Childhood

Little folded hands, laughing faces and innocence.

Now, I stare at kids who play at the garden, while I feel like I was playing there just yesterday.  I was the carefree creature who had nothing to do except what I wanted to do.

TV meant Disney channel and shows like ‘Lizzie McGuire’, ‘Hannah Montana’, ‘That’s so Raven’, and films like ‘Harry Potter’ used to be my favourites.  Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoy an episode of ‘The suite life of Zack and Cody’ or a film of the ‘Home Alone’ series, but somehow, something has changed. I no longer experience the pleasure of being a child.

‘The tale of 2 cities’ has been replaced by ‘The Immortals of Meluha’ and ‘Scarlet Pimpernel’ by ‘A thousand splendid suns’ As for TV, you better not ask. My favorite genre is crime, followed by mystery and then thrillers. ‘Supernatural’, ‘Castle’ and ‘Dexter’ are on the top of my ‘must see’ list. The good old days of school seem to be days of a different birth. Guess I should just go back to watching Friends and reminiscing about school days, try to discover how I lost my innocence and came of age.

Summer, yet again

A few days age, Mumbai experienced a few showers or so the parents say. I thought this might as well presents an opportunity of sorts to write yet again about the summers, while it lasts.
There is something about summers, Indian summers which attaches itself automatically to nostalgia. For example, this season is going to be occupied by the forthcoming shifting. To the house that stocks up my childhood and other sweet memories.

On the other hand, while most of the people prefer to chill with the seasonal (king of) fruit mango, our household patronises watermelons, grapes and the raw form of the king of the fruits, prince if you prefer.  The raw mango is pickled and even a drink is prepared out of it, which although good never compares to the heavenly drink of gods, the divine 'aam ras'.

So here’s wishing to endless leisurely summer afternoons with sherbet before the thundering rains strike.

Evenings

Like abstract painting and poetry, or literature, evenings can be interpreted in myriad ways. I find evenings disturbing, as they seem to ask my soul questions. So, here is another way of looking at the soul searching evenings, from the perspective of it being a beautiful time of the day.
                                            
 Watching the sea behold the sun as it retreats in its glorious splendor, trying to speculate where the horizon exactly is, are some favorite pastimes when at the beach. When staring from the terrace, fathoming if the clouds are trying to tell a story, and if so, what characters does it portray, takes my time.

The hut beside the lake, or the feet in sand and clay, and straw filled with coconut water in mouth engage you. The dusk brings with itself, a chatter of birds. The sky is strewed with blue, majestic gold, austere red, heavenly purple, and daisy pink, blushes a deep hue as the sun bids adieu. And the sun smiles a final smile, with promises of returning on his lips. The sky lives in hope.

The strewed sky looks like a painting, with the arrival of the queen, moon. The sound of the temple tolls bells. The view from the boat is the middle of the sea. The mild breeze, the flying curly locks, the mysterious smile is alluring. The coming of the stars is amazing. The return of the birds to their nests is assuring. Thus, an account of an evening well spent reflects on the kind of a person one is. An evening determines the sleep you get at night. A good night's sleep ensures a good day ahead. And, a day well spent is a life spent well.

Summers, then and now.

So, the sweet summers are here. And, I can't help but wonder what the differences between this particular summer and the previous ones are. So, here goes.

The summers which I spent as a child were characterised by innocence, while these summers constitute lack or rather loss of innocence. Sinking my teeth into ice candies and satiating my thirst with Rasna is now replaced by Cornetto's and Tang. That apart, my summers have changed because I no longer search for picnic spots and vacations and holiday destinations, but internships. Disney channel has given way to movie channels.

Gone are the days when I sought freedom in learning how to swing, striving to touch the sky with my feet. Nowadays I have become more practical, and freedom to me means learning how to become self dependent and learn how to keep my feet on the scooter or the car's accelerator, the likes. Gone are the blue skies, green lawns and pink dreams, I now stare into a computer screen. Caps have given way to glares. Mud packs to face wash. This isn't a lament, just an account of my affair with life.

But the long beach walks with coconut water sustain. The hot winds have remained the same, however, and so has my position, sleeping, with feet still dangling in the air. The books, my companions, have changed. Salman Rushdie has now replaced Enid Blyton. Nursery rhymes to poems to poetry. School vacations have now become college breaks. I have grown up, or have I?

Just a few years ago, I was one of the kids I see now. Laughing, playing, smiling, enjoying the carefree days. Wherever did my childhood go?

 But, certain aspects of life never change. Like nature. The cotton balls have burst open from the trees, and the cuckoo continues to sing melodiously. Sunshine, dew drops, flower petals, hope. Anxiously waiting for results, and the rest. Vacations, and mangoes! The ripe, juicy king of fruits is here! Summers and mangoes are eternal partners. A pair made in heaven. Both are yellow, and sweet, and make us wait the whole year round for them, desperately. I still look forward to dirtying my pious white tee with mango stains. Have I really changed that much?

Musings of a murky mind.

The mesmerizing coffee stained evenings, marking favorite passages in a beloved book, familiar aromas that comfort and caress the heart, the breathtaking and heart wrenching scene of dawn, the recurring sounds of laughter at the dining table. All - a recipe for the perfect trip to nostalgia.

The coffee beans, they laugh at you, they think you are silly. The book, the guitar, the piano, you don't want to touch them because you are scared that the last tune you composed might fade away, the beauty might subside. You don't want to wipe the dust off your precious instruments just because you fear that you might not find the time to make music again. Or for that matter, create something. So you avoid cleaning them.

You sense that the coffee beans are mocking you, so you kill them and drink. There is nobody to converse with. You are tired from the cleaning. Dusting away the memories aside, you get up, but there is a pain. A pain in your body, a pain in your soul. You are dried up, and crave company, but there is no one to soothe your pain with the healing balm or even soft, kind words. Nobody to say, 'I understand.'

You look down from the window of your flat and see crowds of people. But although you are above them, you wish you had somebody with you. You hear the whistling of a train and the jostling in of the bus. Listless, tired, rejected, you climb the bed, hoping to find the book, and read it. Share it with... but, all of a sudden it strikes you, you are all alone. And, you cry, for you are lonely in a city with a crowd of people.