Of this and that...

Our eyes locked for a moment. I could see his eyes, smoldering with passion and intensity. I could see anger and frustration as well as the fire that drove him to be who he was. And then he turned around and started walking away. I looked down, took a deep breath and waited. I knew he would be back, he had to. His life was at stake and so was mine. I watched as he walked away, carefully counting his steps as he always did. There was me and there was him. The millions around did not matter. I could see him and that’s all I saw. And I could see what he was doing, and I could picture what he would do in a while. I waited, ready for him when he came back. And then he turned, pausing for a moment, assessing me one last time before he ran towards me. The tension was building up. I watched him, unblinking, my sight fixed on one thing. A fraction of time passed. He hurled the ball at me, I met it with the middle of my bat, and the umpire raised both his hands high up in the air. I had hit a si...

“Will you write to me? I will still be available on mail. I am not really going away you know. I am going to be around.” “Yes, technology, isn’t that what they call it? That’s what you will use to still be around.” Anjali could not pretend she didn’t grasp the hint of sarcasm. It was painful for him. It was painful for her too. But no one will understand that. “You have to promise me you will take care of yourself”, the emptiness engulfed her. She could not say anything more. What could she tell him? How much he meant to her? How much she wanted to remain, to wrench herself away from the life that beckoned? The laughter they shared when they talked about everything and about nothing. Yes, it was his laughter more than anything else that she would miss. Or maybe it would be his voice. The voice that lifted her spirits, made her believe in herself, encouraged her. The voice that calmed Ma when she was hysterical. But she could not find those words. Every word seemed empty as if by expres...

I miss the written word…and I mean writing. Remember, the days when we used to pick up a pen and write on a piece of paper (uh, what’s that again?!!!). I do. Perhaps I miss it because it was such an important part of my childhood, when buying stationery was an event and a delight in itself. Buying text books and note books, new, crisp and waiting to be written. Peering through the dull transparent glass was a row of shiny pens, ball-point, “Pilot” pens and the best of them all “ China ” Pens – fountain pens which were reserved for use only for our fair note books. I miss going home with all the goodies, pumping ink into the “China” pen and eagerly waiting for the first day of school to dawn, so that the crisp smell of new notebooks and fresh ink, the scratching sound the nib sang out as it created those alphabets could all be experienced once again, a coming of age ritual, the symbol of starting a whole new year, being a year older and presumptuously wiser! I miss holding the pen in my...