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....

When I went Rafting

It was not too difficult to be poetic there. The lively energy of the environment, the breathless excitement that mounted with every second, the sudden increase in adrenalin at the unpredictability of the situation inspired creativity in even the most dormant of minds. That day, the world had changed. It now consisted of nothing more than high-pitched crackles which rose and fell with an energetic rhythm of a river, an insane spinning and twirling to the pull of some unknown force and the co-coordinated effort of a bunch of muscles at the command of “Forward!”; Then, the relaxing of tendons, the awakening of more subtle of sensations, and the surroundings returning to soft focus... and at that instant of momentary calmness—time enough to get a greedy eyeful of clear May skies, barren rock faces, and golden eagles gliding along gracefully in the distance….before the river plunged you into another intense experience. For me, rafting along the Folsom proved to be an experience of a lifetime.

Sanskrit has a gender for rivers, and poets have descriptions. I have emotions. I closed my eyes for a second and heard the river chuckling. She seemed to be laughing sometimes, and sparkled every time she caught the sun. I could call her mischievous, grinning at our plight, toying with us like we were mere playthings. We urged her every so often with our muscles, and she responded by bouncing us through some insane rapids. She hid her naughtiness carefully whenever she turned sympathetic, but it was the careless Folsom that I preferred: The gurgling rapids which tossed me about with a wild abandon: careless, sprightly, and fearless.

Yes, you can tell, can’t you, that this is my first time rafting? I have been unsuccesful in shrugging off the excitement! The best part of the experience was the changing environment which shifted and pulsed as the river turned and meandered. You were greeted by some magnificent rocks at some point, and the next moment, they disappeared in the frothy excitement of the water which splashed about playfully, obscuring your vision. You admired the knotty pines which grew so quickly, and then they glided effortlessly away from the field of your vision. Folsom’s chuckled again, saying, “Don’t look back now, friend…there is much more I need to show you…”
I remembered Pocahontas’s “Just Around the River Bend…” that day. Every river bend seemed to promise me something, and didn’t leave me disappointed.

As the day wore on, energy didn’t wane. The sun was strong, but the river was stronger. She made sure to soak us to our bones, and when she didn’t we made sure that we were soaked. Water wars and battles prevailed and Folsom continued to chuckle. She knew that we could defeat each other at silly water games but we couldn’t win over her: she still decided on the direction and we bumbled along helplessly to her will. But she ensured that we enjoyed the thrill of that experience: sharing her enthusiasm with us when we approached the rapids, delighting us to some fantastic sights as she calmed…she made me feel blessed to be a part of this.

As I rushed home towards unfinished homework, upcoming tests and a mound of assignments, I remembered the voice of the lady next to me screaming “This cost me as much as Disneyland, but for all I can say, this was more worth it!” I couldn’t help agreeing with her more. For that day, the world had turned smaller and much more meaningful….and no amount of drudgery in the days to come could undo the excitement of this experience. Yes, I told Folsom, this had all been worth it….and heard her chuckle in agreement somewhere in the distance.

"Because I want to Learn..."

The sun seemed very ill-tempered as I peeked into the classroom. The Physics professor was still explaining his complex differentials to a bunch of bored students. That meant that I was quite early for biology classes. That also meant that I had to spend the next ill-fated twenty minutes boiling under the hot sun without a sense of purpose about me. I grudgingly settled down on one of those little concrete benches outside of class, and tried to count the minutes.

I saw her then, her head bent over our biology textbook. Her hair was in a hurriedly tied up bun with a pencil sticking out of it. It was one of those things which I found curious about her. A most unassuming woman, she seemed to be. Uncomfortable in the sweltering heat, I tried to play a mind game. I turned observant, silently eyeing that hard-working soul who was bending over her textbook. Tall. Intelligent. More than forty. Old--But still my classmate. How should I address her if she decides to look up? Drop a careless “Hey there, how’s it going?” or would a polite smile suffice? I didn’t know. She was one of those people who had appeared amicable from the start, but I hadn’t really gotten around to striking an intelligent conversation with her. It goes without saying that I’m very bad when it comes to starting conversations….I hoped she wouldn’t notice me fidgeting there, next to her.

“Oh hey there! Sorry didn’t see you before. How are you?”
I jolted. She was smiling back at me light-heartedly.
“I’m fine. I just arrived.” I tried to sound cheerful amidst the heat which was now pressing down on me.
“Hmm….so there’s a class going on in there, huh? Mathematics….”
“I thought it was a Physics class…”
“Oh is it? Hmm…Physics! Gosh!”
“Yeah, I know. It must be so hard! I always found it insane and difficult in high school.” I responded.
She smiled. That smile was mysterious…there was something that smile implied, which was beyond me. I simply waited.
“I once majored in Physics from a University in England, you know.” She declared.
“Oh!”
The fluid conversation effortlessly hid the fact that I was embarrassed. The woman was at ease, talking about why Physics had appeared so interesting to her. She didn’t boast, but I knew that there was some zest in her, a degree of intelligence which gave her the appearance of a smart intellectual. I saw the vitality in her eyes, speaking to me with so much cheer. Wow, she was a very different kind of a fifty year old.

Slowly, a slight suspicion started weaving a web in my brain…if she had a good job now, knew her Physics right, why is she returning to learn Introductory Biology? I wanted to ask her the question without appearing like an interrogator. But I wasne’t given a chance to ask. Because she answered it before I could even mouth it.

“One day, I went to my doctor. He spoke about my health. He spoke medicine….and I told him, I’m very sorry sir, but I don’t speak doctor! Then I thought….why can’t I? You know, I always knew my Physics right, but Biology? It was so unknown to me! So I thought…why not learn? Why not update my knowledge? So I decided to take this course…”

“Why are you taking this class?” she asked me.
“Because I’m a biochemistry major” I said involuntarily, “You?”

“Because I want to learn…”

Her words immediately reflected the lack of depth in my answer. They also made me think hard. The woman was taking these classes not because it would benefit her professionally or earn her more bucks. She was returning to learn undergraduate level biology simply because she wanted to know….she still wished to be the student....

The physics class dispersed. I picked up my bag which was now slipping off my shoulder. I was still thinking…would this be something I would ever do, given a chance? Would I ever come back to learn Art Appreciation or Psychology when I was fifty years old just because I didn’t understand these subjects? Would I still remain curious about my surroundings, and retain the zest to learn, understand and interpret the world through various means at the age when all one wants to do is take one long vacation? Maybe not, I thought…maybe not. But as I observed her cheerfully shoot some creative doubts to the teacher that day, I changed my mind. I promised myself that when I was old and weak-kneed, if a doctor ever spoke to me in a language I didn’t understand, I would go right back and take human anatomy classes without hesitation. This woman taught me something. I made a mental note to remember that that I’m always a student and it’s never too late to learn....

Given Up Yet??

Until a few days ago, there was a cozy nook in the blogosphere for a 16 year old to talk about his life. It was an amazing blog. The 42 subscribers of the Laptop Dairy will know, and so do I. I would often hop into Mohammad’s little space whenever I felt like taking a break. His posts entertained me, and told me so many stories. Those blog posts didn’t exist to glorify him, they were there to voice his thoughts. They talked for him. They taught, and retaught. They weren’t always about wry humor or random complaints. They were original, from the heart and very much special. The Laptop Diary has disappeared today with “One Last Story…” .Although the reasons for the blog closing down remain unknown to me, I shall say that there are many people who will miss his journal entries in the days to come. It feels like Mohammad left a story unfinished….

Many teenage blogs start out with so much optimism and confidence. Some of them gain popularity, and others melt into oblivion. Either way, it’s unfortunate that most teenage blogs die out pretty soon. They are discarded, dormant or neglected. But they all have something in common: Most of them start out with big dreams…sometimes, these dreams grow to unbelievable heights. The initial optimism associated with starting something new can colour a person’s thought.

For example, a 14 year old might dream of that day when a very willing and generous publisher chances across their little space on the World Wide Web and exclaims in delight upon a marvelous discovery. They might imagine their blog becoming that bestselling book—on the same shelves as your Twilights or Harry Potters. Or they might choose not dream. They might just take to blogging on a whim, and not care about what they write. Both species exist, but I feel that most young bloggers fall in the former category.

Why then, do talented teenagers give up blogging so easily? There are so many reasons which can hamper them from blogging on a regular basis. It might be the parents telling them that its time to give up on their hobbies once they enter 12th, the lack of encouragement, or even laziness. Looking back, haven’t I considered giving up blogging on so many occasions? When my brain couldn’t voice my thoughts as effectively as it once did, when that unknown uncle at a party said, “Aha, 12th, is it? Time to say good-bye to your hobbies, dear!” and when someone scribbled “Your blog is so much crap!” I felt like simply deleting everything and giving up! It felt frustrating to put up with all that, sneak in some extra time to jot something down here when I could be doing something better with my life. But I loved to write, and that’s the only reason why I continue to blog, irrespective of how many people are actually listening.

Sometimes, as I go back to read my older posts, I feel that some of them are pretty immature. I could delete them, for all I care. But I don’t. Preserving them is important because they reflect how I’m growing up. Many teenagers don’t do that. They are ashamed of the stale poetry they scribbled when they were fifteen-somethings:

“I like pretty butterflies,
I think they are so cute…
I like they way they flap their wings,
And go from flower to flower…”

That’s why some of these blogs close down. It’s the author’s decision, but a whole bunch of wonderful stories and poems are lost. Others give up when they enter 10th or 12th grades, and think that their life will be affected by blogging. Although this is arguable, I personally think that blogging doesn’t have a negative impact. Sparing something like 20 minutes per week will not ruin your life forever. In fact, I do not regret blogging all through my PU days. If I hadn’t, I would have forgotten those wonderful experiences which are so dear to me.

The next time you drop by that random teenage blog of that thirteen year old who scribbles three poorly constructed sentences with lots of smiley faces in between ( with 0 comments below her post), don’t just smirk and think she’s wasting her time. Drop a nice, “Hello…it’s nice you actually decided to blog, even amidst the thousand things that occupy your life! Happy Blogging!” Sometimes, encouragement and support is all it takes to make a fantastic blogger out of a shy and talented thirteen year old. It can do a little something to sustain such blogs.

As for me, I hope that there are no more “One Last Story”ies in any of the teenage blogs. I also hope that Laptop Dairy’s “One Last Story...” means “A New beginning…” somewhere else on the World Wide Web. For all I can say, blogging is an experience which is well worth the effort. It would be easy to give up, but it would fruitful to continue. I wish that these teenage blogs continue to stay alive simply because I feel that every teenager has a story to tell....

At Pismo Beach

The beginning of the spring quarter is a new start. It is the time of the year when the earth looks splendid, but you can’t really spare the time to recline on a summer chair and leisurely build castles in the air. But you can do the next best thing. You can steal a few hours to build sandcastles by the beachside instead and soak your legs in the briny waters. The sands do shift fast and the waves come crashing towards you at a terrific pace, don’t they? It’s better to surf the calm seas before they turn turbulent in thunderstorms. I used this heavy logic to convince myself that I needed a quick break to rejuvenate myself before I immersed myself in another intense quarter. It was a decision which made my weekend positively exciting because I was down at Pismo beach with family and friends this weekend, having just the sort of quality fun that I crave for.

It was Sunday. The sun was shining, and the Oceanside was mildly crowded. But the people were lazy. Even the little sandpipers looked quite at ease with the world as they walked about here and there, pleasurably gulping down little worms along the way. It looked like the perfect illusion of peace---it was just that sort of little place which makes you feel like time is slow and always handy. It’s that exact situation where you feel humbled before the vastness that is the ocean, yet enjoy the sublime experience of having all your fears swept away. My heart throbbed as I stood by the ocean, and felt the sands below my feet shift and move away rapidly with the waves. I enjoyed the sensation. After the initial reluctance, I dived right in. We formed a human chain and screamed at the top of our lungs as we bobbed up and down with the waves. It is one of those very stupid things which bought immense relief. The sound of the waves in my ears has a strangely soothing effect on me; it echoed deep harmony and oneness with the Ocean. But I could also feel the pulse of the pacific as the waves hit my back and I screamed in delight. I felt absolutely wild, untamed and free—like there weren’t any rules to life. I felt like I could have stayed there forever.


That was only until I observed that the shadows were growing longer and my feet, more numb. I thanked the pacific, and waddled towards the beach to spend the rest of my meaningful time building a sand castle with a five year old, who cheerfully re-taught me long-forgotten rhymes.

“I love the mountains; I love the rolling hills,

I love the flowers, I love the daffodils…”

I giggled as I sang along with her, understanding how happiness could be so easy to find. I repeated in my head, “I love the beach, I love today….I love the way we had fun, and wish for it stays the same!”

At the end of the day, my hair was tangled, my feet was caked with a considerable amount of beach sand, and I was shivering in the cold. But I was still grinning as we headed back home, singing “I love the mountains…” again: The world seemed perfect once more, and it would take quite some effort to break that spell again!