One of those days...

All I want to do is curl up in ma's embrace. And sleep.

Two weeks ago, I found myself in Ashok Nagar, on foot, and not very far from nana's house. I had the morning to myself, and I had this vision of finding my nana in his armchair, the newspaper spread out before him, and, perhaps, listening to the news on the radio. I smiled to myself, and sub-consciously quickened my steps. Two minutes later, I realized that there would be no one at home: my aunt and uncle would be gone for work, my cousin to college, and her elder sister out roaming somewhere with her friends. And the newspaper would be neatly folded on the side-table, and that armchair would be forever empty. 

K. had me writing about myself in hundred words. Here it is:

Nitika: that is the name my nana gave me. It means one who lives by her principles. And I try, earnestly, to do that, to be honest, and to do what is right. I am also judgemental and insecure, and very, very afraid of that hazy thing that is the future. You will find me a quiet, sometimes whimsical creature; I have but a few friends, and I seek solitude more often than not. But in my heart, I belong to my family, to my friends. I want to be loved, and, more importantly, I want to love. 

Dil hai chota-sa

Dil hai chota sa.
Choti si asha...


One of my earliest memories is me stopping to listen to the strains of this song* as I flitted about the house as little girls are wont to. I remember thinking "this is my song". And so it was. A song that sang of lil' hopes that take wing, and rise to reach the skies. A song of a world that was waiting for this lil' heart to make hers. Yes, it was my song.


Today, I am terrified of the future, I'm terrified that I can not find a place for myself in the world. But my little heart quietly continues to hope, to dream of having a home, of sharing it with those I love, and those who love me.  




*Choti-si asha, from the film Roja (1992)

And I was thankful that the green building remained green.

This morning, I found myself walking the streets of Gandhi nagar, where we lived for a while some seven years ago. I was out of sorts, and 'd intended on a walking a few blocks: the weather was lovely, and there is something on those tar roads riddled with red petals, and the trees lining it that quietly whispers 'home'. But I kept walking (with a stop at an unfamiliar kirana for water and a few melodies), tentative steps increasing in pace until I forgot everything in the pleasure that only a brisk walk can give you. (Here, I was beyond my knowledge for a while, before I found myself on familiar road again.)


I walked down the streets I'd walked so long ago, my trusting hand in daddy's, looking up to him, and pretending that it was not very tough to keep pace with him. Sometimes, he'd told me stories of the days of old, of the village where my grandfather had practiced as a doctor, of the bungalow they'd sometimes stayed in, of a faithful dog whose name I forget, and of the hut that was theirs. I'd listened, asking endless questions, trying to hide my fatigue from walking so much. Somehow, the distance did not seem to be so much this afternoon. I felt all grown-up, suddenly, with my handbag and new shoes of three-quarter-inch heal.


The streets felt different too. And that was not entirely the result of me being an unobservant, often spaced out creature with no head for road-details, no. There clearly were a few unfamiliar apartments, all new and swanky, with names such as Om Sai Deluxe and the like. One of the parks where the boys had played cricket was now a monstrosity with impossibly green lawns and a locked gate. Pray, what's the use of a park if one can't enter it? The green of Trinethra was now an orange, slightly cluttered 'More' (as it is everywhere else), and there was a posh new State Bank Of India opposite it. (I withdrew money from the ATM, and bought soap, of all things, from the supermarket.) I almost went inside the roadside cafe beside Trinethra -I refuse to think of it as More- where we -me, jiji, and Pushpa Aunty (who stayed next door), that is- stopped for cool drink after shopping expeditions with our neighbour: that remained the same, after all these years.


(Here I took a detour to the main road where I knew there was a watch-repair shop, to get a new cell for my poor, long-neglected wrist watch. I entered a temple I found on the way -yes, me, after this- in search of some calm. Everything was closed, and I was all 'what's the used of a temple...?')


When I was making my way back to those streets I hadn't seen in so many years, I felt an ever-so-slight triumph, that I remembered that the road bends at a certain point. And I was thankful that the green building remained green. Umm, that being at a turn that I was supposed to take, and all that.


I walked down what I'd once named the 'trees avenue', then marveled at things being so completely unfamiliar before I realized that I'd lost my way again -did I mention I have a very poor sense of direction?- and had to retrace (here dad called, wondering where I was, and asking me to hurry home for lunch) my steps. I turned homeward, then, but couldn't resist the streets where I'd taken my 'Happy Sunday' walks so many years ago, inspecting all those pretty one-storied homes, and deciding on a new favourite every time: today, I decided on a house with vines creeping along its stone walls.


My colony felt almost unfamiliar, and the neat lanes with sparse trees and neat rows of houses too bare to be of comfort. When I finally entered home, I threw myself onto the bed, with tired legs, endorphine-d brain (or so K. reminded me), and now a rambling blog post to show for my two-hour walk. If you can, forgive me the too many commas, colons, dashes and parentheses,  and any other piece of erratic punctuation. I will not apologize for the whimsical word choice.

This evening, the sun was softened by clouds as it continued its descent, yellow flowers trembled slightly in the evening breeze, and I ignored my new shoes that wished for my attention. I was, you see, busy smiling at this slip of a girl clutching a stuffed doll close to her chest. She waved, a little sheepishly, and I waved back.

Behind her, a young scamp irreverently held a Barbie over his shoulders as one would a tote bag. Yes, 5:30 pm is a very *insert adjective here* time to walk past the slums. 

Happy is the Sunday...

I am not usually a happy person: I belong to that category of people that cannot be happy unless we try very hard at it. Somehow, though, Sundays manage to sneak past that barrier. It is not because I do not have to go to College or where-ever. No, there is a sense of purpose, of meaning in having no obligations to anyone but myself that translates into a quiet, bubbling happiness.

In campus, my Sunday always begins with breakfast. Or a walk, if I wake up early enough; I just put on my ipod, and I’m off at a brisk pace. Breakfast is always leisurely. Sometimes, my friends join me, and it is cheerful conversation over good food. Mostly, though, I’m on my own, to savour hot dosas, hot milk, and a boiled egg, in that order –I always save the best for the last. It is a happy beginning to the day, and after that, whether I find my book, my laptop, or my friends, and even if, nay, when I find boredom in the afternoon, everything is right with my world.

It is, of course, a different story at home. I sleep in, for once. When I do wake up, I find my happiness not in the solitude that makes campus-mornings mine, but in the bosom of my family. I am, as a rule, not one who goes out of the way to seek company. And on a given day, you’ll find us all- dad, ma, jiji, and me- immersed in our own work. But there is a charm on Sundays, when everyone’s at home and with nothing particular to do, and everybody drifts to the hall. It is not a boisterous gathering. Laughter is only in short bursts. Hell, there are times when all of us are silent. No, everything is much more subtle. You see, whether I am quietly reading the newspaper, or animatedly debating something with jiji and ma and dad, there is this sense of belonging, this warmth enveloping me, this je ne sais quoi about the Sunday afternoons and evenings, and a butterfly-happiness settles somewhere in my breast.

The Darkling Thrush

I figured it was appropriate to post Thomas Hardy's

THE DARKLING THRUSH

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray, 
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day. 
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres, 
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant, 
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament. 
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry, 
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead 
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited; 
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume, 
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound 
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air 
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

The Coppice Gate

It all began when I read Hardy's The Darkling Thrush. I returned again, and again to the thrush in blast-beruffled plume, and that blessed hope whereof he knew. When I was thinking up titles, however, a small voice in the back of my mind rejected the ecstatic thrush. No, the coppice gate -the plain, unassuming, unadorned coppice gate- was more appropriate, more... me.

And so my journey begins.