solitary ramblings

I feel melancholy today,
Remembering the chattery evenings sitting on the college stairs,
Flooded by the memories of your smiling face and laughter,
Those walks beside the swimming pool,
And the ones we had across the howrah bridge.
The hot gulab jamuns that melted in our mouths,
The gasp at the sight of a crisp round kachori frying in a pan on the footpath,
Or the steaming lemon tea that fell on your puchka watered hands.
The booksellers still sell their books,
People still run on those busy streets,
The honming and concking continues unnoticed.
The only thing I miss is those happy days....with you.

No,Not you ,as you are now,
You ,the person you were back then,
When I was your friend.
Not acquanitance,
Not someone you'd call when you needed some odd job done,
But someone you'd miss on quiet winter evenings with the mellowing sun.........

End of an Era?

A chat transcript from my Gmail chat history:

we cared abt "silly" politics

strange ideas

surreal street dramas

presi 2 us wasnt a college, it was an experience, an idea that we all cherish

how i wish i could go back, NOW!!!

memories..

17:53 hrs IST, Tuesday, the 20th of October, 2009
There’s a political parade snaking its way forward on the lane in front of my house, the leaders shouting their voices raw with (the usual) “jobaab chaai, jobaab daao”s. I am standing on my balcony, looking at the throng of bodies, most of them in various stages of disinterestedness. Some, in fact, are casually laughing and chatting amongst themselves, as if they’re out on a leisurely evening walk. I am looking at them alright, and yet I am not.. The vision that forms in front of my eyes is of a sweltering July mid-afternoon, that time of the year when uncountable droplets of sweat form on the forehead and roll down to the chin faster than a handkerchief can be whipped out. I remember that procession very well, that group of students of all shapes and sizes, all streams and ages, all backgrounds and upbringings.. I remember the parched throats, the ringing slogans, the raging fires in the hearts of the hundred strong army of youth at 86/1, College Street.. I remember the awe that passers-by regarded us with, the look of surprise on the taxi-drivers’ faces at the sheer volume of our incensed voices, our frenzied clapping of hands, out stamping feet.. And as the train of people vanish round the bend, and as memories fade, one slogan lingers on.. “ Loraai loraai loraai chaai, / loraai korey baachte chaai ! / Ei loraai lorbe k ? / Tumi, aami, aabar k… “