The Box

I was six when I boarded my first flight. Now, I am widely known in my circles for my pathetic memory. However, that bright day in the summer of 1990 is ingrained in my memory forever. What I vividly remember is not my enthusiasm, or what I felt when I saw the inside of the plane, or what I thought of the games I was given to play with. What I remember most is my expectation from my journey; and my preparation for my expectation. The day before the D-day, I pestered my grandmother for a tight plastic box. The kind of box that she packed my sister’s curd rice in, the box she insisted wont leak. “What do you need it for?” “I can’t tell you, it’s a secret”. I could feel the excitement in my little fingers as I packed this in my clock backpack. My pink backpack with a big round clock on its front. The bag that made the “old” girls in the 7^th grade stalk me outside my classroom, swoon over me, pick me up, pinch my cheeks and say rather scarily “She is soooooo cute, her bag is sooooo cute”. As my mother anxiously triple checked our passports, I anxiously triple checked that I had packed my box well.

As I reached the airport, I could hear my heart beat faster. The rest is a bit of a haze. Next thing I remember is the nice airhostess guiding me to my window seat. Window!! I always loved sitting at the window. I was thrilled, but only for a minute. My excitement was brought down by a notch when I noticed that the windows were smaller than my Fiat’s window. “How can this be?” I thought. “So much bigger than my car, but such small windows??”. I asked my next question aloud. “Where is that handle that I can turn to lower the windows?”. The air hostess gave me a smile and said as nicely as possible – words that brought all my excitement down – “You cannot lower that window, darling”. I looked at my mother with big disappointed eyes – “Really??!!”. Downcast, I thought to myself “Now, how will I fill my box with all those clouds that I planned on collecting?”

Today, as I fly over the clouds and watch them succumb to the seductive moonlight, I think to myself – have I changed much? Do I still have unreal expectations, and spend a good deal of time packing my box in my backpack? As a child, my goals were clear and my ambitions simple. Now I wonder, do I even have count of the number of boxes I pack? And really – do I even know when I pack these boxes, and what the box is for?

Never mind, I guess the real fun is in packing anyway.

Missing

There is no substitute to writing .

Anne sat by the window. As show watched the playful raindrops, a peaceful smile lit her face...but somewhere in her depths, she felt odd. A feeling that suggested she forgot something. She felt that way every time she left the city and invariably the feeling always proved itself right. She had once forgotten to put the milk in the fridge. Another time, the cupboard door wasn't locked . None of this had any particular damaging effect other than the constant worry which transformed itself into irritation and the same old "odd" feeling through out the trip till she remembered what it was. Today was different. It was a simple lazy afternoon. She was very much at home, and had no intention of going anywhere. She had woken up with a satisfactory yawn knowing it was going to be a lazy day that she wanted very much and deserved too. The day was as perfect as she wished it to be. Still the odd feeling ?? Had she forgotten to turn off the gas? No, she hadn't. Any birthday she'd missed ? No. Any TV program she particularly wanted to watch and had forgotten to do so ? No . The feeling now got worse. It had now transformed itself into a hollow feeling.

Odd to hollow. This was serious. She had felt odd before and hollow before.Separately. She had felt hollow when she had to shift homes last summer. "Dan, the movers are here.. where is your stuff ? Anne, I'm not going with you" He din't even meet her eye. He had closed the door on her and she had no choice. She felt hollow for months after. But the day she realised that planning french windows with someone who did not care enough to see it complete was not as important as it seemed in her head, the hollow had disappeared.

Odd and hollow. How these two feelings teased her. That too when she had forgotten nothing and was very happy and contended otherwise. This confused her all the more. "What am i missing ?? What is it that bothers me????"

Ding Dong!! Oh saving grace .. the doorbell ."Hello maam.. We need your help for a survey.Just a short questionaire. Would you mi..." "Yes"

"Yes , do you have a pen?"

The questions rolled by ... Name, Age, How long she had been staying in the house, how the security was around her area..

"Have you ever been robbed ? If so, what went missing ? "The last few words swam in front of her eyes along with the pen and the lines on the sheet of paper .What went missing...missing....

"Yes, I did miss something. I missed myself"

There is no substitue to writing.

Raman's Geography Class

Listen!". I Listened.So did Harish , Som and the others. Not that I wanted to listen.I had heard that before. Not that the others wanted to listen. They had heard it too, and it din't even concern them. But they had to listen to anything told by the warden , just because they were there. Alive. Blind , but alive. "You have done it again , you spoilt little bilnd bat.Sitting under a tree, missing out on your geography class. ...What!? thinking you say ? You ought to think. Not the nonsense your brain churns out.. but what you ought to think! I keep telling the master.You were better off in that mad house you came from. Coming here and spoiling the other kids. I'll tell you. One more class you miss, I will send you back !!" Please don't do that! I signed. "show me your filthy little hand." ..I showed. There was ice in the dormitory refrigerator.
Yes, I did skip my Georgraphy class. But not because I'm spoilt ! Master is the most patient man i've ever seen. He is also extremely interesting. I do like History , math and all the other subjects. Not that i dont like geograpy. I do think its fascinating. Maybe i'm wrong, but of what use is it for me! Everytime master talks about vast greenlands , I try to imagine. What is green? I have not seen it... I can imagine vast plain lands... huge grounds with nothing to trip on. I can run faster and faster till i get away from the whole world. I can sleep with my arms and legs stretched and feel the breeze in my hair. I can sleep however long i want to. No ding dong of the bell. No warden screaming at us sayin "Its morning, Get up you sloppy little lazy blind bats." No warden! Yes I can imagine the lands. But I also know that i can only go there in my imagination. Master talks about the yellow deserts. Yellow. Another colour. I wonder how it would look. I am still trying to imagine all the sand .I wonder if it feels like the heap of sand we were playing in when Uncle Murthy's construction was going on! Som even hid there , under all the sand , till warden found him. Of course, all the ice was used up that night.
I like geography. It gives me things to think about. Imagine. But i don't want to sit through every geography class, you know. It hurts sometimes. For, how much ever thought i might put into it, i know that the day i can see to verify it will never come.I know i'll never get to see green or yellow. So, i prefer sitting under a tree and thinking. Thinking about all the people i love, all the people i care about. About warden. Trying to imagine how he would look.Would he have a nose or two slits?Thats when i thank god i can't see. Thinking about what i would do if i could tell the whole world what i feel, what i imagine. Would they understand what i see?Would they try to imagine what i see? Can they? For, what i see has no colour.What i see has no substance. Its alive in my imagination. I wish people can , because i know its beautiful.
I like thinking once in a while. I like the tree. But i don't want to go back to the house they rescued me from. So, as many times as i possibly can, I will attend Geography class.

A Blank Title

A blank Page suggests more than any other page. Sometimes I think its unfair to fill it. Is it an identity lost ? Am I doing justice by filling it?
Are my words the reason for existence of this page or the page the reason for the existence of my words ?
There is something unsettling but at the same time calming about a blank page. Pure, Untouched , harmless and open. Free of opinions and judgements. Its like, the blank page and the clear sky are sharing a serene secret. We all like the clear sky and the blank page. A blank page is seldom crumpled and thrown. Yet there is this compulsive habit to fill it.... and then wonder if that was what was to be written , for now, the page has lost its original identity forever.. Its fate decided by the writer, it has become one among the mass. Sometimes its appreciated, rarely ever coveted and preserved.

Pages come and pages go.. but its the blank page that stays forever and ever.