A happier place

I’ve always thought a person feels older when they’re around people who are younger than them. I thought that’s the way it was supposed to work – when you hang around older people, you feel much younger and much less mature than everybody else. Just today, a new friend of mine said that he feels younger when he spends time with young people, and older when he hangs out with his other older relatives. That led to an argument or rather, a discussion of our conflicting ideas. I had never thought about it that way. But, now that I think of it, he’s right, isn’t he? When I spend time with a bunch of people who are older than me, I probably involuntarily change my mannerisms and behaviour to fit the norms of the group. I can’t behave the same way as I do with friends my own age. I can’t make strange noises, funny faces, say crazy things and generally be mad. I can’t have the same conversations. I automatically grow older and behave in a more mature manner without even realizing it, although the whole time I’m internally grappling with the fact that I’m so much younger than the group. When I spend the day reading out stories to my 4 year old sister or watching The Lion King with my 8 year old brother, it’s probably the opposite story. I don’t think it’s hard for me to turn into a kid when I’m with them. In fact, I think that comes quite naturally to me and I genuinely enjoy their company. I love being a kid more than anything else, probably because in a kid’s world, there aren’t any responsibilities and the world is just a happy place with fun people and of course, chocolate. But l always remember how much older than them I am and it makes me wish I was younger and the world only consisted of family, friends, school, summer holidays, badminton, story books and again, chocolate.

This friend also said that when you’re younger, you tend to be so much more creative. He said it’s extremely important to always feel young. The world and it’s horrible, cruel system with this web of manipulative people haven’t yet gotten the best of you when you’re young. You’re still happily oblivious to the outside world. I think you can be the most creative when you’re happy, although I’ve learnt that happiness can mean different things to different people. I may have been happier as an oblivious child, but that doesn’t mean everybody was. I don’t ever want to be caught in the web of adulthood. Adulthood, growing up, becoming mature – it’s all a trap, I’m sure of it. I may be growing up and learning the ways of the world but I don’t think I want to. I want to always keep that oblivious, happy, crazy child in me alive – the child that only sees the good in the world. 

Behind the doors

I love how doors of old houses in Calcutta are so colourful and vibrant. They make you feel like there’s an interesting story quietly hiding behind the ancient locked doors. They're always oozing so much character and spirit, unlike the drab and lifeless brown doors of the flats we see today in other cities. They make you wonder whether there were families with their own tales of happiness and sorrow living behind the walls, once upon a time. They make you want to know what those stories were. 

 

Anticipation

She was made of stone. She was made of steel. Nothing could touch her, nothing could break her and nothing could move her. She only felt a lingering sense of passive, frigid coldness that refused to leave her mind and body. The laughter didn’t touch her eyes, but her eyes always had this sort of glimmer in them that people didn’t understand. The winds of time blew and storms came and went, but she didn’t seem to stir an inch. She created a strange aura of stillness and an eerily peaceful calm around her that scared people. People were always intimidated by her presence and they could never explain what it was about her that disturbed them in some way. It was almost like she was silently questioning their meaning of existence and their happiness. People never got through to her because she drew a line whenever somebody got too close for her comfort. This coldness that she lived in was her comfort. People wondered if it was only darkness inside of her. They didn’t understand that it was never dark inside. There was always a bright, shimmering light inside of her that never dimmed. That light never stopped burning because she never stopped hoping that someday, her life would change. She was impossibly driven, driven to achieve goals and aspirations that she never shared with a soul. For her, that was life. Or, was it?

She never lost her belief in humanity though, however cold her exterior was. She never stopped hoping that she would start feeling again and that someday the warmth that was so cruelly stolen from her would slowly seep back into her system. She waited eagerly in anticipation for that day when she would finally crack a genuine and heartfelt smile. She would feel again, because if you can hope, you can feel and you can love.

Calcutta missing

 

I miss this place. I always do.

Creating our memory lane

Poodle and I have been friends for a long, long time and I honestly couldn’t imagine a world in which she wasn’t my friend. Poodle, however, is not a Poodle. Poodle is my person. She’s my person because I could spend hours talking to her and laughing with her and never get bored, cracking the worst kind of PJ’s and still laughing like maniacal fools, eating pani puri even when we’re bursting from eating all kinds of other food. She’s my person because she brings out my mad-happy-crazy side that hides sometimes these days with all these worldly life troubles. She’s my person because she knows who I really am and she won’t ever judge me, even when I do the stupidest things. She’s my person because I have more special memories with her than with any other friend.  She’s my person because with her, there’s never any obligation to be polite, or thinking before talking, no fake-smiling and no being someone you’re not. She’s my person because I cannot possibly laugh for almost two hours straight, with anybody but her. I could go on with this list. When we’re together, even if it’s after months of not seeing each other, we transform into the crazy 13 year olds we were and I don’t think that could change even when we’re 45 and menopausal. 

I went on my first trip with Poodle and I couldn’t ever put it into words how incredibly special the trip was. We created memories, just like we always have – memories that we’ll always keep. Sometimes I forget how much I miss Poodle and all our Chikoodle days.  I reckon that by the time Poodle and I are 40, we’ll probably be compelled to write a book together with all our crazy, happy memories, because we can’t possibly let old age take them away! 

These are some pictures from our happy day in Calcutta, not that the other days were any less happy. But, this was our day.

I remember.

When I tell people I remember my Calcutta days, they always seem surprised, considering I lived there until I was only seven. Sometimes it seems a little odd to me too, that I remember certain things so clearly even after all these years. But they’re memories that I can’t imagine ever forgetting. They were happy days – days that I don’t want to ever forget, so I’ve probably held on to those memories, maybe involuntarily so. I remember running to my grandfather early in the morning and sitting on his lap in the veranda, while he smoked and we spotted birds together. I remember going to the lake to see the ducks every evening with him and stuffing my face into his shoulder every time he stopped to talk to people, which was every 5 minutes. I remember how he would spoil me with chocolates when my mother was at work and tell me stories of Robin Hood every afternoon and fall asleep in the process. I remember racing with two of my oldest friends, playing with them, cycling with them, and going snail-counting with them during the monsoons. I remember how frightened I had been when a bat flew into our room while my mother was telling me a story. I remember listening to the frogs croaking in the monsoons and the owls hooting every night. I remember this one particular Holi that I had enjoyed so much. I remember how we celebrated Diwali every year and how my father would always keep me away from the crackers except this black snake cracker which was basically no fun. Holi and Diwali have never been the same in Bombay. I remember going to school in our old white Maruti 800 with my school friend narrating the Titanic story to my dad, and suddenly screaming “SANTO!” whenever he saw a Santro on the road. (Santros were considered fancy cars those days.) I remember my grandmother’s flower garden and this one storm that hit and led the huge tree in our garden to collapse. I remember my mother running with me while she tried teaching me how to cycle without the side supports for the first time. I remember watching Heidi while my Dad tried his utmost to feed me before he left for work. I never liked chewing back then. I remember playing doctor-doctor with my aunt and uncle. I see them playing the same game with their own 6 year old son now, and it takes me back to those days. I remember the Puri beach that my parents and I would frequent in those days. I remember spotting my dad waiting for me, while I was in the class queue and breaking the line and running to him. I remember how much I hated bathing and screaming my lungs out on shampoo day. The strange thing is, I don’t remember the toys that I had, or any of the materialistic things, except this one doll that I had- just one. Toys and belongings don’t really make us happy or have any kind of space in our hearts, do they? If they had meant something to me, I think I would've remembered them. I wonder if the same applies now. I’d like to think it does. We’re all here creating memories every day and I don’t think the materialistic pleasures we indulge in really make us happy and create memories for us. We all have memories, some pleasant, some unpleasant. We remember incidents, places we've visited, old friends, people; how something tasted, how we felt at a certain time, and lots of other things. Memory really is a strange and beautiful thing.

I'm not sure how I remember all of those things, because it almost seems implausible. It was years ago. But, I do. It’s all so vivid in my mind. I also think these are just a handful memories in a sea of a million. They’re just a few specific events that have held their ground and kept their place in my memory land. I hope they never leave, because I want to always remember how I felt then - that sense of blissful happiness, innocence and freedom(Even if there was none, the feeling was there.).

This was the lane where I used to live, where all those memories were created.