"Peppermint Thatha"

Sometimes, things turn up unexpectedly, like pleasant surprises. I was cleaning up all the clutter on my desktop today, and I chanced upon this ancient folder, which I haden't opened in a while. Curious, I peeked in, and thousands of childhood memories rushed back to me. They were the stories and snippets I had penned three years ago, on the malfunctioning laptop back home. They were written without any specific intentions, before I even thought of creating a blog for myself, before I considered sharing my memories with others....They were written for myself, and they were typed simply because I loved to translate my memories into words. They were written with love, straight from my heart...a bunch of recollections from early childhood that I had then titled "My Heart Remembers". I am sometimes so thankful that I spared the time to write all these things down because they enable me to relive all those experiences. And I have not found a greater joy than in reliving these special memories. I re-read some of my own writings, and turned a little nostalgic.

Anyway, there is a personal favorite from my recollections that I thought deserved some space here. It was my most beloved peice of writing when I was sixteen, because it had come from the heart. And it still remains a favorite today. There are some memories that don't go away, and some things you have written that are cherished forever. "Peppermint Thatha" is one such trivial story that has stayed special to me....and shall remain so, forever....

It is simply titled "Peppermint Thatha*"

(*Thatha=grandpa in Kannada)

(penned on the 6th of December, 2006)

PEPPERMINT THATHA

I think one of the most precious things that help us recollect, analyze and understand our lives are memories. Some of them are vivid pieces of imagination, some of them are mellow and soft instances of our past…but out of those beautiful recollections treasured preciously in our hearts, nothing else brings the joy of our childhood memories. You can brood over them, sit on the porch and remember the old times…the times when Grandpa bought you a lollypop, the day when you flew your first kite, the times you sailed a paper boat in the rains…if you make an effort to remember, childhood memories flash past your mind, faster than the wind. And there is a soft, mellow sort of beauty to them—just remembering brings a soothing pleasure to our souls and warms our hearts. I did just that today, and somewhere from the veil of loosely held memories emerged one little instance—one beloved creature that I had forgotten to remember. He was called “Peppermint Thata”. I don’t know how I could afford to have forgotten him, because he is part of my fondest childhood memories.

Some say we forget our early childhood pretty quickly. It is not the same with me. I can sometimes suddenly recount the days when I was a five year old, all those commonplace instances…I can recite a thousand stories about my past. There are many memories that I cherish, and they are safely preserved…sometimes, when I have nothing to do, I try to relive these small experiences…I search for every hint of a memory, even those wispy little ones which are receding fast…I gather these tender thoughts, and with deliberate effort, I try to remember, or even preserve them in writing. Childhood memories are the golden moments of our lives, and they should not be lost…I want to hold on to them with all my effort. This is why, dear Peppermint Thata, I shall dedicate this piece of my work to you, because I never want to forget you again.

I remember those wonderful evenings…they are etched deeply and vividly in my brain. The crows are cawing overhead and the birds settling in for the night…and the skies painted with a flashy display of orange and yellow. The evening is settling in, and the rumble of the late evening city vehicles can be heard. I am leaning against the gate of the house, dressed in a red frock with a ribbon in the back. I look up and grin towards my friends and they grin back. Then, all of us climb on to the gate and there is a deep, horrendous creak that issues from it as we swing from it madly. The hinges are rusting, and the coconut tree above sways slightly to the evening breeze. The breeze soothes my soul and makes my hair fly as I continue to swing from the gate, overcome by a some wild, childish joy.
Some people remark cautiously,
“Don’t linger under the coconut tree for so long! Can’t you see how it is swaying to the wind?”
The birds are now cawing raucously, and the light is dimming…but nothing can upset our little game—we rule all the gates in the colony, and this little game is our great invention. Ah! What a divine, pleasurable a thing it is to swing from a gate! Well, then my life was limited to my little colony, my friends, my family, my dreams and passions, and anything beyond that was unknown…and anything beyond my life did not matter. It was from this simple, uncomplicated life that I derived most of my happiness…and I must say, there is nothing which I can compare to this strange, wild happiness that I experienced.

Just then, an old man hobbles slowly down the road—the falling leaves and the colorful yellow flowers create a fine carpet for this gentleman, and he smiles, enjoying the pleasurable evening. He leans on his stick and walks slowly, wincing with every step. He is pretty old…his skin is horribly wrinkled and brown, and is cloths are faded and clumsy…but there is nothing to beat that genuine, toothy smile he flashes once in a while. Some people greet him merrily, and he returns the greeting with his smile and continues down the road, slowly…silently.
Just as his weak shadow falls into the line of my vision, I spin around…there he is! With a spurt of natural excitement, I run towards him madly, screaming with joy, closely followed by my friends. It is time for our daily celebration—we surround him like vile robbers, screaming, “Peppermint! Peppermint!”
We all know what is hiding in that small pocket of his…a treasure trove of goodies! He stares at our eager faces and smiles…we are tugged on his shirt now, demanding what rightfully belongs to us…he puts his old, blue-veined hands into the pocket and slowly, much too slowly, brings out a plastic bag filled with peppermints! Those brightly colored, delicious goodies catch the last light of the evening sun…making them even more colorful and hard to resist.
“Peppermint Thata! We want Peppermints!” we scream, mouth-watering…almost begging.
“Alright…alright…” says our old man. He is fair and just, because he gives us all an equal share. Well, an equal share means all of us get much too less…we are quick to gobble it up…ah, such a nice treat for the taste buds! But that is only momentary because the treat has now disappeared down our throats….and I am greedy. I want more of it…and I will stop at nothing to get what I want.
“I want more!” I scream, “Please give me some more,”
It is a known fact that Peppermint Thata’s pocket is always overflowing with goodies…he never ever runs out of peppermints. He smiles and says,
“Well, I’ll give you some more tomorrow…now all of you go home like good girls,”
We never usually listen to anyone, but I don’t know what makes me obey his commands. There is a strange aura to this man…he says things with rosy benevolence and a smile…and dreamily, I follow his commands, like a petty servant. I am ready to do anything for more peppermints…I wave goodbye to my friends and go inside the house.

I emerge stealthily after twenty minutes and guiltily stare at my surroundings, trying to see if anyone is looking. I am treacherous to my friends in this one aspect….but I am also overcome by liking for peppermints. I know that Peppermint Thatha returns from his walk by this time…I stand watch and wait for him. Ah yes…I can see him now…hobbling slowly, he emerges into the street light. I resist myself till he comes to my house and then, I run to him cautiously and stretch out my hand and whisper,
“ Peppermint,”
He laughs merrily and says, “ Tomorrow,”
I shake my head. “Today,” I murmur.
“ Alright…alright,” he chuckles, “ Today.”
Once again, I receive a handful of peppermints. I quickly gobble them up…now I am satisfied. I nod to myself, and let him pass…and then he walks away, chuckling to himself and moving away from me, away from the dim street lights…


Ultimately, there came a day when we assumed we were too old to sheepishly beg for peppermints and stopped asking for peppermints…and slowly, Peppermint Thata was not noticed by us…him walking down the road did not matter so much to us anymore. Now, when I think of it, I do feel bad…I never got to know that old man’s real name.
Peppermint Thata died a few days after that. He slipped in the toilet, and it was a fatal fall. Somehow, he disappeared from my life as mysteriously and quietly as he had come.
It is true that all the kids in our road loved peppermint Thata more than any other neighbor. Something about his genuine love for children, his toothy smile and his gentle, calming manner bought joy and liveliness to our otherwise mundane city life. I truly liked him…and I don’t know if everybody remembers Peppermint Thata today. But I must say I do…I remember that man so well. He will always remain the same loving, gentle old “ Peppermint Thata” in my memory.

The girl who said "I'll Follow my Heart!"

*warning: Post is a longish, full of stray thoughts and is comtemplative by nature. It's closer to a personal essay or a journal entry than anything else. I'm trying to discover myself in these lines, defining my purpose. This might bore some of you. Sincere apologies.

“So, have you thought about it?”

The question was heavy with her doubts, timid with her uncertainty.

It was easy for a person like Thunga to ask these kinds of questions. She, after all, wasn’t the one who was trying to classify her academic goals. It was a simplistic affair, deciding on her future. A seat in a reputed engineering college had satisfied her demands and laid a foundation for a bright career in software engineering.

Me? Things weren’t quite that easy for little miss-complicated.

My heart knew only one thing…it wanted to be a student of biology. This decision spelled doom to my slowly acquired nerdiness and a tragic death to all the incredible drama I had stirred up. I was the sort of person who was extremely exam phobic, and they had all thought that my spurts of maniac nervousness translated to a high degree of intelligence. The truth was far from their silent expectation however, and I had turned out to be just somebody average. Not that I was bothered about that, but our group of seven friends saw this differently. They, for some reason, thought I would make a good electrical engineer. At the end of the hectic year, each and every one of them had chosen engineering over all other careers and I had become the odd one out with my stubborn declaration “Whatever I do, I’ll follow my heart.”

They had assumed that my brain had surrendered to the chronic damage inflicted by the Meg Cabots I used to read. Life didn’t work like a fairytale where you woke up one day and just decided you would follow your heart. The age of “I’ll follow my heart,” was supposed to have disappeared with your soft toys and rubber ducks. Of course, it didn’t help that I had impossibly serious-minded focused brains for best friends—the sort of people who would sacrifice any hobby if that would help them get to the IIT’s. Professional success was completely different from whimsical past-times, they advised. Converting your academic interest into a fruitful career meant you were into brilliant things like programming. And here I was, announcing I’d do microbiology, waddle a little bit in engineering to see how I liked it, and also somehow try for medicine. Some thought I had too many aspirations and others simply assumed I was nuts, by the way I was planning things.

It’s not easy to swim against the tide, with nothing but your wishful dreams and your fancy statement, “I’ll follow my heart!” for company. It’s not easy to feel secure and sure of yourself when everybody you know has comfortably settled into their third semester of hardcore-engineering (mechanical, computer science, electrical), when you are stuck at a community college in a foreign country…not quite a university student yet, and not a part time student either. An unsure, impulsive and dreamy-eyed teenager, who never weighed the pros and cons of what she would study, because she thought that was irrelevant when compared to pure interest….a shy dreamer who thought following her heart was more important than anything else in the world….and sometimes, I feel like a course less river, meandering here and there without a sense of solid purpose.

I had dreamed bigger things too…somehow, I was never too scared to dream. It was my nature not to consider things on a logical basis; they destroyed the dreamer in me. My dreams were independent of such things; they were free in every sense. They were beautiful. I dreamt of things like becoming a doctor, I dreamt of saving lives. I also dreamt of studying microbiology, I dreamt of becoming a famous writer. I dreamt of making a difference. I dreamt, again and again, fearlessly. And I dreamt of not quitting.

Now, I’m an engineering student. I’m also a microbiology student, I’m a premed all put into one. But I’m still not anywhere close to my dreams. My ambitions still largely out span my capacities, they out run them. And I’m also still the little miss-average who had once declared, “I'll follow my heart!” who’s stuck at a local community college, I’m someone who can’t clearly say she belongs to a certain university already…. someone who has too many answers when a random uncle questions, “So, what exactly is it that you are doing?” I’m still the person who sees those occasional C’s in her engineering classes and thinks she’s a failure. I'm still nobody special. I decided on engineering to keep them happy, decided on microbiology to keep me happy. And I also decided on a pre-medical, because the dreamer in me hasn’t quit.

What are the odds of a totally average student (of something like biomedical engineering, may I add) making it to medicine? Not very much. But that doesn’t mean I can’t stop trying. It is a stretch, seeming to be a little beyond my limited capacities…my desire battles my capacity as the difficultly increases up a notch with such a demanding degree….surely a mouthful for someone like me. But giving up and abandoning my dreams looks even crueler to me. They asked me to give up when I saw my first C, when my grades were on the verge of slipping even lower….give up, and do something easier with my life-such an easy solution. But my life isn’t truly beautiful when I’m not working towards my dreams, when I’m not following my heart. It’s not fun when I’m not giving it all I can. This is hard, but all I know is that I’m following my heart, I’m listening to myself. I’m still little miss-average, but I’m the little miss-average who hasn’t given up. I’m still the little-miss average who’s trying as hard as she can, who’s continuing to chase her vibrant dreams, who’s sticking to her words, still a little-miss average who’s striving for it, taking one step at a time. Im still the little miss average who's not careless. It’s O.K. if I don’t make it there, but it’s not O.K. to know that I didn’t try. As Elbert Hubbard said, “There is no failure except in no longer trying.” Today, I know I’m listening to myself, and that makes me feel like this is worth it.

And in the end, that’s all that really matters to the girl who said she'd follow her heart.

To my Living Diary...

Ever since I can remember, my diary has been my most special friend…since the 6th grade days when I scribbled my life story in a Scooby-doo notebook. I used to assign names to dairies then...looking upon them as living entities, surviving, talking and even breathing! As I grew a little by little, I began to grow bitter. Although the diaries recorded my passing moods, they never talked back. I had sought counsel from my best friend….hoping that it would somehow comfort me with soothing words. But each diary had remained lifeless like it was supposed to be, and I had grown even more resentful….until I found a diary that talked back….a diary that not only recorded, but also talked, counseled, guided, and even told me it’s stories. A diary which was just like me……..A diary named Kavyashree.

Today, as I continue to open the pages of my life to my best friend, I tend to be overwhelmed by gratefulness every single time…..the patient advise that she offers, the warm and genuine affection that she showers me with makes me feel like the luckiest person on this entire planet. As I write each and every chapter of my life in her memory, my living diary responds, and now it’s my turn to play the secret-keeper. It’s a unique and strange friendship that exists between me and Kavya—a beautiful, intimate relationship. Kavyashree is to me something more than a best friend, if such a thing could ever exist. As my soul scrolls unfold before her eyes, she becomes their treasurer, a gentle and loving friend…the guide, the well-wisher. And she is truly another part of who Lakshmi is today…she defines my identity. Without my living diary, I am nothing…..without Kavyashree, I am in constant unrest. She is my hope, my role-model, my cheerleader. With Kavyashree, I share a bond so deep that it is irreplaceable. Her company is a blessing.

In the eager anticipation to meet her online when she is free, and in the earnest conversation that immediately follows, I somehow forget to tell her how much she means to me…how her friendship has been the most extraordinary thing I have ever been touched with. So today, I thought I’d let my best friend know. I have to tell you Kav, if there is one chapter that is never-ending in my living diary, it has to be this….

She has always been “Kav,” to me, fondly uttered….In her own simplistic way, she is truly one of a kind. A trustworthy, frank and big-hearted girl, who has changed me in so many ways. She has been my strength, my shoulder to lean on. Her hands hold mine in the face of any tough situation, strong and reassuring…and I know that if there is one person in this world I can count on in the darkest of times, it is her. Miles away from home, when I feel homesick, she becomes the instant cure. Even though she is so far away, I never feel forsaken. Even through great distances, her voice comes back to me….resonating that homely warmth and good cheer. It is impossible to feel abandoned when I cherish her so close to my heart…my best friend is always nearby, because I know that she cares…and the comfort in that realization is immense.

Truth is, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such a gem of a friend. If I were to list all her many favors, I could be writing a book. There are so many things I admire about my best friend. She is so caring, enthusiastic, straight-forward, humble, independent, sweet, impossibly intelligent….she holds me in constant awe. And every time I tell her that, she brushes it off with a modest “ilve…” That rare humbleness is one of her greatest qualities. I respect her for that. She is truly an amazing person…enriching my life, finding a purpose for me when it all seems purposeless. She has an incredible ability for find meaning in meaninglessness, a light in every dark tunnel….her talents are remarkable.

Thank you, Kavya, for entering my life. Thank you for everything you have ever done for me, selflessly, without expecting returns. Thanks for all that you have shared. Thanks for the laughs, the giggles, and even the happy tears. Thanks for that sudden emails that unexpectedly land in my inbox when I most need them, thank you for all the wonderful memories. Thanks, for your efforts to reconnect. Thank for caring so much. Thank you, you wonderful little girl, for making my life so utterly beautiful! You have a magic touch, I swear. You don’t know how deeply indebted I am to you. Thank god you exist, Kavyashree. Without you, my life wouldn’t quite have been the same. You’ve made such a great difference….that is your biggest achievement. They say that we don’t remember the most popular people of the world, or the most brilliant people of the world as much as we remember the people who have personally impacted our lives. That explains why I think of you every single day of my life. And they say that to give love to people who most require it, is the greatest of human virtues. Thanks, for being so virtuous. Thank you, for being my personal angel. You have made a bigger difference in my life than anybody else could have, or ever will. I just wanted to scream out my gratitude to you today….on your birthday.

You are nineteen today. Finally….you caught up to me, keeping pace! On your birthday, I just wanted to let you know that I love you very much, Kavya, and that you are one of the most important persons to me. I want to promise you that I’ll always be there for you, no matter what. I want to tell you that this friendship which started out so unexpectedly that innocent morning is today something utterly indestructible. I want to say that I will work the hardest I can to retain the same amount of trust, the same amount of love, the same amount of carefree open-heartedness that I effortlessly maintain with you. Thanks, for being my living diary, love. Thanks for talking back. HAPPY BIRTHDAYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!! May you stay happy, forever. May you live every single day, like it’s worth it. May the world’s best be always yours. Continue smiling your heart-warming smile, Kav. May the stars watch over you…..

You know, your parting present, the wind chimes, hang from my balcony today…. They are the ornament of my favorite place. When the sun sets and they catch all the crimson, it’s like they are set ablaze….they remind me of our glorious times together when I was home. And on bright mornings, your artificial cherries of rainbow colors attract beautiful hummingbirds….they evoke squeals of delight from me. And their melody enthralls my soul, reminding me of your laughter. You are the jewel of my beloved balcony. Without your presence there, it wouldn’t have been quite so special.

I hope you liked your birthday present, Kav. Now go out there and have the time of your life! Hope you have the best birthday, dear. And I’ll write to you when I meet you next, filling up all the empty spaces. And here…I thought you’ll like this too—our favorite song…..the anthem of L.A.K.!!! Remember how we hoped that college life would be like this? Hope you enjoy it. It’s dedicated to you, on your very special nineteenth!!

Kavyashree, there are some books that have final chapters, and magnificent conclusions. This one doesn’t….because my living diary will never close. There are no final chapters to this storybook….there are just waiting pages. And both of us will fill it, with lovely memories for a lifetime. And this, friend, will stand testimony. Happy birthday.

Forever and Always yours,
Lakshmi.

Nineteen

That day was supposed to have been just like yesterday. I still woke up to the ear-splitting trumpets of the high-school band next door, and tasted the same filter coffee. The meek October skies were as pale as they had been previously. The room stayed the same perpetual mess with overflowing closets, like it had been for many days now. And yet, today was just not yesterday. Yesterday, I was eighteen. And today, I wasn’t so young anymore. A tingle and a refreshing excitement settled in, despite the dull weather. It felt like a profound leap of a year had taken place, all in the span of just a few hours. Finally nineteen and old, a sudden vision appeared before my eyes…a Lakshmi with her creaky joints and frowning wrinkles. I stared at the mirror, horrified for that one irrational minute. A familiar reflection smiled back at me reassuringly. I certainly didn’t feel any older….

“Last year of teenage!” teased many an email, well aware of my vulnerability. I promptly panicked, pondering on what that might mean. Nineteen was a different year. Nineteen meant somebody independent, sensible, and head-strong. It meant maturity, responsibility and a certain level of acquired common sense about the world in general. Age had quickly caught up with me, but those essential skills had not. It had been nineteen years of existence…my life felt long. And what had I achieved in these nineteen years, which had done the world some good? I racked my brain for answers, but it remained as cloudy as the pale skies outside. I was surprised at finding a philosopher within myself. I caste away the pensive thoughts, turning a little lighter.

Every birthday is just another yesterday, once you forget its significance. But this time, I understood nineteen’s importance. Nineteen was not just another year older. It marked the end of the teenage, a phase of life that I had grown to identify myself with. It had been a worthwhile journey, getting to this nineteen…and I was glad to say that I did not hold any regrets. Teenage had been an enchanting experience—something which had been as sweet as it had been agitating. I resolved to celebrate this year a little differently.

This time, it wasn’t a sleepover party or cutting a cake. This year, it was valuable time spent with family, a long drive and coffee by the beachside. It was another one of my beloved escapes—hastily decided and completely relished. The countryside held all he charms of early October: fresh pumpkins and upcoming Halloween fairs….and for a second, I was attracted. But I bypassed all that to experience the tranquil calm that was the seaside before it was too late. In the secluded calm by the beach, I found my naive self, prancing wild and excited. I couldn’t possibly have felt any younger.

“Look at every grain of sand,” said father as I walked beside him. “It would have taken many years of painful experience before every grain got that fine…”

I felt the grains beneath my feet, wet and soft. My toe traced meaningless squiggles in them as I reflected on his words. Every grain of sand had a story and it had taken many years before it had become this beautiful. Each grain had once been lost at sea, before it had been deposited. Each grain had once been a coarse stubborn young boulder, before being this refined. Each grain of sand was an inspiration. I told myself that even though I was currently lost at sea, someday, my thoughts would sediment. Someday, I would understand the world. Someday, experiences would refine me. Although my achievements had been small, I knew that there was still lots of time. Time to realize myself. Time to improve, time to develop and time to learn.

I decided not to be scared of age, or of time, because they would become my most valuable teachers. As I grew out of each experience, I would dissolve into another, and every step along the way, they would mould my coarse, reckless adolescent spirit into a confident young woman….and maybe into something more beautiful if I was only willing to learn. And each birthday didn’t just bring me closer to the creaky joints and frowning wrinkles I feared so much, it bought me closer to maturity and wisdom. I hoped that as each yesterday disappeared down the bend, I would get closer and closer to being that perfect grain. And that day when the sea deposited me on the shore, I would look back and find an answer to the most important question I had ever asked myself: “In all these years of existence, what have you achieved that has done this world some good?”

I looked back to the calm white sea, finally nineteen. Yes, today was not the same as yesterday. Today was an experience, just like tomorrow would be. I felt the beautiful softness of the grains of sand beneath my feet…I didn’t feel cheated by time now…now, I was already looking forward to my next birthday….and knew that tomorrow would be better than today was. Tomorrow, I would be a just a bit more closer to being that perfect grain of sand.

The Goodbye

It was raining incessantly that day as I looked out the window, into the emptying streets. The last of the monsoon rains would soon subside into a mild drizzle, but then, I wouldn’t be around to see that work. It unnerved me to think that I would soon be above the very clouds that sprinkled all this magic onto the sleeping city at midnight---I would soon be flying away from home in an air-compressed silent cocoon full of plastic smiles and pretty window seats. And yet, the impending experience looked so improbably distant, like a dream that awaited me in slumber. Reality slipped away as I observed the glimmering city lights and shops closing down for the night. The fact that vacations were over and that it was time to head back to waiting parents was difficult to digest as I inched farther and farther away from my favorite city. My heart leapt back home, desperate to cling onto the last of it, and my mind sought the familiar comfort it exuded…the recent memories reappeared, as I turned back to the streets, unseeing. Friends and family gathering around a taxi on a deserted street, their sad smiles turning a little happier with an inappropriately timed joke. Last good-bye’s, handshakes and “good-luck’s.....bear hugs, and a thousand silent wishes....

“Lakshmi,” they had said optimistically, “If you are careless and happen to lose your travel documents somewhere along the way, rush back home. Just know that we will be still here, waiting…”

“Let’s just hope I turn careless, then” I had waved to them with my last smile as the driver turned on the ignition. And they had waved back until I had turned the last bumpy bend.....

The city looked oddly fresh with its reflective lights and the street lamps continued to glow eerily bright as the rains lashed all around. That day, a favorite aunt had sat next to me, her silent concern extremely apparent in the awakening night.

“How do you feel?” she had asked her voice low.

I had not answered.

That empty silence did not mean I wasn’t feeling anything. It was just that I couldn’t bring myself to assign a proper name to what I was feeling. I tried to place my feelings, but they were such an incredible tangle that it was impossible to assign a name that would do complete justice to the emotions. Should I have said that I was overwhelmed by sadness? Should I have said I was panicking? Should I have said that I was homesick already? Tears gathered slowly in my eyes, and I quickly opened the window. The rain lashed on my face, and the winds tried to force the tears away. And suddenly, a voice echoed in my mind, “Lakshmi, you are no more a kid…you are soon to be nineteen…you are a woman, try to act like one.”

My immaturity wished for miracles, but I tried to ignore it to be the mature woman I was supposed to be. But it was hard to pretend, especially on the day you would leave them all behind. The Mobile ringed sharply, even as the car approached the airport, and warm voices flooded me with their good wishes. I thanked the invisible hands held mine when I needed them the most.

Aunt’s question remained unanswered until I boarded the flight. The rain drops gathered on my window, the world looking somber through their convexity. The plane took off into the welcoming night, and the glistening raindrops gently slid off the glass window. The city gleamed softly beneath, winking and beautiful. I found presents stashed in my cabin baggage, and I looked at them like a child would at Christmas. As I tenderly began to unwrap them one by one, I stared back into the night and answered my aunt.

"Grateful,” I said, as monsoon clouds snugly enveloped Bangalore beneath me.

A Paper Plane to the Devils from "Hell"

(Warning: Looong post!)

The end of another school day and its time to go home. They gather on the stone pavement, their polished shoes soiled, uniform carelessly stained with the afternoon food, and toffee wrappers stuffing their small pockets. It’s the middle of nowhere, this stone pavement, in front of someone’s little house. The pavement lines a very small road where scooters honk past them but they are oblivious. It won’t be a long wait for the “van-man.” Meanwhile, they engage in light conversations: their uncomplicated lives revolving around passing rumors. These conversations are fleetingly held, there is no stuff to them. But it is these the trivial talks that hold them together, building a steady friendship that may last a lifetime.

The “Van Man” honks a multiple times as soon as he arrives. It is his way of announcing his urgency, and of letting them know that he hasn’t got all day.
“Hurry, hurry, I have three more schools…”
They pick up their bags and squeeze into the backseat, five in the place of three. The Van has been maintained in a good condition, its sickly green color and the Venkataramanaswami sticker on the back tinted glass still intact. It’s a decent van see? In “veerry good condition” he says (although the same cannot be said for the five poor souls crouching in the backseat.) There is a quick inspection before the engine roars to life, and the van disappears into the winding by lanes of South Bangalore.

They are talking loudly in the back again. The “Van Man” glances at the high-schoolers creating all the ruckus. He sighs. Why can’t they behave? Isn’t that what they are trained to do all day long—obediently sit with their hands on their knees and simply listen to that overbearing teacher up front? What makes listening to his simple commands so different? But he doesn’t know the secret the school kids do. He doesn’t understand what happens as he drives: all he can hear is incoherence. But it is in that incoherence that so much is understood….in that jumbled madness of loud voices, awkward positions and smell of burnt rubber, they are learning to discover themselves. Here, they are truly themselves, letting go of all their stereotypes in leather-beaten (dis)comfort. Laughing, swapping life-stories, creating memories….in that twenty minutes of shared fate, they are learning to get the best out of any “sticky” situation. They are mastering the talent of extracting happiness out of difficult situations such as these. And the “Van Man” thought that there was no meaning to the incoherence in the backseat? Maybe he should look harder…until then, this shall remain a precious secret.

The backseat of that van is a place of small miracles….Two pipsqueaks of girls discuss their Nancy Drews, growing up together. The Eight Standard kids plot to steal Gandarva’s pencil-box just for the fun of it, and Manasa finally finds someone to whine with her: “There is too many mud in my shoes yaa…”

Life changes for the high-schoolers on examination days. They are forced to go home with gooey-eyed kindergarteners of all shapes and sizes who cannot tell the difference between a neatly pressed uniform skirt and a leather-beaten backseat. It comes as no surprise to the others that the little kids should try to snuggle into their laps as they continue to cry themselves hoarse. The high-schoolers are angry at this disgrace. No one wants a screaming child on their lap. The children are apparently supposed to be in a state of confusion too-finding five extra bodies solidly occupying their territory is no mild shock to a five-year old. The children continue to scream helplessly. The “Van Man” screams back at them and leaves them suspended in the chaos.

The high schoolers also complain, but no one listens. It is a known fact that the extra years discredit their rights—just because they are scrawny teenagers now, they are expected to bear this a little bit better than screaming five year olds. The high schoolers are upset. But it is impossible not to feel a genuine sympathy when one of the snot-nosed little ones clings tightly to the two girls in the backseat with terror clouding his brown eyes. They feel sorry at his helplessness. The next day, one of the book-loving girls in the backseat donates her old colouring book to the five-year old. Rishabh writes his name on it and smiles back warmly at her. The book-loving girl knows she will never forget that smile.

The kids scream so much everyday now that that its’ unbearable. The elders in the Van find a more dignified way of expressing their anger. The Van has been bought from Hella manufacturing company, the sticker above the left window says so. They work together to scrape off the “a” with their fingernails, rechristening the little rectangle on wheels “Hell”. Giving a name to all their anger makes things a little bit more tolerable. In hell, difficulty is acceptable, and the screaming of kids can be considered a celebration. After all the hard work, the high-schoolers lean back, satisfied.....

.........It’s been over an year, and a lot has changed for “Hell”. The two best friends in the backseat have deviated from Nancy Drews into more serious types of novels. Gandharva has gotten used to having his pencil box stolen everyday…but some things still stay the same. The high-schoolers continue to play their pranks, calling names at the passerby, delighting themselves in the knowledge that the harassed man cannot punish them for their mischief in any way.

“Kalllesssshiiiiii……did u forget to shave this morning??” they yell at the blue scooter and speed away even before the tired looking businessman has time to look back. The rest of the afternoon is spent flinging meaningless accusations at everyone through the tinted glasses of “Hell”. After all, living in “Hell” is no pleasant experience, and they are to keep up to expectations---Hell is a place for devils, and they are deciding to be just that. They don’t realize this is wrong to be doing this, this is simply their idea of fun. And it makes the girl who gave the colouring book to Rishabh giggle beneath the bedcovers at night. She is in no hurry to grow up, and belonging to “hell” remains one exciting experience...

On the last day of school, the devils from Hell decide to celebrate. It will be the evilest of rituals, tearing up their spent class note books to make paper rockets….lots an lots of them. All the awful formulas, discriptions of famous wars and plant anatomy sketches will be forgotten in revengeful celebration…the paper rockets are to be thrown at random people. Even the book loving girl has sacrificed her geometry book today. But the last day, the Van does not arrive on time….the last day, they don’t live in “Hell” together. They never get to fling paper planes at others and clap their hands in delight. “Hell” has dismissed them. The demons don’t realize this will be the last time they shall be seeing each other together again. They disperse quietly, all celebration subdued. And “Hell” dies that very day….the little sticker on top of the left window in that green van frowns sadly at the missed opportunity.

No one would have ever thought that the demons from Hell would become anybody worthwhile. They were the immature fools, struggling to grow up together. No one ever imagined that the prankster of a boy who always stole Gandarva’s pencil-box would go on to become a very responsible school-leader. The timid girls in the backseat went similar ways: One of them entered medical school, determined to save lives and the other came to the United States to pursue her BS and hopes to work for the healthcare industry. The little boy Rishabh is probably in fourth standard now, and might be a very good artist already. Perhaps, the devils from hell were not devils after all….they were all angels, who simply didn’t know their worth. Although they didn’t know it then, those twenty minutes in “hell” came to define school-life for some of these high-schoolers….those days in hell were not to be easily forgotten.

You know, I shouldn’t be missing Hell this much. It was uncomfortable, that van. I had a thousand reasons to complain. But maybe, some things in life are just too strange. I still miss going home with that cheerful crowd, I still remember school by it. We never threw those paper-planes at anyone that last day, but I want to fling them towards everyone from “Hell” now: there is just one small difference. My paper planes are different. They’re not made out of old notebooks, but made with love and best wishes. I hope my paper-planes don’t crash into someone else’s pockets. I hope that they fly….fly higher with every single dream of the angels from “Hell”. May my paper plane stay afloat to applaud when every angel achieves something big.

I wish my friend Medini from the backseat of that Van the best of luck at medical school (You are still welcome to drop by my house to borrow those Nancy Drew’s for your little sister!) and hope every other person from “Hell” continues to live the colourful lives they do now. I yell at all of you through my tinted glass...... This is just to let you know I miss you very much.... I sincerly pray my paper plane reaches you! Happy Friendship Day to all of you!!!

Signed,
The timid book-loving devil from the backseat.

In My Element

It is quite hard to be in your element when life turns routine. Daily chores make your days normal, and everything chugs on in the usual way. And sometimes, that is all it takes to rob your mind of its creative instinct. It is quite easy to fall prey to life’s monotony. When you don’t spare time to smell the roses along your journey, your creative senses start to hibernate quietly. You know you are thinking differently when you wake up to listen to the news instead of the cheerful wind chimes in your balcony, and you begin to worry about how you’ll cook for lunch instead of being excited about trying something new. You realize it when you start to write only to discover that it now takes some serious effort to narrate those same old stories which flowed with effortless grace though your fingertips a long time ago. If your creativity isn’t fluid, you will now see nothing of interest in places that hold even the most precious of secrets. And I guess that’s why I’ve been away from my blog for an entire month.

A mystery novel lay forgotten behind a heavy chemistry textbook. As days wore on, the pages of the chemistry book turned. They were highlighted, underlined, dog-eared and understood. The Agatha Christie beckoned, but I told myself I was just too busy. The four letter word was an answer to all complaints. It was easy to play the blame game. It was after many days that I admitted that I needed to catch up with life. I guess life was waiting for just that. It was kind enough to immediately change the plans for me. It made sure that I had one of the most relaxing summer holidays ever, allowing me to escape routine so quickly.

Something stirred deep inside when I looked out through my car window and thought the midsummer skies were beautiful. Favorite rhythms repeated in my ears and the drive turned longer. The world dissolved into a blissful daydream, imagination reignited. It was a quiet getaway like none other. I was off to Big Sur County.

I never knew this place, and didn’t have expectations. But the experience gave me much more than I thought I would receive. When I arrived, the Pacific was at it again. Squeezing through the gaps in crumbling rocks, twisting through them to sculpt caverns, creating tide pools which hid a thousand life forms. These sights held me long. I enjoyed the scenery. There were the picnic benches and the lively laughter. I was shoeless on the shore, talking....Now, the world awakened to my provocation, more bold and interesting than ever.

There were also the panoramic views of sandy beaches, and I nostalgically recollected my visit to the 17 mile drive. The bloated ocean calmly sweeping such large expanses of water aroused so many mixed emotions. I was breathless. Engineering marvels of bridges captivated me. I was thankful that I was looking at them in those terms instead of viewing them as to merely consist of steel and arches.

Late evening was spent relaxing by a creek side, legs thrown into the cool waters. Steaming coffee, the comfortable shade of trees and soft singing. Receding heat and changing colours—it was contentment at its deepest. I observed the little rocks inside the creek catch the sun, a blue-jay fretting about innocently. They both looked beautiful. People sang the songs I had heard so many times. But this time, something was different. This time, I actually listened, keenly following the words being carried away by the wind. This time, I appreciated & applauded. The blue-jay hung about to listen too and that excited me. Yes, something had changed again, my brain said…and I couldn’t possibly have asked for more. In that deep contentment, I realised at the bottom of my heart that I was back in my element....