too quiet, too serene, why aren't all moments like this:)
It's night but the sky is blue, a midnight blue and all I can see are stars, silver specks glittering in serene vastness.
_______________________
I still speak to my old friends, at length, quite often, sometimes rather too frequently. We usually end up discussing the current state of affairs in our lives, which often translates to sharing our serious and sometimes silly problems, dilemmas and choices facing us. Sometimes we talk of the wonder years, of the city that was once home to us but where nothing is left now but for memories. Amidst the changes, we stick to our memories , never wanting to go home without writing a song, on paper or air.
As we moved on, our new experiences and our new visions have left us so much to talk about regarding our present selves, so divorced are we now our lives that we have to at times keep introducing things, ourselves. It seems that surviving in the competition of the world, they have not enough time to read or write, watch a play, attend a recital, and personal commitments too take up much of the weekend. And yet, these were the 17 year old friend s of mine who initiated me into dreaming with utmost passion, in many unknown ways. It's been so long since I saw their handwriting, read the gems of their thoughts in the most exquisite of words chosen for the purpose of honest expression and the exemplification of a language much loved.
We were crazy teenage friends. Before every exam,while the others would be mugging up the course, we would hound each other to come up with a few beautiful and brilliant lines in Hindi which we could write in a song, on any topic and the whole of the lunch break we'd rote learn (only after completely understanding the meaning of the words and the context) those lines and somehow squeeze them into a tune. We liked beginning the songs on an extremely abstract note and after having satisfied ourselves that we'd done something creative, we'd throw in whatever we feel like into the songs, sometimes to just make it rhyme, sometimes to just show how different metaphors are created.
I learnt more about myself during those afternoon breaks, sitting on the cemented floor of the corridors, than I ever did before or afterwards.
A couple of weeks ago,ST stated that when we reach a particular stage in our lives, we all do well, in our respective careers and we wondered why it was so that as young children, it was drilled into our heads that you would have made something worthwhile of your life only if you could make it to a fortune 500 company, great bschool or great foreign universities for Masters, that only those top notch places counted. We set off like others to define our goals and we chose the track of the only professions that were esteemed in our small society and we landed up at the places we're right now.
There are surprises hidden all the way, on the roads that are not oft taken.
Yesternight we talked about how it would be to write about our journeys, turbulent or smooth, of the walk during the day and the dreams at night, of our ideas and dreams which we've to accomplish even now, of hurdles and obstacles that we read in those schooldays poems which we revisited at the age of 18 because suddenly we knew there was something in them for us (yes, we were sort of impulse driven) and those poems that formed the picture of life for us, sometimes a Lucy Gray lost in the woods and the snow, sometimes a parrot chained in a cage "Main panchi unmukt gagan ka...", sometimes a brook babbling its way down, sometimes a woman with her newly born baby staring into the dead face of her soldier, sometimes a Kubla Khan and his damsel with a dulcimer, sometimes a tree waiting to bloom, sometimes a cloud, sometimes the autumn,sometimes the Highwayman and his lover with tresses, sometimes a solitary reaper, sometimes a woman with not a shade less, not a shade more, who walks in beauty.
ps: I know I had to write about it before I slept. Somehow couldn't do that. Perhaps the serenity of the early morning was more apt to pen down these thoughts.
perhaps.
additions:
watched an extremely beautiful yellow and brown butterfly yesterday. It's out of context, just wanted not to forget mentioning it.
a long day ahead.
_______________________
I still speak to my old friends, at length, quite often, sometimes rather too frequently. We usually end up discussing the current state of affairs in our lives, which often translates to sharing our serious and sometimes silly problems, dilemmas and choices facing us. Sometimes we talk of the wonder years, of the city that was once home to us but where nothing is left now but for memories. Amidst the changes, we stick to our memories , never wanting to go home without writing a song, on paper or air.
As we moved on, our new experiences and our new visions have left us so much to talk about regarding our present selves, so divorced are we now our lives that we have to at times keep introducing things, ourselves. It seems that surviving in the competition of the world, they have not enough time to read or write, watch a play, attend a recital, and personal commitments too take up much of the weekend. And yet, these were the 17 year old friend s of mine who initiated me into dreaming with utmost passion, in many unknown ways. It's been so long since I saw their handwriting, read the gems of their thoughts in the most exquisite of words chosen for the purpose of honest expression and the exemplification of a language much loved.
We were crazy teenage friends. Before every exam,while the others would be mugging up the course, we would hound each other to come up with a few beautiful and brilliant lines in Hindi which we could write in a song, on any topic and the whole of the lunch break we'd rote learn (only after completely understanding the meaning of the words and the context) those lines and somehow squeeze them into a tune. We liked beginning the songs on an extremely abstract note and after having satisfied ourselves that we'd done something creative, we'd throw in whatever we feel like into the songs, sometimes to just make it rhyme, sometimes to just show how different metaphors are created.
I learnt more about myself during those afternoon breaks, sitting on the cemented floor of the corridors, than I ever did before or afterwards.
A couple of weeks ago,ST stated that when we reach a particular stage in our lives, we all do well, in our respective careers and we wondered why it was so that as young children, it was drilled into our heads that you would have made something worthwhile of your life only if you could make it to a fortune 500 company, great bschool or great foreign universities for Masters, that only those top notch places counted. We set off like others to define our goals and we chose the track of the only professions that were esteemed in our small society and we landed up at the places we're right now.
There are surprises hidden all the way, on the roads that are not oft taken.
Yesternight we talked about how it would be to write about our journeys, turbulent or smooth, of the walk during the day and the dreams at night, of our ideas and dreams which we've to accomplish even now, of hurdles and obstacles that we read in those schooldays poems which we revisited at the age of 18 because suddenly we knew there was something in them for us (yes, we were sort of impulse driven) and those poems that formed the picture of life for us, sometimes a Lucy Gray lost in the woods and the snow, sometimes a parrot chained in a cage "Main panchi unmukt gagan ka...", sometimes a brook babbling its way down, sometimes a woman with her newly born baby staring into the dead face of her soldier, sometimes a Kubla Khan and his damsel with a dulcimer, sometimes a tree waiting to bloom, sometimes a cloud, sometimes the autumn,sometimes the Highwayman and his lover with tresses, sometimes a solitary reaper, sometimes a woman with not a shade less, not a shade more, who walks in beauty.
ps: I know I had to write about it before I slept. Somehow couldn't do that. Perhaps the serenity of the early morning was more apt to pen down these thoughts.
perhaps.
additions:
watched an extremely beautiful yellow and brown butterfly yesterday. It's out of context, just wanted not to forget mentioning it.
a long day ahead.
Comments
Questions like the ones you have asked are a part of every individual's folklore. We are always in the quest to answer them.
feeling nostalgic after reading, donno wht to say.. missing you all like hell, missing those days... DAMN.
and now u'll delete this comment!