I remember a day when I stood talking of carnivals and masks, amd smiling till my face felt like it would crack. Attempting to draw ships, and four-poster beds and failing miserably. Endless hours devoted to smoking, and all the wisdom shared over cups of chai. The heat of the kitchen, and that terrible undercooked mutton ragout.
The sunlight filtering into a room, the smell of baking bread and sugar, and dreams, and unrequited love.
Learning to drape a sari, and to appreciate the subtlety of a barely exposed waist.
Walking barefoot in a library that was always sunny. So sunny in fact, that you never felt like studying. And flipping through bad magazines.
I remember resting my head on her cubicle. The strongest woman I know. And the eagerness to be perfect. Someone's definition of perfect.
The sharing of umbrellas to save our cigarettes from getting wet in the rain.
Those evenings spent trying to get work done. And the hazy peace of being with people you love.
A building that never felt like our own. Hating when the elevator stopped on the 6th floor. The ghost we were convinced lived on the 9th floor. Those bad jokes, and laughing till our sides ached. Slurping soup through straws to get back on time for class. The South Indian beggar women who cursed us and danced for us. Someday, somewhere that curse will bite us in the bum.
The monkey show, and how I almost cried because it was so cruel. The songs sung for Radha.
That night, on the streets, talking as if it was our last night together. The cold winter air, the happy voices of four incredible teenagers. The stories of our personal monsters, those workplace ogres, the too-much-to-bear work, terrible cafeteria paneer and the luxury that wasn't ours.
Christmas Day, and carol singing.
The perfect meshing of the soprano, the bass and the alto. The merry memories of Rudolph's red nose. The boy who made every rehearsal bearable. And then the illness that kept him away. That night, and all that wine. The thrill of success. We were getting older, and as far as we knew, wiser.
I took a journey, that got cut short, with people I will never forget. Every time I think back to those two years, I think of sunbeams that refused to be caught, the black and white and all the gray that defined us, the Africa shaped rotis, and all the laughter. The good, the bad, even the ugly sometimes, all packed together, somehow getting by, never looking back.
In a world of professionalism and perfection, I learnt the beauty of crooked smiles, lopsided ties, broken noses and puzzle pieces that don't fit in anywhere.
No matter where I go, no matter what I do, these two years are never going to wash away.
Like the painting of Santa and his reindeers.
In all our tomorrows.
Always.
The sunlight filtering into a room, the smell of baking bread and sugar, and dreams, and unrequited love.
Learning to drape a sari, and to appreciate the subtlety of a barely exposed waist.
Walking barefoot in a library that was always sunny. So sunny in fact, that you never felt like studying. And flipping through bad magazines.
I remember resting my head on her cubicle. The strongest woman I know. And the eagerness to be perfect. Someone's definition of perfect.
The sharing of umbrellas to save our cigarettes from getting wet in the rain.
Those evenings spent trying to get work done. And the hazy peace of being with people you love.
A building that never felt like our own. Hating when the elevator stopped on the 6th floor. The ghost we were convinced lived on the 9th floor. Those bad jokes, and laughing till our sides ached. Slurping soup through straws to get back on time for class. The South Indian beggar women who cursed us and danced for us. Someday, somewhere that curse will bite us in the bum.
The monkey show, and how I almost cried because it was so cruel. The songs sung for Radha.
That night, on the streets, talking as if it was our last night together. The cold winter air, the happy voices of four incredible teenagers. The stories of our personal monsters, those workplace ogres, the too-much-to-bear work, terrible cafeteria paneer and the luxury that wasn't ours.
Christmas Day, and carol singing.
The perfect meshing of the soprano, the bass and the alto. The merry memories of Rudolph's red nose. The boy who made every rehearsal bearable. And then the illness that kept him away. That night, and all that wine. The thrill of success. We were getting older, and as far as we knew, wiser.
I took a journey, that got cut short, with people I will never forget. Every time I think back to those two years, I think of sunbeams that refused to be caught, the black and white and all the gray that defined us, the Africa shaped rotis, and all the laughter. The good, the bad, even the ugly sometimes, all packed together, somehow getting by, never looking back.
In a world of professionalism and perfection, I learnt the beauty of crooked smiles, lopsided ties, broken noses and puzzle pieces that don't fit in anywhere.
No matter where I go, no matter what I do, these two years are never going to wash away.
Like the painting of Santa and his reindeers.
In all our tomorrows.
Always.
