Have You ever stared at a glass filled with water long enough to suddenly realise You're going insane ?
I just found myself doing exactly that some 5 minutes back, when I decided to do what I had been keeping for tomorrow for ages now. Write something....It surely is funny that something as obscure as a glass of water got me into doing it finally. I am loving it nonetheless. So hello there, if anyone is reading. It feels good; It feels good to see my mind is making my fingers type some symbols on this battery operated electronic white sheet piece of paper. Although at the corner of my mind I find reminding myself again and again that its nothing but self indulgence. Call it LOVE. Still the most used - abused four letter word in the world. The belief that FUCK would takeover is as real a philosophy as life post apocalypse.
Introduction :
I was born in the year 1982. My birth certificate states that and so does everyone else at home, I grew up around with. Obviously I had no option but give gradually give into the belief. It may sound funny to some but there is an exceptionally honest reason why I am saying, what I am saying. I am 27 years old now considering I am yet to celebrate my birthday this year. So here's how it goes.
My earliest recollection of my being, besides my toys and the innocent charming face of my ever protective and full of life sister are of my visits to my Mommy's to a small but beautiful town called Dibrugarh. It was everything that my home amidst the tea gardens of Margherita was not. Although just a few hours apart, the reminiscence of the latter is more or less about big spaces and a sudden smell of burnt grass in the evening. Which as You can imagine cannot be very alluring for a child. Oh no, don't get me wrong. I have been very fortunate and blessed with the best of parents and every comfort that a child can imagine of having. But there was something about Dibrugarh. So much so that every mini vacation when it came to an end, always finished with a fit of rage, clutched fists, moist eyes and most of all an aching heart. Those vivid images from such insipid moments are so real and so clear its almost impossible to fathom, that there is a gap of over 20 years between the events. What has now made me sit and write about it is not an aftermath or effect of one particular incident. Let's just say that I am finally being able to join a few dots, but still far away from managing the complete picture. I am not in a hurry. Are You ?
Now for the images:
Exceptionally clean pitched but narrow roads with structures that are unlike any I saw on my way there or near around my house or school campus. That's saying a lot considering my Kindergarten days were in a school that still boasts of a striking scenic vicinity. Add a gushing fresh water but poetic stream to that and I would still challenge it against where am headed now. A certain smell one would immediately associate with hospitals of those days. Oh yes, I am right. I am inside the campus of Assam Medical College. Some endearing sights and sounds were of, small glass windows with black borders on tall houses, walls of which were painted yellow, taller walls for borders with broken glass pieces on top, random crows cawing, sparse existence of rickshaws and unmistakably tall eucalyptus trees with barks that resemble the hue of a dull autumn sky during dusk. After many such corners, was this smaller than my school playground, space that had knitted wire pattern for fence. A couple of heavy manual rollers parked outside 2 rather bright looking red patches with annoyingly difficult to comprehend limestone white lines painted on them and two small galleries made of wood under a green shade on either side of the two red patches. The ground which by the way resembled more of a garden with its plethora of different rose plants and other such vegetation, had some young people who had shrill noises for voice not younger than my parents but definitely older than me wearing only whites, very striking with the red clay for backdrop, ran around with funny wooden spoons. At least thats what I made of them from the road. Only to realise with squint eyes, seconds later that those spoons actually had blank spaces in between them only to be filled with nets used to hit something that sounded like a soft ball. And again as time passed by, I found myself a few years back infront of my TV cheering for a bicep flexing Spaniard. Thanks mainly to technology that fed live images directly from a place called Roland Garros somewhere in France, filled with thousands of maddening fans. Yes that morning what I witnessed for the first time in my life was a clay tennis court. I remember Mom encouraging me to take up the sport more seriously but by now as You can imagine, the nearest thing to that realisation is the fact that I have not missed any Men's singles finals in the Wimbledon since 1992 (on TV ofcourse) and worshipping the only reason why clay court is still in fashion; Rafael Nadal.
With the tennis court behind us now something called "The Paying Cottage" was on my right and was obviously dwarfed in size compared to the criss crossed huge iron bars that held one of the biggest water tanks I have seen till date, at the very zenith of it. On my left was another narrow lane with small cottages with even smaller gates on its either side. I am now some 4 thousand and more kms away from that narrow lane in another land, heck another country. And who knew then, that I would regard that sight; the then inconsequential path with such passion and intrigue after more than two decades. All the events to follow are a testimony of just the very fact and reason.
