate its sound across the room, bounce off the walls thereby lessening its magnitude and echo its way to stillness, somehow in the process, instilling an intense feeling of assurance in the family that looked on. The repetitive and fading alternative dings and dongs and the promising feeling of faith, Akshara observed, did not feel alien like the rooms around did.

Cutting the tour short, Akshara sprinted to the living room and let herself fall into one of the huge, inviting, fuzzy couches. It let her fall, sucking her into its soft marshmellowish self like she belonged to it, as it shrunk under her weight. The leather warmed itself on her touch. It was instant love. It was deja-vu: the plummet, the soft fall – deeper than anticipated, the feeling of the chill of the leather, the detrimental lounging posture. She knew this feeling so well, an ordinary feeling – unfathomable and intangible – yet one she knew as her own.

The previous few months had been a period of uneasy times and weird emotions. ‘Retrograde Amnesia’, the doctor had said, maintaining a grave face, in just two words, so easily consenting to the obliteration of her past like it never happened, signing up for a pastless, storyless life for her, changing her life forever. The days that followed, she was constantly visited by people she couldn’t recognize, they’d cry, she’d stare impassively. She was talked to about things she had no knowledge about, anymore; she’d nod aloofly and smile a smile that’d never show in her brown eyes. Her

"Memory loss and emotional disorder is correlated in many ways as both are regulated by the brain" - See more at: http://giannigolfera.com/memory-loss-and-emotional-disorder/#sthash.Y38ouRTL.dpuf

“Memory loss and emotional disorder is correlated in many ways as both are regulated by the brain” – See more at: http://giannigolfera.com/memory-loss-and-emotional-disorder/#sthash.Y38ouRTL.dpuf

otherwise big eyes chose to stay cowered the whole time, dwelling in a pond of grief that the brown concealed. Everybody seemed to know more about her than herself; even her favorite color. She was going to give up, she was on the verge; building hope and watching it being thrashed every time eventually killed it, marring it into pieces that could never be put together again, leaving her hopeless, helpless and clueless.

And suddenly, this beautiful day came along. A song with its swiveling tunes and beats, a bottle of homemade pickle with its aroma, the reverberation of the puja room bell and the echoes ensuing and a comforting couch welcoming her into its abode, lucky charms as they had come to be, magically brought with them a sense of acquaintance, of comfort, of ease and of belonging.

Basking on the couch, attempting to disregard the blandness of curd rice that mom was feeding her, with big chunks of spicy maavadu, singing bits of songs she could remember, laughing at dad’s pathetic jokes, Akshara felt at home; for the first time in months.

This time, her smile reached her eyes; the brown glistened.

The pastlessness would persist, but now she was where she belonged. There was hope again.

Temperaments of the mind

The bus trotted along the curvy roads at a pace that made her wonder if she could jog faster. The constant droning sound that the bus had been making was no more noticeable; it had blended well with the resonance of the evening wind. It was an orange-yellow-brown day, quite typical of autumn. Everything moved slowly, she could feel the dreariness and grimness of the evening. She couldn’t see the sunset; it could be seen from the window across the aisle. Even the peculiar passengers that had earlier put in a hankie through the window of the arriving bus to proclaim dibs on the window seats had gotten off the seats, leaving an object behind as a substitute, to watch the vermilion sun disappear below the horizon. It was known to be a sight to behold, but she couldn’t care less. She could still taste the obnoxious flavor of the combined aftertaste of the previous night’s whisky and smokes. Her head throbbed, somewhere around here eye brows. She wondered if she reeked of an odor as unpleasant and if her dad sitting ahead could smell it, but she dismissed the thought. It didn’t matter who found out what, anymore. She reminded herself that she had nothing to lose.

She checked the time. Two more hours. She looked out the window, looking past everything a tourist would want to see. She looked at something, somewhere beyond. It was a mass of earth, flat on top; a miniscule plateau, she thought to herself. She scrutinized whatever she could see of it. She gazed relentlessly. Half-hour passed. Something from outside flew into her eye; she flinched. As she rubbed her eye and extricated the tiny stone out, she shuddered at the realization of the trance she was in. Her vivacious and eternally merry self was but a long ago memory. Something had deceitfully impelled her to believe that she was still that person. The thought brought along a now familiar feeling of anguish and desolation, one she had all this while, seen as an alien and short-termed phase in her to-be eventful and grand life. This time, that belief was no more comforting. It felt like another devious lie had duped her. She wondered if her life would stay this gloomy. She closed her eyes and sighed a huge one. She moved her bottom to the edge of the seat and leaned; the posture mama always reprimanded her for. It felt dark, like it was all closing in on her. Her hands felt numb; she could feel an intense inward pull. For a moment she wished the bus would topple down and it would all be over. The thought left a sickening aftertaste. She had become like all those people she usually loathed for their suicidal predispositions. She had become weak and despicable.

She sat there the unhealthy, slothful way and mused. She let herself ruminate over all that she had forbidden herself to ever remind herself of. She had never wanted any of this. She had a list; a list of all that she had wanted in life. Printed neatly in blue ink on yellow paper, pinned to her wall. This was never there. She never put it there. Yet, the man walked in with that irresistible smile indicative of his humorous, chivalrous and witty self. He brought along affection, tenderness and an inexplicable feeling of safety. She felt emotions she didn’t know existed. And one day, she let him slip through what she realized afterward as her possibly suffocatingly tight clutches. Again, she experienced emotions she never comprehended; this time, of affliction. As she mulled over the recent happenings, tears welled up; she didn’t push them back this time. She let them roll down; she tasted the saltiness as her cheeks felt the warmth. She wondered how it would feel to stand on top of the plateau and scream until it all went away. She wondered if the relief would last. Her deliberation was interrupted by a poke on her arm. A plump little boy with unbelievably chubby cheeks and curls falling over his face spoke to her ‘Are you okay? We can share my candy if you want’. She gaped at him awkwardly for an instant, dazed. She smiled at the boy, admiring his innocence. Something about it gave her hope; she didn’t comprehend it, she felt hopeful nevertheless. She was overwhelmed; she did something she would never be able to reason out. She hugged the boy and wept like she hadn’t for a long time. When she let go, the boy ran away, afraid.

She leaned back.

She fell into a deep slumber, in almost no time. Her dad turned behind, he could see a sense of peace on her face. She was finally sleeping after weeks. He looked at the auburn sky outside and chanted a small prayer of thanks.

Dreams and more

I sit here this morning with a lot on my mind and Chocos in my bowl. I, for some reason, am dissecting and assessing my 22 years on this soil. I’m scrutinizing the days that I hurried my life across and the ones when I lazed and lingered through at a pace slower than you’d imagine. My life did have its big events, no doubt. I treasure my big events and recollect them often:

  • I remember galloping on my school’s stage dressed in a magenta ghaghra-type attire and a tricolored pair of sandals. I was Rani Lakshmi Bai and the gallop came from an imaginary horse I was riding. It was 1857 perhaps, or earlier; I was just introducing myself.
  • On a later day, when I was smaller than the shoe rack at the corner of my room, I was awarded a crayon set for winning a painting contest I don’t remember going to. I was proud. I thought I could become a known artist someday. I walked to the dais in front of the whole school that was, I think, on its toes looking around for the winner; I was just too tiny. I remember feeling so proud and big.
  • I traveled to the USA when I was thirteen (I looked 9 ) I went to Vegas too, as useless as that may have been. I had to stay close to the walls while dad awaited a lucky second at the casino. I wasn’t 21 or getting there. This was the best summer of my life.
  • I got a job, one that I never dreamed of, one that I did not even care to dream of, it was too high up there and beyond my reach. I couldn’t have got there had I jumped up, or leapt. Intuition tells me it could have been something supernatural that day. Perhaps my horoscope prophesized it and ordered the stars to position themselves in a way that gave the man no option than to hire me. Or let’s just say I couldn’t quite believe I had landed a job at Microsoft.
  • I bought a domain for my blog. I pampered it and worked harder than I have on anything else, on this.
  • And some other things that aren’t big enough for me to remember the, pick them up and stack them here.

What worries me is that big here, is a word that’s more subjective than the word following it, events.

Source: Google

Source: Google

There is the 16 year old that’s standing up for women’s education against a group of people I’d be scared to reprimand on my blog– the Taliban. If a bullet in the head wasn’t a good enough deterrent, how brave she must be! There are twenty year olds playing international cricket. And many others doing a thousand other things. And I here think my biggest achievement is the job I managed to get got and this site (which, technically, I bought. So doesn’t even qualify). Is all of this – my today – supposed to be indicative of another day two decades later?

I wonder sometimes, if the magnates at biggest businesses and other men in power knew they’d get there, right from the beginning. Was it their sole purpose in life? Did they slog it out having the outcome in mind? Did they work as hard as people tell me I should? Or were they living a conventional life and things just happened? Do they now feel ‘I finally got here’  or ‘How did I even get here?’?Honestly I’m just wondering if such things’d happen to me. I have some dreams tucked away, I won’t tell you where.

A friend of mine, one I’ve always held in high regard, always manages to do something that I don’t believe too many people can – he talks about things casually in a very down-to-earth, matter-of-fact way with no intention of anything beyond, but manages to make me listen ardently, something that happens infrequently, and he inadvertently inspires me to a magnitude to describe which any words I use will certainly belittle it. Once, he described to me the proudest and best moment of his life. It was when he asked Sachin, whom he got a chance to meet as a consequence of being a state-level cricketer, if he could hold his bat. And

he held it. The emotion that the guy and his words emanated streamlined its way across and hit my eyes causing them to want to fill. He told me about his dreams and I listened, wishing he’d get to live them. He deserved that for the passion in his desire if not for anything else. Every time, following my conversation with him, dreams I’ve hidden between the folds of my brain surface, like a reminder. I then go into a reverie, one where I am older and being that, just that woman I desire to be, doing all that I aspire to do.

Lately, I‘ve been doing this often, the dreaming that is. A dream that’s slightly more ambitious each time. The belief that someday I may not have to dream to see me there, stimulates me, keeps me inspired and going.

P.S : It’s a wonderful morning here in Hyderabad. I’m hoping that my bay in office is deserted and I can get home early.

Dear Computer Science

Before I begin, you should know that you aren’t going to like this letter. Now, I shall begin.

It was June, the year of 2009. I had returned home from Ettimadai just a few days earlier, after a year at college; a year that I knew so certainly, had been wasted; A year which saw me spread out my set of engineer’s accoutrements(drafter, chart holder(my favorite) and other things whose names I could never remember) in a corner of the hostel’s visitors’ room only to use nothing but a ruler to duplicate as precisely as I could, the drawing on some sheet I had borrowed from the boys in class, sit up in the nights – the ones preceding exams – and study by rote formulae whose significance I had no understanding of simply to scrape through math, doze(No, I did not doze-drool) on the mess table despite the cold water spray I had subject my eyes to in an attempt to keep my eyelids from getting together and cosying like they do in the nights and so much more. The year was also one of my best, for reasons I will talk about on another day. In spite of those reasons – the ones involving crazy antics, the ones that brought into life people that will go on to stay and others among them – the year, in retrospect, was one of the most wasted (not in every sense of the word). I never cared what causes the electrons in a diode to travel, or where they go; I instead passed electronics highlighting potential barrier on my answer sheet. I stumbled in viva tests, and smiled my way through; some profs cursed me, others smiled back, mostly at my ignorance. I even managed to pass the paper with triple integrals despite my abysmal, shoddy abilities in simple integration. I was now just three years from graduation, from being called respectfully, a Computer Science Engineer. Yet, it was a wasted year: something I knew so well.

That summer, many of my classmates were looking for a way into some company for an In Plant Training. I was looking for a Content Writing internship. I never managed to find one, but let’s forget that. I knew then, that I was where I felt no belonging. Only, I did not know where else I’d belong. The dilemma ate away my summer. I was back for my second year with my mind still vacationing in confusion.

I knew I had to get away or make up my mind at the least. I knew I wanted to write, I wasn’t so sure. I needed to find something I wanted to do, something I’d do anything to do.

That was when you appeared. Just when I was giving up, when I was finding my way, you showed. Showing up, merely showing up isn’t what I detest you for. My hatred sources itself on the fact that you didn’t show your complete all-inclusive self. You piqued my drooping interests. When I was still indifferent, you challenged my facilities and lured me into a world that you hoodwinked me to believe – and I was nothing more than a nincompoop to believe – was all about logic in its purity. Yet, I tried to ignore your existence and gave you almost no time or attention. I cartooned and texted through lectures, making new friends and knowing existing ones better. When the semester’s end was looming, when it was readying itself for its impending slumber, you’d come back cleverly in your slyest avatar : exams. You’d poke into the fluffs of my brain and pull my already falling hair to show me you’re better. You’d provoke me till I got so mad, I’d want to beat you. I’d want to beat you to show you I can and to show you I can nail you like you never thought I could. I’d sit with my books and rack my brains till I got the logic. I’d go deep down an algorithm, deeper down the depths of a Tree and I’d jump out of the tail of a Linked List. I knew the ways to sort and to solve those many problems with fancy names; I knew them as well as Dijkstra, Kruskal and Ford did. I did have fun, I confess. I thought I’d enjoy the camaraderie all my life. Somewhere along the way, I was deceived; I was tricked beyond understanding and ironically, logic too. I forgot to find something I wanted to do, something I’d do anything to do.

I forgot it all, my bigger ambitions inclusive.

It seemed alright then, cause I had found you. Only four years hence, do I realize: You were never complete, the incarnation that I then saw of you. ‘Technology’ complements you, a word I have grown to detest. You veiled your alter ego like it didn’t exist. You buried it somewhere deep; my short sightedness never allowed me to see that far. You knew then, I’d hate you the day I grasp it and see through your act. The day has landed: today. I’m now stuck in a life entwined with you and your consort. And now, as I see you in your practical actuality, I’m forced to retrospect. I now see that I never liked you like either of us thought I did. You intrigued me and played hard to get. You offended my ego and caused me to retaliate.  You enchanted me and I fell for your spell. The ego kept it going. I couldn’t let myself lose and you couldn’t see me win. It was a love-hate relationship that has now evanesced leaving behind a residue, scum rather. Cause now it’s just the hate. You are the reason why I took so long to find something I’d do anything to do.

Now I know. I want to write. I want to read. I want to travel. I want to read till I die and write till I can no more and travel till I’ve seen it all. It will make me happy like you never could. I’m glad the disillusionment happened.

Someday, my strongest emotion for you will be indifference. I cannot wait.

Just a little bit of love for the sake of the good days,

Ashwini

%d bloggers like this: