Avantika Express

One of the most distinct sounds that is emblazoned in my memory, is the sound of an auto slowing down.
Back in the days when telephones were a luxury and the inland and postcard were the only mode of communication, there was a dread associated with that sound in my house.I remember vividly the anxious look on my mother's face, if one of those sounds halted in front of our gate,especially in the wee hours of the morning.This is when the Avantika express would arrive at platform number 3 on most days.
If we were lucky then a postcard would act as an harbinger to impending guests,with details of coach numbers and train arrival timings crammed along the sides.This would mean a trip to the railway station in our steadfast Maruti 800.As a kid I used to be excited about receiving guests at the station,most of whom arrived by the Avantika express.Avantika used to be the first train in the morning back then.I would love to go to the station in the wee hours of the morning , stepping carefully over people sleeping on the platform.It used to be enchanting  to watch the chaos unfold at the platform as the sun would begin to rise above the over bridge.Before I knew the station would be abuzz with life and people lining up at the water booth with toothbrushes and Dabur dant manjan.
I also remember that although the excitement in me was palpable but was not so discernible in the other members of the receiving party.Nobody else would be jumping around with joy for sure.One of the miseries of being an only child is that you never fit in.I always felt overshadowed by the five adults who surrounded me.You tend to be the odd man out all the time.
Coming back to platform No 3 , I remember my father being quite irked by my jumpiness and would try very hard to not to let it distract him from his daily crossword.
There would be the occasional confusion when due to oversight, the coach number would have been incorrectly mentioned in the postcard.This is when my father would send me running off in one direction and my uncle in another ,while he would stand at the main gate, sifting through the crowd for familiar faces.The confusion would mostly climax into a happy union and pleasantries would be exchanged.I was always greeted with  "Oh look how much you have grown.Last time we saw you , you were this small."Complete with gestures and all. One would think though, that considering the frequency of their visits, they had been privy to my growth as much as the chaiwala on platform number 3.
The pleasantries at the station, would then be followed by an elaborate session at home, where my grandparents would fill the newly arrived guests in, with all the minute details of their actual and imaginary ailments.I remember the contrast in ecstatic look on my grandparents face on the arrival of a guest and the edgy look on my parents face.
I have witnessed guests to stay for almost a month with my father or uncle making frequent trips to the reservation centre.These prolonged departures were always followed by a little treat at a place called Manohar's near the railway station, where all the ordeal of the last few weeks was quickly forgotten over delectable Chole Bhaturas and mastani Lassi.

But only a few weeks would pass and after the postman had made his daily visit,the jubilant shouts of my grandmother would inform us of another impending visit.These letters would be sometimes be as vague as "We are considering visiting you this summer".It would be after the arrival of one such postcard that my mother would dread the sound of a slowing auto.

Alas that was the golden era of my life but even today the sound of an auto in the wee hours of a cold winter morning, fills my heart with joy and floods my mind with all those wonderful memories.

The Room

If you were to believe me (unlike my mother), my oldest memory goes as far back, as when I was only a few months old. This memory of mine must have lied there gathering dust in the corners of my mind for millions of moments. Today I can’t recollect which one brought it back. But it came to me like a long lost friend, on a warm sunny day, claiming it’s due.

At first the memory was dark and rusty, with time though, it became brighter, just like the days I must have spent in “The room”. What I remember, is like a scene from one of those black and white movies where everything seems to be happening in slow motion. The way I see it or maybe the way I want to see it, is the view as can be seen from a cradle. I see a small dark room, small because I can see a door that encloses the room only a few meters away. I also can almost see the faces which peep through the door every once in a while. I can feel the sunlight coming through the small window, right behind me. I do not remember the sounds that float in through it, but even today on one of those December days, they sometimes seem to come back to me. Sounds which make little sense to me but fill my heart with joy.

I also remember how quiet it was otherwise in my room, almost surreal .I also vaguely remember a toy hanging just above my cradle keeping me preoccupied; On other times, the familiar faces, which ever ,smiled so lovingly.I remember the polka dot frock and my favourite bunny.

My mom is adamant in not letting me own this vision of my childhood. She tells me it is not for real and that even if most of those details fall in place, it is highly unlikely that they are from a memory. Her explanation for it is that it was all planted, that I collected all those details through the stories that were told. I probably constructed the whole image on my own and I have been going over and over in my mind for so many times that it rings true.

She could be right but  the romantic in me would like to believe that the memory is for real, and I hold it very close to my heart.

Summer breaks

As I sit in my office on sunny September day, trying hard to concentrate(It being Monday doesn't help),watching the sun bounce off on the tall buildings from my glass window ,I am transported to another era.The era of leisure without guilt...When your life centered around summer holidays...
Oh how I miss my summer breaks..
The good old times when all my time was spent cycling,playing monoply,sketching,reading,

playing sitoliya(seven stones),flying kites and taking long afternoon naps.When the only thing to worry about was whether there would be enough flat stones for sitoliya or which would be the next book to read.
I wonder why  adults don't get summer breaks.The only time we take off from work is when we are visiting family or taking a vacation .These short vacations are always hectic and there's always something to do(visiting places,visiting relatives..).
Oh what would I do to just sit back and relax without having to worry about anything.To read a book all day (hopefully finish it )..to listen to my favorite music for hours or to just sleep all day..
I remember on just one such sunny day (a long time ago) ,with a book in my hand and dreams in my eyes I wondered how life in the outside world would be like..
Today when the outside world has engulfed me all I really want to do is go back to that summery day.

A Bygone Era

When I moved out,the thing I missed most was the warmth of life back home.
I missed the comfort of the sofa,the warm cozy bed,the mundaness of daily life.I missed the happy voices,the coming home of my father(The look on my mother's face),the laying of the dinner table,the ring of the doorbell,the chit chat of the neighbours,the friendly doodhwala.I missed buying vegetables from the thelewala,I missed watching my grandmother wait for the postman everyday.I missed the constant ringing of my landline phone and the ever flowing guests(Who were always welcome).I missed the aromas from the kitchen and the easy availability of food all the time.

I made great friends at the PG I was staying in and in our own way we tried to create a home away from home for us.But I always felt a void.I always dreamt of going back to the same life,to the same warmth.

Five years from then and here I am married and running a house of my own...
During weekdays I hardly spend a couple of hours at home during the day.My doorbell only rings to announce the maid in the morning(Rather to jolt me out of bed).
I have this obnoxious green box for a mailbox in the apartment where I drag myself every time I am expecting a mail.I collect the milk packets from the bag I hang in by the door every morning.I buy vegetables from the nearest supermarket (The one with the fastest moving queues) and I have guests only when I invite them(Otherwise people call before they drop by ).I wouldn't recognize my next door neighbours if I crossed them on the street(I am sure they don't know me either).On most days I and my husband come home together.On other days when he gets late I am half dead by the time he gets home.
Sometimes I wonder if that was a different era altogether..Sometimes I regret that those memories seem so distant and are fading away so soon.
I wonder if I can ever recreate the magic in my home.

There are faces I will remember all my life..Though some have gone and some remain...

My dad had a transferable job so we used to move around a lot .. I have changed five - six schools in all ... Although I have managed to keep in touch with all my close friends but sometimes on a rainy day when I have a cup of coffee in my hand I wonder about people whose names are no longer etched in my memory but whose faces I keep dreaming of ...These were not close friends ,maybe not even acquaintances ... This could be someone who used to be in the same bus .. a guy whom I had a crush in school but never even got to know his name ....
It could be that girl on my bus stop when I was in my second grade .. I remember we had a lot of meaningful conversations while we waited for the bus .. (about the neighbor’s dog who had puppies in our garden last night , about how many planes went past my house last night , about the new teacher who gave so much homework ... ) I wonder what that girl whose name I did not bother to remember must be upto .. Is she still skinny and tall ..Is she doing better than me ..More importantly does she remember me .. Does my face haunt her the way her face haunts me on lonely nights.. Does she think of me fondly ...

There are so many such faces .. Mysterious faces .. These are the faces which make my past ... I wouldn't have had memories if they were not there ...

I had a friend in fifth standard who was my playmate .. We used to go to the same school and lived in the same colony .. They were five sisters ...I used to spend a lot of time at her place .. Sometimes in my dreams I see myself in that dark house ... I can hear her parents shouting at each other ..
It all comes back to me .. But when I wake up it's gone .. I forget about her as I brace myself to face a new day .. a new challenge .. But while I am taking that bus drive to office I think about my dream and wonder what my friend must be upto now ... what she must be doing right now...

Some of these faces which keep coming back to me have names ..... Thanks to orkut I have been able to find these faces.. Some of them remember me .. Although it gives me immense joy to hear from them ,I don't know what to say to them .. I don't know where we last left our conversation. I don't even know if there was any .. The fact is I don't want to know what those people are upto today .. I don't want to know if they are married and have children... Because I want to wonder ...Next time it rains I want to daydream about these people .. I don't want to know where they are now because with them , I am still living in the past ...