How about ..

..a new post that takes me completely by surprise for the lack of labored deliberation I am notorious for. Well, here it is.

It is raining in Pittsburgh, and I find myself here in another attempt to relieve the pressure of a brain full of words doing a dance in my head - holding hands to make a sentence, and then changing formation to hold hands with other words to make another sentence. They tease me for my inability to befriend them and join the dance. The longer I wait, the more elusive their dance-steps become.

Not too long ago I had the chance to be reacquainted with Delhi Monsoon. Voluptuous rain-drops permeating through the skin into my entire being in one of those surreal life-moments when all your molecules align themselves along one axis.

Years ago, this one time while hurrying home, I boarded a bus which was missing the front glass panel on the conductor side. It started to rain and my co-passengers proceeded to elbow their way out of the direct drench (to the extent possible when you are stuffed inside the bus-skeleton like a sack of potatoes). I happily sat alone at this seat through the ride, with all the water scrubbing-off from me another exhausting day at college. It was glorious. The driver glanced at me more than once to check if I was alright in the head.

This narration escapes flutters of the mind from further back on the linear time scale we employ for the ease of pegging experiences on a straight line.

A bunch of us girls were waiting for bus N-17 to school. Obese, spherical raindrops were shattering themselves against their landing surfaces. We were all packed tight under our umbrellas, trying to save our uniforms, our white canvas shoes and our bags from getting soaked. The bus was late because of the water on the streets; but it did come, scooped us in and headed towards Chanakyapuri, the destination.  When we arrived, we found out that the classes had been canceled for the day because of the weather. (This was pre-cell phone era, when communication was limited enough to be pleasant and something to look forward to.) So, the bus full of children headed back the same way it had come.

We were let off from across the stop where we had boarded less than an hour ago and unlike the end of a typical school day, there was no sign of parents/elders to receive us. The rains hadn't stopped, and so, being the eldest of the group of more than a dozen (but all of twelve years having just started seventh grade) I decided to bring all the children home with me. We held each other's hands to form a chain and waded home, starting from me and ending in the next eldest girl among us, with all the primary schoolers between us. There was enough water to reach my knees (and the waists of some of the little ones) and no conceivable way to figure out the location of potholes, so we walked in the middle of the road, following exactly the steps of the one in-front. The starting point was the hardest part and we were able to reach home with some difficulty.

When my mother answered the door she was surprised to find her daughter back, accompanied by a pack of Carmel- uniformed children. All of us were towel-dried and given a snack of hot milk and biscuits. I do not remember when it stopped raining, but it was very nice to be home; dry,warm and fed. I brought out colors and paper and we sat together doing art while parents were called and given updates and road directions for picking up the kids. In a few hours everyone had been sent home.

The following day, we were all at the same stop waiting for the same bus to school. One of the mothers thanked me for my presence of mind and handed me a box of chocolates and a small gift as an encouragement. I did not think I had done anything heroic, but it is always nice to get chocolates.

I am no longer in touch with any of the children from the bus stop - I guess we are all scattered in different parts of the world. I am not sure if anyone would remember the day either. The bus conductor for N-17 was a big rough sounding man, who once told me (surprisingly, with a smile) that I take very good care of the children from my bus stop. The observation made me return his smile, despite my limited comprehension of compliments.

Happy New Year!

The issue with keeping a record of your time on earth using the somewhat arbitrary system of your revolutions around the sun is, in my humble opinion, grossly inadequate in its capacity of a tracker. It is ill-equipped for everything except to make you (me) feel miserable about the (now) terrifying expanse between what is and what was expected to be. For whatever reason, my color-palette and brush set is different from that of who/what-ever is painting the bigger canvas.

This one time, a friend and I were standing at the edge of Lake Washington, staring at the beauty of the sunset. He mentioned that his life looks different from what he had imagined for himself; and in one of those moments of aura-ed glory, I had suggested that it was never guaranteed to us that our myopic plans will be in congruence with the *big* plan. I remember he looked at me all wide-eyed; completely taken by surprise that a pretty little airhead had voiced the idea. He confessed that it had taken him a really long time to figure that out before asking me about the source of that wisdom.

How easy it is to forget, and how important it is to remember (or least store it in a ready part of your own hard-drive).

This kernel had tucked itself in some inaccessible corner of my mind and I lived the last few weeks as a hamster on a worry-wheel. I was miserable about the divide and filled with heavy feelings pervading my comprehension of all things. It really did not help that my birthday was here again - these seem to come around so much more quickly now than before. Perhaps the earth moves faster around the sun the older you grow (haha!)

From around the time when I needed assistance with putting books together for the next day's study schedule at school, I was part of the group that went for an inter-school painting competition on Republic Day that year which was hosted on the roof-top of the Bhagalpur Engineering College. The junior group was to work on the theme 'Seasonal Flowers' and the seniors were to illustrate 'National Integration'. Not many of us knew the actual meaning of the word 'seasonal' and as a concession we were allowed a quick peek at the flower beds a few floor-levels below.

I drew a poppy bush with half-a-dozen flowers in full bloom and a few others eager to follow suit.  I wrote a stylized 'petunia', below this bright red drawing. When the allotted time was up our drawings were collected and presented to the panel of judges, and participants were instructed to stay in our places. I remember being impatient and wanting to go home, but I was too timid to even request for a bathroom trip and so stayed put. Few of my friends were watching the activity at the judges' desk curious about the results and someone told me that my drawing was on 'that' desk.

Soon (but what seemed like a long time) it was time to declare the result, and (who'd have guessed) my drawing won (gasp!) the *first* prize. My name was called and as a response my body vacuum-sucked my stomach in and I became the third-person in my own narrative. I walked up to the stage in disbelief, accepted the prize (engraved brass-shield) in disbelief and returned to my seat in disbelief. I was so numb that I could not feel elation till much later. It was the first and the only time (yet) that I have won the first prize for something in my life.

I pen this life-event because I felt a similar disbelief-filled-elation when I read through messages, postings, texts and phone-calls on the occasion of my birthday (I happily blame facebook for being rigorously insistent that you make your contribution to ensuring that someone-anyone has a happy birthday). It was an exhilarating revisit to my fundamentals of optimism, affection and smiles that climb up-to the eyes.

So, thank you. I suspend my dislike and distrust for social-media on this occasion. I confess that I am a long way off of an immediate change from my notoriety for not acknowledging conversation-snips; but the affection is reciprocated in equal measure, if not more.