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.” - AnonymousI 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!
