My memorabilia

The fresh Monday morning air that is programmed to throw me into the week’s rigmarole, did anything but that. On other days, it successfully forces my visual senses to awaken, scares my early morning dreams away and hurls away any reminiscences of a laid back, enjoyable weekend—faint memories of which return, thanks to the tingling taste of caramel custard at the back of my throat—yes, I fell asleep on the couch while gorging on some fabulous caramel custard that was carelessly doused in cream; in fact, the dessert bowl stayed carefully tucked somewhere in my blanket.

No, this time I’m not yet rambling. This write is still about something from yesterday!

A trip down memory lane often makes me light-headed. I twist in my seat, cringe a little. The fingers are frozen in motion, almost like a spastic attack. The smiles become uncontrollable, goose bumps surface, and often, tears well up.

I hate making this trip. Not because of any fright to face the ghosts of the past, but simply because of what a confrontation with those bitter-sweet memories can do. Thawing them would mean reaching out into those dark corners that have stayed undercovers for so long now, almost extinct from human memory. But then, these voyages, yes that is what these are, voyages—stir you from your convenient seat by the window, with that warm coffee mug tightly clasped, watching the raindrops trickle past the window sill. There’s something so soothing and mesmerizing, and yet so discomforting about the moment—la nostalgie!

“People seem to get nostalgic about a lot of things they weren't so crazy about the first time around.” - Anonymous

I second that Mr. Anonymous. We all live off a moment, without really living it, satiating it. And before you decide to take a step back and linger on it, it’s gone, melted away like soft golden butter on a warm slice of toasted bread. So the next convenient thing to do is to dredge the pathetic past and pen down the wistful feeling. Oh overglorified pathos! The ‘living it’ didn’t seem so exciting in the first place. So the next time round, one of your annoying aunts points her overgrown, red-painted nail at you, wrinkles her forehead and advices “Childhood is the best time ever. Enjoy it”, please believe her.

It’s not only the memories of childhood or school stories, but also of friends who shared the deepest secrets, hugged the warmest hugs, and laughed till it hurt; of relationships that were so dear and seemed eternal; of surroundings that etched themselves into your life—your bedroom, or your cubicle at work ... ah! Now that one sparks a memory...

Today, I sit in this corporate cubicle, caved in on all three and a half sides. And believe me when I say I got to stand on my toes to look over it. It limits the world. It restricts the chatter of life around me. On days like these I look to my favourite accomplice for some comfort – my 30MB of music stashed away in some drive. I love the new place, I love the way it welcomed me, love the rosy aroma in the new washroom, love the people—their variety and their contribution to every emotion they conjure up in me, and the air conditioning that makes the hair on my hand stand. I love the numbing feeling and the warmth I feel when I tuck my feet on this life-size chair. I love the free snacks at 4:30pm. I love the chatter and laughter that has recently started to resound. It reminds me that life exists – that we breathe, and haven’t yet submitted to corporate suicidal silence.

That however, does not stop me from missing what I left behind ... BrainVisa! A place I love to death. The place haunts me sometimes (like the ones the good ghosts live in). The running in between cubicles, eating from everyone around, hollering over cubicles, bitching for all to hear, gossip corners all over the floor, toilet paper constantly running out, the 3:30pm chaiwala (burnt though sometimes), the security guards’ cheerful ‘good morning madam’, the parking attendant pinging you coz your car was blocking someone else’s, the regular pranks, planning on the 9th floor, oh bloody hell....I miss them all.

I’m glad I relished every moment of it during my notice period. The last day was the best! Everybody loved me—even those who on any other day wouldn’t. The day before I left I’d carefully picked out this beautiful diary. It was hard-bound; delicately designed with yellow and gold flowers. It contained 200 pages of three distinct colours—creamy white, orange, and pink. The paper had a delicate smell to it—the one of crisp recycled paper with dried leaves and flowers carelessly sprinkled across. I passed it around and asked people to jot down thoughts. Thanks to the li’l book, I’ve taken with me some of the best memories of my three-year stint at BV, though relentlessly condensed into a mere 75 pages. It doesn’t do justice I know, but I’ll take it! As people thoughtfully expressed and opined, I walked around shaking hands, and saying goodbye to even those I’d never quite worked with. I love the way we genuinely sense loss when someone bids farewell, even though as we ambled past each other in otherwise silent corridors, or then, silent elevators, we never quite cared for the acquaintance. The loss is genuine though. The void now established.

I gathered my belongings at 8:10pm that Friday night— a few stray papers, a few files, my comforting shawl, my stationary, my headset, a chart my colleagues prepared, and my diary now complete. I stared at my chair, computer, and desk—my only personalized assets. Thankfully no one noticed the weird passion for my inanimate world at BV. I hugged a few ‘sloggers’ still hanging around. I also said my goodbyes to all three cubicles in the ladies’ washroom, a mumbled one of course. I absorbed the last scene as I made my way to the third floor EXIT. One last picture taken at the reception area, a final press for the elevator, and that’s my final flight to the basement parking. I dumped everything into the backseat and drove home—one last time from my world at BV.

As I pulled out of that parking lot, and drove onto the road, I looked into my rear-view mirror. I saw lights—tail lights, street lights, shop lights, and even building lights in all colours. The people, events and smells from the past came alive. I continued to stare into the mirror, hoping to journey back into that fading kaleidoscope. But I knew then, that the next time I’d be back, two days later though it’d be, I’d be a stranger—and a complete stranger I truly was ... almost like the ghost from yesterday!

Hullabaloo

This unprecedented entry comes as a surprise … yes, even to me. I linger in a genre that I have lately come to find refuge in—traffic. This sighting takes place in the midst of indescribable traffic, yet again, only establishing my recent belief that commuting today is more movement of my thoughts than of the four wheels that take me home. This one’s deep and it’s mainly to give vent to this morning’s anger.

Disclaimer: I am going to ramble on and convert that fraction of a second’s experience into an ‘I don’t know how long’ post.

It’s Monday morning. I get up like everyone else and am all geared up to challenge yet another week of rehearsed routine. Mentally numb and physically exhausted, I heave myself out of bed – an ordeal my dog simplifies with his constant face licks, drool baths, and sometimes suffocating doggy breath. A quick shower, a meticulous wardrobe selection, a steamy hot breakfast of bacon n eggs (thanks dad) and I’m running out of the house. It’s 7:47am on the clock.

I’m in the car, a little earlier than usual and therefore a little more relaxed. The usual company and easy music – this time it’s 4 non blonds’ ‘What’s up’. I’m headed to work with heavy reminiscences of things I did over the long weekend – interesting dinners, lots of guests, exciting drives, amazing music … hmmm… I’m driven to a stage of comfortable numbness with a strange mix of adrenaline-rushed moments and weighing-down fatigue. I make a stop; a rather unexpected one, one that surprises me—a church en route.

I am not the fanatically religious or ritualistic kinds although I’ve been brought up in a family that is uncomfortably tinted with tradition. I am more the spontaneous prayer maker – one of those kinds who seeks divine intervention only when life starts swerving out of control. So I stop my car, step outside and obliviously stroll into the main entrance.

The sudden calm of the dark interior enthrals me and instantly I find my refuge. It’s been a long time since anything close to religion captivated me; this time I like the feeling though it’s more for the inanimate structure rather than anything divine. I’m surrounded by this musty odour, an eerie silence, distant footsteps of probably the sacristan and a few odd humans in the front pews. There’s a cool draft breezing through, carrying with it whispers of solitude. My back feels bare. I feel the prickly stares of some scruffy beggars sitting outside the entrance. They wait there in anticipation, hoping that the good Lord showers on me the Good Samaritan essence so that I dole out a few expensive notes. I find solace in this otherwise uncomfortable enclosure. Uncharacteristically, I kneel and pray.

If I had to describe the feeling I walked out with, I’d be pensive for a while. But now in retrospect, I’d like to think of it as a subtle renaissance within me – the birth of a new emotion – not a religious one, but just one that simply nudges those who sleepwalk through an exhilarating life…hmmm… ‘la naissance’ or ‘birth’ of yet another kind…

But then there’s also the flip side of life – very simply called ‘death’.

So I’m back in the easy comfort of my car. I continue towards my destination, more by habit than by aim. My inanimate Sony Xplode continues what it is programmed to do—emotionlessly churn out anything that’s in sequence, irrespective of the mood of its listeners.

I continue to drive in the peaceful solitude. The light ahead of me turns amber and I mechanically hit the brakes. I stare ahead at the lights, watching calculatingly as the amber turns to red. Within my frame of vision there’s this regular biker. By regular I mean the kind that habitually breaks the signal. Through observation, I’ve learnt that in Pune, breaking traffic rules is a genetic inheritance almost. It isn’t a choice or decision anymore, or is it? I sense some scope for debate there (hmmm ... thought for my next post maybe...). Moving on—Of course he sees he’s lost his turn ‘cause there’s a red staring him in the face. But just like every day, he consciously ignores it. I silently admire his skills as he desperately weaves through the cars and bikes that have already begun to make their way across from the other side. Amidst the crowd, there’s this bike carrying two elderly men clad in dhotis—one carrying milk packets to a destination I will never know, and the pillion rider majestically gesticulating and chatting determinedly over the din. The two Nehru topis that I could see from my vantage point glided so smoothly in the crowd. Somehow, the two old guys made a cute sight. Mid-way, my sense of admiration is jolted and it renovates to shock! Mr. Smartass biker, while maintaining his speed despite the other commuters, rams into the two men. Of course, the impact is nothing I would ever pen down. It’s more a subconscious choice not to get into the details, rather than temporary amnesia. All I recall is a strange shade of bright pink that catches my eye amidst the havoc. The milk never quite got to that destination, the pillion rider’s chatter was never heard again, and our bright young spark who got thrown off his bike, got up in tears and stood there desperately scouring for the scratches that could somehow justify the murder. I would castrate him right there if I had the chance. Yes, I’m not shying away from expressing the first thought that crossed my mind. It is what I thought, and I can’t be bothered that it makes me any less human. I justify my savage thoughts. I saw death.

My light turns green. I can’t move. I can’t feel the warmth of my breath anymore. My heart skipped a beat for sure. Mom turns to me and asks if I’m alright. I nod.

I can still feel the cold steel pricks of death that penetrated my Getz’ metal exterior. The constant honks behind me urge me to put the car in gear. I do so. I can’t stop; or do I choose not to? I drive past the scene, as people begin to hammer, beat, and kick Mr. Smartass. Given their intensity, I think they killed him too. I would never know. The revenge is justified in my head... or is it?

There’s this eeriness lingering in the car. It’s the feel of death. I roll down my windows, as if to release the spirits within. I shudder. A minute later, the pink memory turns to black—a colour with which I associate all things evil, bad, and ominous—death too. I need air—some good clean fresh air.

So to you, my dear reader, would this post make you think twice before you break yet another red? Think hard. My savage thought of castration still stands.