Wishin' and Hopin'

I was thinking today "how can one let go of those who are very dear to them?" 

I look back upon time, as far back as I can remember, and think of moments that still bring a tear to my eye. For instance, I remember my last day at American Express. That was four years ago. I remember sitting in that conference room looking at my Manager Vaibhav Dutt and all my friends around the table. Surprisingly, I still remember every single moment of that day. I haven't been able to stay much in touch with them ever since, just an occasional call, maybe once a year. 

I was asked to say something about everyone in that room that day. I still remember exactly what I said about all of them. They were dear to me, they were my friends. I remember looking at Shubhebdu Mathur and saying, "he's a very hard working guy. I've seen him toil, put in his best, learn as much as he could in the least amount of time, being proffesional yet friendly with one and all. And despite all that he has had to take from all the leadership, he will one day prove his mantle. I believe in him." I remember because I remember the tear in my eye while saying this. I still feel the pain of being separated from the one's I cared about.  I broke down bitterly on my way back from work that day. I know exactly why. 

The feeling of being torn from your own self, it's like leaving behind your soul, your memories, your emotions, and walking away. The thought of never being able to see someone whom you've been with all the while breaks you. I pride myself on being practical in all manners possible, but somehow, every once in a while, my emotions take control, and they remain as memories that I'll never forget. We build bonds, and walk away from them.

Your first job, the joy in your parents' eyes, the first pay-check, the first love, the dearer than life freindships, the madness of doing the most unimaginable things as teenagers. The moments that I look back upon now are so precious, so alive, that I still feel the pain.

At sometime, we all have to let go. I understand that completely. Our parents, our brothers and sisters, our freinds, our loved ones, all of them. And you know what is the most painful moment? When you have to walk away. When you have to wave that final goodbye, shake hands, hug, look in to the eyes, and wish them the best. That's what makes you remember. 

I think of the people I've worked with, I think of my freinds back in Delhi, I remember my college and school days, I remember my trips to Pune, and all I can think of and pine for are to go back to those moments. Every once in a while I happen to look at my old pictures, walk down the memory lane, think of the people I used to care about. Unfortunately, I don't know where most of them are, but I still remember small details, that no one might. 

A movie here, a boozing session there, those cold Delhi nights, those warm hugs. There's a rush of thoughts in my head, like a cinema roll flowing by. Vivid images of my past, coming back to me in a wave, and moving me to tears, yet again. Only if I could hold on to them, only if I could go back and tell everyone how much they mean to me, only if I could look into those eyes one more time and tell them that I'll always be there. How many times do I have to let go of those that I love, those who're the most precious to me, those I can't live without? How many times do I have to convince myself that life's all about change, all about moving on? 

We had joy we had fun we had seasons in the sun 
But the wine and the song like the seasons have all gone...

When I Stop Hearing the World

I’m standing with my head hanging low. I can see my black shining shoes through a mist of water. Big tear drops running down my cheeks and bouncing off my shoes. My big round glasses are completely frosted now and I can barely see. It seems as if I’ve blocked out all the noise around me and all I can hear is the light thump of tear drops bouncing off my shoes. Mrs. Chandra is going on and on about how I’m never going to be a good student.

I don’t really know what made me cry at that moment. It was nothing new to be pulled out from my reverie in the middle of the class. All 50 faces turn around together to look at me when she yells from behind her thick glasses. I look up from my notebook, dumbfounded, confused, and wondering what I did wrong this time. I was just minding my own business, lost in my thoughts. I stare in to everyone’s eyes to come to my resuce, as if begging them to say something in my defense. But there is something about this particular day, this moment that makes me pity myself. I look around me, at all those deprecating faces. Was it my not knowing the toughest chemical formulae, or was it not being as smart and bullish as Anil or Sandeep that never got me any support. I don’t know what happened at that moment, without a word of resistance, a single utterance, I stepped out from behind my desk, and walked straight towards the black board, head bent down and eyes fixated on the ground, as if that was going to save me the embarrassment and the hurl of verbal blows coming my way. I don’t know when I broke down. I was crying, silently, quietly, tears pouring down like I had never cried before.

Once again I was standing outside my classroom, back against the whitewashed wall, looking down at my now smeared shoes. The shine was gone. All I saw was the smudge left behind by the tears. There were small splotchy patches spread randomly across the small toes. The back of my palms are wet with wiping away the tears. I look up to see the wide expanse of the garrison grounds of my school. It’s lush green in this warm breezy spring of 1999. My tie blows casually across my torso with the slight breeze. I can feel the chill of the oncoming winter. My hair is ruffled now, turning it in to a mess, but I couldn’t care less. I wonder what I’m doing, why was I even born, and why on earth can’t I even be an average student. Today my self pity has consumed me completely. With every passing moment, I grow more desperate to do something drastic. I feel like running away from here. I’m sick of being scolded time and again, of being looked down upon like I was some doormat, the nerd who doesn’t know a thing. I look up at my classroom entrance. CLASS X A is painted in big block white letters on a black background. I wonder if I’ll ever have any good memories of that number….