.a written note.

You know the lane by heart, because you carried it everywhere you went. The cracks on the wall, the colour of the powder when you grated bricks for fun, the smell of summer evenings and the sound of quiet afternoons because children were supposed to sleep till 4 o’clock. Along those lines live the directions the kids gave to the autowallas on the way back home back home, back home. Where the trees are intact albeit not ageless, you’ve carried with yourself the smell of water splashed on mud and cement. The sound of children of the house cheering, playing hide and seek till 8 o’clock. I want to write more, about the hours occupied in laughter, conversations and more of them, about the hungry lunch times and a relaxing ritual of tea-making or brewing great-grandmother’s coffee. about the annual ritual of going through wheat grains, rice and lentils. I want to write more, but how can one define the colour of nostalgia?

I miss her. There are times when I am reminded of her brown eyes and the way they sparkled through her eyelids. I cannot, not in my senses, give it a recap, her memories that she left, because it scares me somehow. What is the point behind this mystery when you suddenly leave from people’s lives? Why, I mean. Her name, it lingers over the top of every happy occasion as well as a normal gathering in her absence. The traces that she has left behind, without intending to, are the ones that haunt me and they do it really well. I don’t know why I’m writing about it here, where I’m letting strangers read this. But it takes me back to the fact that I know no reason, no conscience and no logic whatsoever when it comes to grief. Grief of hers. I fear it and knowing that I fear restricts me from going in that direction. No matter who disappears and leaves the room, I am haunted by her leaving. The way she walked out. Left. Let go of me. I know grief is best justified when expressed...

I miss that place. There are often moments when all the happening things around your happening current city cease to please. There come moments when all you need is somewhere warm. A place where you can just crawl in bed at the end of the day and don’t have to talk to people compulsorily, if you don’t feel like. And it’s not like it makes any difference. It doesn’t. It’s the one place where you don’t get showered with work assignments and time-bound targets. I enjoy my work, I do. I absolutely do. But being a Fresher in the middle of all work-oriented corporates has its own advantages (really?) and disadvantages. I repeat, I enjoy my work! But guess what, you know, it’s that time of the year when your mind fills with all that Mom-made food, your hometown’s special treats (although small and ordinary) and then there is that chillness, relaxation in being jobless because there aren’t any targets to be achieved or there’s no one to ‘report’ to. I do like my job. I even f...