Do you have a story for me?

I have always found it hard to romanticize (well, at least intentionally!). Hence I am always fascinated by people sketching long poems on love, composing catchy music on life, stringing epics on beauty. It is amazing how it doesn't wear people out! I mean, far from it, people always yearn for more of this stuff. So, it is not surprising that I am now trying to find a connection between a queer tendency I have discovered in myself recently, and my apparent lack of imagination.

During my wee reading days, I was often attacked by what a few book-lovers had coined - a page-sixteen-syndrome. It simply means that the book you are holding is not going to take your mind through the fantastic journey it promised, beyond page number 16. This is because the journey it is currently taking you on is unbearable for that poor mind of yours. You need a halt and page 16 is the pseudonym. As a reader much in the green, trying to discover my comfort genre, I figured I would have to wade through a pool of seemingly boring books to thresh a few that would suit my taste.

Now the recent queer tendency that I had made a mention of earlier has to do with this page 16 syndrome. What had been a curious phenomenon witnessed during what we can call a book-reader’s puberty, has now started growing on me. I somehow cannot keep my mind to set sail and embark on the journey any book wants to take me on. I took a count of the books I had handled in the past one year and realized I had attempted 15 books, of which I may have reached page 200 of the highest scorer, the rest being discarded at an insignificant page number. Either my taste is evolving / maturing/ going through another book-reader’s puberty, or my mind is plain bored with the same dish offered in different plates! Mind you, I do not want to be misunderstood when I say same dish (I do believe no two books are the same).

What I actually mean is that I need someone to write me a magical book.

Someone to tell me it is ok to not embed a love story in a crime plot, it is equally beautiful to not sing songs about the nature, it is alright that the protagonist is dull, dim, distasteful, and one who hardly fulfils the definition of a contemporary hero, and it is lyrical to hear the punch line without the chaff. That way it will make me believe that a book can be written on you and me, our mothers and anybody. That way I know that everybody has a story to tell – some simple and some lavish. 

Where did my nights go?

I forget what a Starry Starry Night (Courtesy: Van Gogh) looks like. I remember climbing up to my terrace as a child, lying on my back and trying to read the hidden stories behind those constellations using a keychain telescope. I don’t look at the stars anymore and I have been seeing the morning moon for years now.

Some things I have missed all these nights

• Night star gaze
• stomach grumble
• Bedtime prayers
• Goodnight calls
• Mom’s rhythmic pat – pat on the back
• Dad’s slow breathing from the bed nearby
• Which invariably led to a mother’s womb security
• That hand that I could always hold when I wake up to a nightmare
• The happiness that the unforeseen gush of wind (ushered in by the light curtains) brought in
• Bedtime stories
• That book meant to be read at bedtime, but will never reach the second page

Those were the nights ! 

When you look back

Think about it. When you first came into the world – much like Adam and Eve – you knew no shame or guilt. Muscles worked themselves to form what is popularly known as a ‘smile’ when you were happy and they twitched into deformity when you weren’t. These expressions came with no manual attached. Everybody has his/ her first encounter with the big bad world, after which elders nudge him/ her into a state of reality. People start whispering into their ears constantly that there is no such thing as a “happily ever after...”

The first encounter could have been in the form of that boy who pushed you to the ground in an attempt to get that last piece of chocolate from the rack; an old woman who abused in a language you could not decipher because your mother refused to give her alms; your own brother for snitching on you to your parents; your biased teacher refusing to acknowledge your hard work; your best friend (till date) looks at you one morning before class assembly and decides she doesn’t want to you as a friend anymore (out of sheer boredom); being bullied and letting people bully you…

The effect of these help you in a self-exploration drive. You never knew feelings such as anger, extreme fear, anxiety and hope existed within yourself until you went through a parade of such encounters. Much like the biggest mystery one needs to solve during one’s lifetime is oneself. Constantly drifting through a one experience after the other, only to discover a little more.

My first encounter with reality was during my first year at school. It was Christmas time and all my friends were chirping about their list to Santa Clause under the pretty Christmas tree. Excitement dawned. I went back home and spoke to a disinterested family about Santa Clause and his charming adventures. I realized I had to take matters into my own hands and simply assume that the corner stand (which to my mind looked a lot like a Christmas tree) was my pretty tree – praying all the while that Santa forgives this small interchange. Wrote down a list, asking for a couple of skateboards and a colouring set in bad handwriting and stashed it under the ‘tree’.

The next morning – I couldn’t wait to wake up and see a set of neatly packed presents from Santa himself.

It took me a while to recover and gather myself to watch another ‘Christmas’ movie ever since. 

Who cries down the memory lane?

A friend was telling me about his first psychology session in his first month of MBA, over coffee. He mentioned that the teacher kindled the class by asking them to shut their eyes and recount their earliest memory from childhood. I was thinking hard while my friend continued to tell me that she said it had to be a painful one. The psychology professor stated that the first feeling of pain is the stickiest memory that you would later recount with a pinch. I strained to think of my earliest memory. Flashes raced through my head. Vick and I playing pitch-a-tent with blankets and cloth clips; Mom and dad going for walks in the evenings leaving us home alone; Vick forcing me to taste the leg of a cockroach; Pinky defecating in the playground and S (?) and I running back home alone throwing up all the way; Singing “M-O-T-H-E-R Mother, F-A-T-H-E-R Father” for annual KG Day; Vick lifting me up by the stomach with his legs lying down in a sketchy attempt at imitating superman; Slipping and hurting my head during one of the most memorable parties in Bombay; poking mom awake from her afternoon siesta to make me sandwiches so that the ‘didis’ would let me play ‘picnic’ with them in the front door playground…

None of this really hurts. All are fond memories. I have been a pampered child- yes. But I have had my share of bad bashings. The fact that my mind does not recollect them makes me realize that I’m quite a sunshine-even-at-night person. Good for me.