Birthday surprises (Dec 4th 2009)

I do not know if I shall ever have the patience to write about this year's birthday, but here's last year's:

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My friends have a way of surprising me. Even when I'm expecting a surprise.

The general equation goes like this:

Hostel + b'day = midnite party

When it comes to our gang, it modifies a lil.

Hostel + bday = (midnite + 10 mins) party

And it's very convenient too. The 10 mins you can attend to all those 12 o clock phone calls.

And last nite, I spoke to jiji, and then, Ajita called. She asked if my friends wished me, etc, and I replied that I know they are up to something, though I'm not supposed to know that. I told, also, that I can talk to her till 12:10 or so. And we talked happily till 12: 15.

Then, I found everyone outside my room, and on my desk, was a small parcel addressed

TO

NITIKA MATHUR

RO. NO:- 149

MEERA BHAWAN

BITS PILANI HYDERABAD CAMPUS

PINCODE: 500076

:-)

(I later learned that no one knew who drew the smiley)

I opened the gift to everybody's "happy birthday to you.." It was a lovely showpiece that read "DEAR FRIEND", and had two figures smiling sweetly, and lots of flowers. And a birthday card that seemed tailor made for me. It was signed "From all who love you". I read aloud the card, we took photos, and played around in general, until one by one, all went back to their rooms to study for the Mech Sol exam (don't ask!)

This morning, I studied a lil' , took a head bath, and happy that it was my bday, that I looked pretty, went back to studying. The exam was - didn't I tell you not to ask? and then...

Soumya'd called, and Kedari while I was busy with my exam; and so I spoke to them*, cleaned my room**, took piccies, and whiled about the time with Shikki and Shravi, until Shravya declared at 7:20 that she was sleeeepy.

So Shravya sleepy translates somehow to Shravya and Shiksha and Nitika should sleep, and so she orders me off. "Nitzi, sleep." She lures me with an "sleep now, Nitzi and we'll wake u in half and hour and then we'll eat dinner at 8, sleep at 10, and wake up at 6 tomorrow morning and go walking.". Pray, how can I resist that? And so I went back very dutifully to my room, dutifully switched off the light, and very undutifully called home instead of sleeping.

I got out of my room at 8 20, and found everyone in priya's room. "Nitzi! Go comb your hair, we'll go to the mess". I figured that I wasn't allowed to enter. After "Nitzi, put a hair clip" and "Shavi, I put on two, now what?" and "put on one more!", I was (officially) called in. Lights off, and candles glowing. It could only mean cake. awww! how sweet of them. The expected surprise in an unexpected way- I'd thought the party was done with last night.

I don't know how we ended up in my room after that, but we did. And we found the thermocol packing of last night's gift. It began tentatively, the -ahh what do you call it? when we break and rub and in general separate each lil ball from the sheets? whatever! We soon lost any inhibitions about messing the room, and were - there, I'm stuck again!- we were blowing them on each others faces, sprinkling em on heads (It tickles!!). We laughed and played and messed around till all of it was finished, till everybody's hair was filled with tiny white balls, and my bed and blankets and floor looked as if they'd been hit by a storm.

And so, I had a luuuuvly time, and am gonna hav a luvlier time cleaning it all tomorrow**. Now? It's 1:36 am - will u compare with the 10 o clock dream time? and I'm sleeeeepy. Good night!

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Discarded line: the poor thing couldn't find a place anywhere, but I luv it:

" My friends surprise me with their surprises, and I luv them for it. Thank you soooo much, pepl!"

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**I was bitten by the cleaning bug, about this time last year.

The sense of touch: Part 2/2

Nature is not always a gentle goddess. Sometimes, she is cold, sweeps us all in her apathy. When it rains, the raindrops, so gentle on tender leaves, sometimes turn traitors. They pound the earth, like drumsticks, only infinitely sharper, as he who has ventured out would tell. I am drenched, soaked, and strong gusts of wind bring chills. It is the worst, when she is angry, and scorching hot. The expanse before me is now covered in gloom, and what binds me to it are the sun rays that sear all in their path, and the hot wind that imprisons my spirits.

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 People can be cold too, and their tongues sharp. How easy it is, to forget to be kind, to snap at others! Oh! None of this is touch, is it? Touch is, forgive me the paradox, intangible here. And yet it is there, somewhere. In the shards of sarcasm that hit you with so much force, in the waves of humiliation that wash over you. In the steady, unrelenting hold of regret, in the dead weight of boredom. It is the worst, that stab of fear, it goes away, soon enough, but leaves behind gripping anxiety and dread to imprison my spirits.

The sense of touch: Part 1/2

Written in Jan 2010

There's beauty, in what we see, and hear, and smell, and taste. Yet, without touch, I wouldn't be a part of any of it. I hardly know how to put it in words... I'm not talking about the ground under my feet. Rather, it is the air wrapping 'round me, like one would a present, that keeps me connected to my surroundings. Only, the gift is not me. The gift is happiness, and it is for me. Where there is a pretty sight, a cheerful song, a fragrant flower, I find a gentle wind that lifts me off the ground, and my spirit soars.

- * - * -

I found beauty indoors, as well. In the laughter, the companionship, the love of those dear to me. If it is the cool breeze that connects me to nature, it is warmth that I find with my family and friends. This instinctive comfort is often described as intangible, but to me, it is as tangible as any of the hugs and kisses I steal from dad, and ma, and every one whom I love. Oh, and I steal 'em at every opportunity I find. 

Illusions

written on 24 Sept 09

I have often stood at a terrace and stared at buildings fade and lose identity, until it finds the horizon. Then, there's the platitude about the horizon: it will not come nearer however further you walk. And then, there's the old platitude: the comparison between time and distance.

Funny I never bothered to connect these three into the proper sequence that they form: The future fades and loses identity as we go further and further away in time.

I mean, I know that now I am to pull my hair over Database Management when I'd done pulling my hair over putting my notions into words. Tomorrow, I have a idea of what I'll do in the day. And then, I know I'm going home the day after, but I have a vague image in my head of what I'd actually do. The rest of this sem, I know what subjects I'll have, and roughly what extra-curricular stuff I'm up to. In the next three years I will continue here in BITS, in the same campus. And then, I've reached my horizon. After that, the future becomes "the future". And in the future, I will have a lovely husband and live a charmed life. And yet, it is as empty a dream as that charmed place beyond the horizon. It will not come nearer.

Yellow Flowers

One day on my way to school- I was in 9th class then- I was cross with my sister and myself, and I was generous enough to include the rest of the world in my list: I determined that I would be sullen the rest of the day. I walked the last bit to the school building. Walking, you see, is one of the few things I exaggerate my love for, and, despite everything, actually feel that love.

There was a slight breeze, that morning, and while I walked nursing my injured feelings, the breeze quietly cooled them until they remained a mere litany in my mind. And I was all surprised to discover that I was rather cheerful when I finally reached school. It took me a few seconds to understand why- the tree by the gate had the loveliest yellow flowers, and said flowers were, at the moment, very much occupied dancing in the breeze; They were laughing, I thought.

And since that day, in my mind, flowers were divided i nto two categories- flowers, and yellow flowers. 

Pencil vs Pen

(Or) Regrets
written in Jan 2010

I am, for some reason, more comfortable with pencil than with pen. And in this case, I know what that some reason is: Pencil can be erased, you see. If anything does not turn out as intended, erase it. If you can improve upon it, it's as easy as erase and rewrite.

But, you see, even when there's no eraser in sight, I stick to my beloved pencil. I stick to the thought that I can go back home in the evening and erase it. More often than not, I don't, but I stick to that comfort nevertheless. And so, you will find easily scribbling away ideas in dark grey, putting as light a pressure as possible, and in as tiny a size as I please.

I wish life was pencil, not pen. I wish for an eraser to erase away my social gaucherie, to do away with regrets: I should have stayed silent, I should have said this, not that. To erase away bad memories. Of course, I like to think that this option would be much like my hypothetical "I'll erase it once I get home". I'd not do it, that is, just have the comfort that I could, if I wished.

But even a pencil can not save me from regrets of another sort; it can not write on its own.