Granny (Part - II)

  Clap. Clap. Clap.

It was rhythmic, loud, and utterly defiant. It was Granny. She was standing up in the section reserved for the women, her small frame upright, her hands coming together with a force that seemed to echo off the temple walls. She didn't care about the decorum of the priest’s family or the hushed sanctity of the performance. She was cheering for her Somu.

The sound acted like a lightning strike. Samarth looked toward the back, and though he couldn't see her face clearly, he felt her presence, the same woman who would stay up all night with a hand fan just so he could sleep, the woman who was always, unapologetically, on his side. A sudden warmth flooded his chest, a surge of "water-clogged brain" confidence. He took a deep breath, adjusted the peacock feather, and let out a laugh that wasn't the laugh of a nervous boy, but the playful, cosmic chime of Krishna himself.

The lines returned to him not as memorized text, but as a living language. He moved with a grace he didn't know he possessed, his small hands gesturing toward the heavens as the temple drums finally caught his rhythm, thundering in synchronization with his heartbeat. By the time the scene ended, the initial murmurs had been replaced by a deafening roar of "Hari Bol!" from the five thousand plus devotees. He had enacted the role perfectly, not because he was a great actor, but because he was loved by a great woman.

That night, as he stepped onto the stage, the missing buttons and stained pants of his daily life were replaced by divine light. He had felt entirely connected to the world, a small part of a 300-year-old story.

Standing in the lounge now, in a tailored suit with a world of technology at his fingertips, Samarth realized he didn't yearn to go back to stay. He understood that the fast-track life had its own merits and achievements. He felt no tragedy that the Bajaj Chetak had been replaced by a high-end car or the temple drums by a digital playlist. Instead, he felt a quiet, sturdy sense of gratitude. These memories weren't a weight dragging him backward; they were a treasure he carried with him.

As the countdown to midnight began...Ten, nine, eight...the crowd grew louder. Samarth took one last moment to cherish the memory of the boy with the peacock feather, the taste of extra Horlicks, and the rhythmic swish-swish of a hand fan in the summer dark. He wasn't lost in the past; he was simply visiting home to make sure he remembered the way. He set his glass down, turned away from the window, and walked back into the party, feeling a little more grounded, a little more whole, and ready for whatever the new year had to say...

N.B : In the quiet intervals between the city’s relentless demands, Samarth finds himself reaching for a frequency that no longer broadcasts; the silent, sturdy language of a love that asked for nothing and offered everything. It was a grace found in the simple geometry of a silver plate and the way his grandmother’s eyes held him, a gaze that functioned as a mirror where he was always enough, long before he had anything to show for it. Now, as he navigates a world that measures worth by the height of one’s shadow, he realizes that his truest identity isn't something to be manufactured or fought for in the streets, but something to be remembered. He carries that unconditional warmth like a coal held deep within his palms, a soft, ancestral glow that keeps the modern chill at bay. The path ahead is crowded and the air is thin, yet he walks with the quiet optimism of a man who knows that no matter how far the world pulls him from that kitchen table, he is never truly lost; he is simply the living breath of a story that began with a devotion so pure, it became the very foundation of his soul.

In the velvet hush of the evening, when the modern world finally tires of its own clamor, Samarth feels the sudden, shimmering weight of a ghost-hand upon his shoulder, pulling him back to the creaking wooden floorboards of a childhood stage. He remembers the paralyzing fear of the spotlight and how it was her voice; a low, rhythmic anchor of unconditional belief that gave him the courage to lift the flute and step into the skin of Krishna, teaching him even then that his identity was not found, but summoned.  As he navigates the high-stakes maneuvers of this modern corporate landscape, he realizes that the grit he once reserved for the parade grounds has found a different, more quiet purpose. He isn't charging into battle with a rifle, but with the unshakable identity of a man who was loved enough to be "saved" from his own plans, understanding finally that his grandmother’s community feast wasn't just a celebration of a failed medical exam, but an investment in the person he was yet to become. Every time he faces a closed door or a blurry path in this crowded world, he hears the faint, mischievous clinking of her prayer beads and feels the warmth of that ancient prasadam, a divine reminder that some rejections are merely redirections orchestrated by a love that refuses to let him be anything less than his truest self. He steps forward not as a soldier of the state, but as a soldier of her legacy, building a life that is his own victory—one where the vision may be imperfect, but the heart sees with absolute, golden clarity.

Now, looking up at the stars where her soul surely keeps watch, he realizes that while he never wore the uniform, he was always guarded by the highest rank of all: a woman whose prayers were powerful enough to change the course of a life, leaving him not with a medal, but with the enduring, golden warmth of belonging. Though Granny's chair sits empty and her kitchen has fallen silent, she has not left him; she has simply expanded, her love diffusing into the very atmosphere he breathes, watching from a height where the stars seem like mere pinpricks in the fabric of her protective shawl. He looks up at the vast, indigo reaches of the sky and senses her there, a celestial architect still whispering cues to his soul, ensuring that even in this crowded, nameless city, he never forgets the divine spark she first recognized in a trembling boy. It is a breathtaking realization that he is never truly walking alone; he is a living prayer being answered in real-time, moving forward with the quiet, triumphant grace of someone who knows that the greatest love in the universe is still, and always will be, wishing him home...

Samay

The grand brass bell of the ancient temple of Samaypur did not toll for the hours. Instead, a massive, unyielding stone pendulum of black granite swung in the central courtyard, slicing through the humid air with a rhythmic, heavy swish, dividing eternity into equal, indifferent beats.

The villagers called the pendulum Kaal, convinced that its movements dictated the tides of shubh and ashubh; auspicious and inauspicious times. When the monsoons were gentle and the marigold fields bloomed, they offered sweet laddoos, chanting, "What a blessed time Mahadev has given us!" When the droughts cracked the earth and the cattle wept, they beat their chests, crying, "The times are cursed."

But Kabir, the silent keeper who tended the oil lamps beneath the temple arches, knew the truth. Time was neither a benevolent deity nor a wrathful demon. It was a river of pure Ganga water; flowing, unfeeling, and completely blind to human prayers. There was no such thing as a good time or a bad time. There was only time. It simply was.

Instead of seasons, Kabir measured existence by the travelers who drifted into his courtyard along the dusty highway. He was a man made of deep river silt and quiet wisdom, a reservoir of unconditional patience. And because he was a reservoir, thirsty souls always found their way to him.

First came Mira, a young classical singer with a broken voice and a hollow chest. She arrived when the summer heat was at its peak, her eyes wild with a drought of inspiration. Kabir opened his veranda to her. He gave her his midnight conversations, his grandfather’s ancient musical treatises, and the quiet, steady warmth of a clay cup of ginger chai. Mira drank deeply. From Kabir’s vast spiritual expanse, she took the best of him, his profound stillness, his capacity to listen, and the golden, unexpressed ragas of his soul. Her voice returned, richer and deeper; her name began to echo in the royal courts. Then, just as suddenly as her voice had bloomed, her need for him ended. She packed her tanpura. With a brief, distracted bow of respect, she stepped into her palanquin and passed on. She had taken the best of him to light her own lamp, leaving Kabir with an emptier courtyard and a handful of ash.

Next came Dev, a bitter man fleeing the wreckage of a ruined business and family feuds. He arrived when the monsoon clouds hung heavy. Unlike Mira, Dev did not want Kabir’s light; he was drowning in anger and needed a place to dump his poison. For months, Kabir bore the weight. Dev drew out the absolute worst in Kabir, testing his patience until it snapped, provoking a harshness Kabir didn't know he possessed, and turning the peaceful sanctuary into a battleground of bitter arguments. Dev picked at the rawest, unhealed scabs of Kabir’s psyche.

Once Dev had purged his internal demons into Kabir’s space, his shoulders lightened. He stood up, adjusted his silk kurta, and left for the city without looking back. He had used Kabir as a sacrificial fire to burn off his own impurities, leaving Kabir to clean up the soot.

Kabir sat on the stone steps, watching the granite pendulum slice the air. Swish. Swish. He felt like a wayside dhaba, a transient stop where people pulled over to refuel or discard their trash before moving toward their grand destinations. He had made these travelers his absolute karma and priority. He had rearranged his life, his peace, and his prayers to accommodate their arrivals and departures.

Yet, to them, he was merely an option. A convenient shade tree during a hot afternoon.

One evening, as a young traveler knocked on the heavy wooden gates, seeking refuge from a sudden dust storm, Kabir paused. He looked at his reflection in the polished brass of the temple lamps. He saw the hollows under his eyes left by Mira, and the sharp, bitter lines around his mouth left by Dev.

He realized then the profound error of his own devotion. He had treated passing guests as permanent deities. He had allowed himself to be a footnote in chapters where he should have been the epic itself.

Kabir opened the gate, but he did not step aside. He stood firmly in the threshold. He offered the traveler a coarse wool blanket and a plate of simple khichdi, but he did not offer his soul. He did not let the man reach into his reservoir to take what he willed.

"The storm will pass by dawn," Kabir said, his voice as steady as the pendulum. "You may rest in the outer veranda, but tomorrow, your road awaits."

As the traveler slept, Kabir went to the center of the courtyard. He understood now. People enter your life like seasonal winds; some will carry the scent of jasmine and take your light, others will bring the dust and drag you into their darkness, and then they will pass on. To curse the samay; the timing of their arrival is foolishness; time is neutral. The fault lies in making a passing traveler your destination.

Kabir smiled, a genuine, liberating smile. He would no longer be an option for those who only sought a temporary anchor. He belonged to his own divine center. And as the great stone pendulum swung forward, he stepped in rhythm with it, moving onward, bound to no one’s journey but his own.

The Storyteller 2.0

The fluorescent lights of the office didn't flicker, but to Milind, they hummed; a low, vibrating frequency that seemed to sync with the dull throb in his temples. He sat at his desk, his fingers moving across the keyboard with a mechanical precision that felt more like a haunting than a career. 

Around him, the world was a blurred timelapse; colleagues drifted by like ghosts, their mouths moving in silent, urgent conversations about quarterly projections and logistics, everyone locked away in the private fortresses of their own ambitions. 

He leaned back, his eyes glazing over as the office noise faded into a distant roar, realizing that these days he was falling into a trance. He could see them all, quite occupied in their own worlds, and while he minded his own business and maintained that cold, sharp focus on the work, life beyond the screen was becoming a desert.

The irritability had started as a spark and was now a slow-burning fire. A ringing phone felt like a physical strike, and a casual "Good morning" felt like an emotional demand he could no longer meet. 

He looked at his hands and realized they were shaking, gripped by the fear that it was either a disturbed mind or something deeper and more permanent. He knew he was eroding, and if he didn't find an anchor, he would drift out so far that he might finally get lost in the grey.

That night, Milind didn't turn on the television or scroll through the curated lives of strangers. Instead, he dug through a cardboard box in the back of his closet until his fingers brushed against the leather grain of an old notebook, its yellowed pages filled with the half-finished dreams of the man he used to be. 

He realized then that he had to devote time to rekindle his old hobby of writing stories; it was the only thing that had ever offered him true solace, a much-needed peace against the encroaching silence of his life. Perhaps a change in place or a short vacation was necessary to break the cycle, but as he sat on the floor with a pen in hand, he knew he had to find a remedy soon. The first sentence he wrote was a shaky, honest admission of his own existence, a small flare sent up into the dark to ensure that, despite the monotony and the fear, he was still there.

Granny (Part - I)

The ice in Samarth’s glass rattled softly, a small, rhythmic sound that seemed to anchor him as the heavy bass from the corporate DJ party thrummed through the soles of his Italian leather shoes. It was New Year’s Eve, the transition point between what has been and what is yet to come, and he found himself standing by the window of the high-rise rooftop Aer lounge at Four Seasons, Worli, looking past the neon skyline, the high-rises of south Bombay aka Sobo. He wasn’t exactly lonely, but he was elsewhere. His mind had slipped away from the global buffet and the sterile chill of the air conditioning, wandering back to a time when luxury was a ride on the back of his father’s Bajaj Chetak and the world was measured in the dusty golden hue of a winter afternoon.

As the party guests clinked champagne flutes, Samarth could almost feel the rough bark of mango trees as he scrambled up their branches, his laughter lost in the rustle of leaves. Life then was the tension of a kite string against a calloused thumb and the weight of a cork ball hitting a bat held together by hope and rusted nails. When the heat became a physical weight, he and his friends would sprint to the pond, the water a shocking, muddy embrace.

He remembered emerging with wrinkled skin, knowing a scolding was waiting. He could still hear his Granny’s voice, sharp as a whip yet warm as the sun, chiding him for his "water-clogged brain" as he dripped onto the porch. But the scolding was always a façade.

It was an open secret in the household: Granny was shamelessly partial to Samarth.

He recalled the mornings in the kitchen, the air thick with steam. While his cousins received their standard measures of milk, Granny would check over her shoulder, her eyes twinkling with conspiracy, and heap a towering, extra spoon of Horlicks into Samarth’s glass. "Shh," she would whisper, stirring it vigorously so the evidence would dissolve. "You run more than them; you need strength. Don't tell your mother."

If Samarth’s mother or uncles ever raised their voices at him; perhaps for a broken window or a lost textbook, or at times hitting some other kid; Granny became his iron shield. She would stand between the trembling boy and the angry folks, her small frame suddenly formidable. "Let him be," she would snap, waving a dismissal at her own grown sons. "He is a boy, not a soldier. If you want discipline, go join the army. Here, he breathes."

Talking about the Army, Samarth finds himself smiling at the memory of a battle he never realized he was losing: the tug-of-war between his soldier’s ambition and a grandmother’s fierce, protective devotion. He remembers the sharp crease of his dreams as he stood twice on the precipice of the Indian Army’s gates, a Gentleman Cadet in spirit, only to be undone by the subtle treachery of his own vision, or perhaps, as he now suspects, by the relentless "bribes" of coconut and prasadam she offered at Radhamadhav ji; lord of their ancestral temple. While he navigated the grueling rigors of the SSB, she was waging a celestial campaign of her own, bartering with the Divine to keep her boy grounded safely within her reach. When the medical disqualification finally came, it wasn't a failure in her eyes, but a miraculous victory; he can still hear the exuberant lilt of her voice thanking the Lord for his "poor eyesight" as she turned his heartbreak into a community feast, celebrating his return as if he had won a war by never leaving. It was a beautiful, chaotic kind of madness; an unconditional love so vast it dared to defy his destiny just to keep his heart close to home. 

And then there was the food. Even on days when her knees ached and a fever made her hands tremble, if Samarth merely whispered a craving, the kitchen would come alive. He could almost smell it now, the nutty, rich aroma of desi ghee tempering the spices. She would make his favorite Dalma, that quintessential Odia delicacy of lentils and vegetables, slow-cooked until it melted on the tongue, paired with hot Khichdi. "Granny, you’re sick, you shouldn’t be cooking," he would say, feeling a pang of guilt even as his mouth watered. "My sickness is in my body, Somu, not in my hands," she would retort, ladling a generous amount of ghee over his plate. "Eat. The doctor gives me medicine, but feeding you gives me life."

But the memory that hit him hardest, standing in the cold air-conditioning of the lounge, was the heat of the Odisha summers.

When the power would cut out, plunging the village into a suffocating, humid darkness, the heat would radiate off the walls like an oven. Everyone would toss and turn, slick with sweat. Everyone except Samarth. He remembered lying on his cot, drifting into dreams, feeling a steady, cool breeze washing over him. He would open one sleepy eye to see Granny sitting beside him, her saree pallu tucked in at her waist, rhythmically moving a palm-leaf hand fan back and forth. "Go to sleep, Granny," he would mumble, half-conscious. "Your hand will hurt." "I am sleeping with my eyes open," she would lie softly, never breaking the rhythm. She would fan him the entire night, sacrificing her own rest so her "Somu" could sleep peacefully.

Fifteen years since that fan stopped moving, since the Dalma tasted right, since anyone looked at him with that unconditional, fierce devotion.

Samarth swirled his drink, a lump forming in his throat. As a child, he had taken it for granted; the extra Horlicks, the midnight fanning, the defence against many. He had thought it was just how grandmothers were. Only now, amidst the transactional relationships of the modern era, did he realize how rare that attachment was. He wished, with a desperate, silent ache, that he could go back. Not to change anything, but just to hold her hand one more time, to stop the clock and sit in that kitchen while she cooked.

The transition from those domestic comforts to the sacred discipline of the month of Kartik was the true heartbeat of his youth. As the grandson of the head priests of the Radhamadhav Temple, Samarth’s childhood was governed by a higher rhythm. For the entire month of Kartik, he was strictly prohibited from eating non-vegetarian food, a discipline that felt heavy for a small boy but connected him to a lineage centuries old. The small town would begin to glow, illuminated with music and light, peaking at the grand festival of Kartik Purnima. He remembered the awe of seeing the 300-year-old idols of Radhamadhav being moved from the inner sanctum to the massive wooden chariot outside. Despite his age, Samarth had to perform specific rituals alongside his uncles, his small hands trembling as he held the heavy brass lamps amidst a sea of 5,000+ devotees.

The festival was a three-night marathon of storytelling. One night would be a soulful Kirtan, the next a contemporary social drama, but the crown jewel was the mythological play on the first night. Samarth remembered the sheer weight of the peacock-feather crown and the silk dhoti when he was chosen to play the role of young Krishna. Standing in the wings, paralyzed by the sight of thousands of expectant faces in the audience, he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Granny.

She leaned in, her eyes reflecting the flickering oil lamps. "Granny, I’ve forgotten my lines. The crown is too heavy," he had whispered, his voice cracking. She didn't offer empty praise; she simply adjusted his sash and looked him in the eye, the same fierce love in her gaze as when she defended him from others. "The crown isn't heavy, Somu, your ego is. Forget you are a boy. Today, you are the one who holds the universe. Do you think the Lord worries about lines? Just speak with your heart, and the drums will do the rest."

When Samarth finally stepped onto the stage, the reality was far from divine. The glare of the spotlights blinded him, and the silence of the massive crowd felt like a physical weight. He began his opening monologue, but his voice was a thin, tremulous reed. He stumbled over a word, paused, and the silence stretched a second too long. He could hear a faint murmur of disappointment from the elders in the front row. He was failing. The boy who was supposed to be the Lord of the Universe looked, in that moment, like a very frightened child in a cheap costume.

Then, breaking the oppressive silence of the elite rows, a sudden, sharp sound erupted from the back of the pavilion.

Cont...

Nightingale

The glow of the dual monitors cast a spectral blue tint over Samanwita’s face, making the office around her feel like an underwater tomb. It was mid-December, and the world outside was frantic with holiday cheer, yet inside the fifth-floor glass box, time was measured only in the rhythmic blinking of a cursor. Samanwita, once the "Nightingale" of her university, was now the "AI Algorithm Architect" of a premier consulting firm. Her life was a flawless lattice of complex analytical models and predictive spreadsheets, but as she sat there clearing her year-end backlog, she felt less like an architect and more like a ghost haunting her own life.

Deep in her inbox, nestled between a project extension and multiple versions of an MNC client pitch deck, an email from the regional talent team caught her eye: Join The Music Club – Our First Corporate Music Collective. Her heart did a strange, syncopated skip. For a moment, the sterile smell of the office vanished, replaced by the scent of old wooden stages and the ozone of a warming amplifier. She closed her eyes and could almost hear the roar of the crowd from the National Festival, a sound that used to vibrate in her very marrow. Back then, she was a perfectionist of the soul. She wouldn't just sing; she would dissect a song, rehearsing a single node or a difficult pitch shift for hours until it was as precise as a surgeon’s cut…

But as her mouse hovered over the invitation, a cold, sharp wave of apprehension washed over her. It’s been seven years, Sam, she thought, her fingers trembling slightly. Your voice isn't a masterclass anymore; it’s a dusty relic. She worried that the "Nightingale" had been strangled by years of corporate jargon and silence. She imagined walking into the first rehearsal and opening her mouth, only for a dry, croaking sound to emerge, the sound of someone who had traded her vibrato for a paycheck. Could a voice that spent its days saying "let’s circle back" and "optimize the workflow" still carry the weight of a soaring ballad?

She looked at her reflection in the darkened window. She saw a woman who made notes of songs to practice every weekend, only to let those weekends dissolve into exhaustion. She felt the weight of those "never-happened" rehearsals like a physical burden. What if I’m just an admirer of music now, rather than a creator of it? she wondered. The fear of being "average" was almost worse than the fear of not singing at all. In college, she was the benchmark; here, she would be just another employee with a hobby.

Yet, as she read about the debut performance scheduled for the last week of January, a flicker of defiance rose within her. She remembered the feeling of a perfect C-sharp vibrating in her chest—a sensation of being truly, undeniably alive. The spreadsheets would always be there, but the music was a flame that was currently down to its last ember. If she didn't fan it now, it might go out forever.

The internal tug-of-war lasted for minutes, the pragmatic consultant versus the dormant rockstar. Finally, the Nightingale won. With a sharp intake of breath, she clicked "Reply." Her pulse hammered against her wrists as she typed, “Yes… I will be willing to join the group.”

NMMT AC-123

 The sweltering Mumbai heat hung heavy in the air at the Powai bus stop, a tangible reminder of the city’s relentless pace and the daily grind it demanded of its inhabitants. Life in Mumbai was a constant hustle, a relentless race against time and resources, where every rupee counted and every moment was precious. Rajan, waiting for his usual 123 (Tata hospital to Borivali) NMMT AC bus, found his attention drawn to a family nearby. A man and woman, both seemingly in their mid thirties, stood with two children – a girl around twelve and a boisterous boy of eight or nine. Their simple clothes and weary expressions spoke of a life of hard work and limited means. The lines etched on the father’s face spoke of countless nights spent worrying about providing for his family, of the silent battles fought against rising prices and shrinking opportunities.

The little boy, perched on his father’s lap, was fixated on the gleaming AC buses that pulled up. 

“Baba, AC bus! AC bus!” he’d chant, his eyes wide with wonder. 

The father, his face etched with a mixture of love and helplessness, would gently try to distract him. “Beta, these buses are for office babus,” he’d say, or “Look, there’s a red bus! Let’s go on that one!” But the boy was insistent, his small voice echoing in the humid air. The father’s love for his children wasn’t expressed in grand gestures or flowery words; it was woven into the fabric of his everyday actions – the way he held his son close, the gentle touch of his hand on his daughter’s hair, the quiet determination in his eyes to provide for them, no matter the cost.

Rajan, usually oblivious to his surroundings during his commute, found himself captivated by this quiet drama unfolding before him. He even missed his own bus, so engrossed was he. He overheard the father hesitantly ask a fellow passenger about the AC bus fare for a 14-15-km journey. The man’s face fell as he listened to the reply. Probably 3x a normal bus. He pulled out a handful of crumpled notes and counted them, a flicker of disappointment crossing his features. He turned to his wife and quietly explained that they couldn’t all afford the AC bus. He suggested she take the next one with their son, while he and their daughter would take a regular bus.

The boy, sensing a change in plans, began to wail. “No! I want to go with Baba!” 

The father knelt down, his eyes brimming with affection. “Beta,” he said softly, his voice laced with a gentle lie, “Baba has an allergy to AC. It makes me sneeze a lot. I’ll be much better in the normal bus. We’ll meet you there, okay?” 

The boy, though still a little hesitant, finally nodded, his desire for the cool comfort of the AC outweighing his reluctance to leave his father.

As the next AC bus arrived, the father carefully handed most of his remaining money to his wife, his eyes meeting hers in a silent exchange of love and shared hardship. “See you soon,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. As the mother and son boarded, the father stood on the pavement, waving until the bus pulled away. A single tear escaped his eye, tracing a path down his weathered cheek. He quickly wiped it away, hoping no one had noticed. It was a tear not just of sacrifice, but of the deep, unspoken love a father carries in his heart, a love that often goes unsaid but is always felt.

Rajan, witnessing this poignant scene, felt a lump form in his throat. The raw, selfless love of a father, willing to sacrifice his own comfort and endure the scorching heat for his child’s happiness, was a powerful sight. He murmured to himself, “One truly understands the worth of a father only when one becomes one.”

Years later, Rajan, now a father himself, often recalled that day at the Powai bus stop. He remembered the father’s quiet dignity, his gentle lies, and the single tear that spoke volumes of his love. And he understood, with a depth he hadn’t before, the immeasurable sacrifices a father makes, often unseen and unspoken, for the well-being of his children. He often wondered about that family, hoping that life had been kind to them. He imagined the boy, now a young man, perhaps remembering that day, understanding the depth of his father’s love, and feeling a surge of gratitude. The memory, though tinged with sadness, ultimately brought a warm, nostalgic feeling, a reminder of the enduring power of a father’s love, a love that transcended heat, fares, and even fabricated allergies...

A traveller's diary : The Himalayas & Tungnath

A trek to Tungnath, the world's loftiest sanctuary at 4,000 meters dedicated to god Shiva, had been a decade-long echo in my heart, a silent promise finally finding its resonance. It was a whisper from the glacial source of the Ganges, a beckoning from the stoic embrace of the Himalayas, a vibration from the ancient hum of the Adi Yogi himself. Seven of my colleagues, fellow dreamers who dared to weave possibilities even amidst the financial yearend's workload, joined this unfolding reality. Life, I've come to understand, is akin to a river, its currents shifting between serene stretches and turbulent rapids. We navigate not through frantic paddling against the flow, but through the contemplative act of choosing our quiet eddies.

Beneath a Bangalore sun that felt like a benediction, my departure began. First destination is New Delhi. A subtle current of grace seemed to guide my steps. A kind Uber driver, an unexpected bloom in the city's concrete expanse, smoothed the initial moments. At the airport, the simple comfort of khichdi and the cool solace of buttermilk felt like the rediscovery of a cherished childhood trinket. Then, a flight upgrade, a gentle nudge from the cosmos, as if the very stars were aligning for this inner journey.

Rishikesh, a place that holds me with the familiarity of an old melody, always calls me back. Twenty years of returning, each visit a new verse in a lengthening poem. Though fresh waves of young adventurers now carve their own narratives in its swirling rapids, the ancient spirit of the place, a steady, grounding drumbeat, endures. The night bus from New Delhi ISBT to Rishikesh was a slow, unfolding dream, followed by the rugged embrace of a 4x4 ascending towards Chopta. Rudraprayag, the confluence where two rivers, like two distinct lives, merge into the singular flow of the Ganges, offered a potent metaphor for unity. Rishikesh, the very gateway to Himalayan silence, cleansed the soul like a plunge into a frigid mountain stream. The air, thick with a palpable holiness, the river's ceaseless whisper, the mountains' silent, watchful gaze – all spoke of a deeper, more profound truth.

The landscape began its slow transformation, verdant hills gradually giving way to the majestic, snow-crowned peaks. "Might be," someone mused, regarding the ascent to the highest temple. But after such a journey inward, I craved certainty. And yes, Tungnath was our destination. Along the winding path, we paused at Omkareshwar, the winter abode of the deities, a gentle reminder that even the divine bows to the rhythm of the seasons. To fall in love is an essential human experience, and its object matters little – be it towering mountains, the boundless ocean, the hushed wisdom of a forest, the silent purity of snow, or the intricate tapestry of nature itself. The weather, a master storyteller, narrated tales in the language of chill, deepening cold, and an intense, biting frost. The mountain people, their lives etched with the indelible lines of hardship, yet their smiles bloomed as brightly as the tenacious mountain wildflowers, a testament to an indomitable resilience. Life, I mused, is a mountain path, often steep and winding, but punctuated by moments of breathtaking, soul-stirring beauty.

The climb to Tungnath proved a more arduous undertaking than imagined. Seven kilometers, a seemingly modest distance, but the thin, high-altitude air lay upon us like a heavy, invisible cloak, making each step a conscious effort. Then, the silent revelation of snow, an endless white expanse, followed by the distant glint of the temple roof, a beacon in the vastness. Physical discomfort receded, eclipsed by a yearning as ancient as the mountains themselves. The temple, though its doors were closed for the season, pulsed with an undeniable spiritual magnetism. Finding a quiet corner, embraced by the boundless blue of the sky, the silent sentinels of snow-draped mountains, and the weathered wisdom of ancient stones, two hours dissolved like the morning mist. The descent to Chopta was a gradual return to the world below. Trekking, in its essence, is a communion with solitude, yet the boisterous crowds encountered on the path to Tungnath had, for a time, diminished its quiet charm. Disappointment flickered briefly, but the return journey, painted with the hues of a mesmerizing sunset, gifted me the solitude I had sought.

The following day, our path led us to Deoria Tal, a pristine lake mirroring ancient narratives whispered from the Mahabharata, a tranquil interlude. We bypassed the energetic rapids of Rishikesh, choosing Deoria Tal, a soothing balm for a travel-weary heart. Trekking, I realized, is a form of moving meditation, a rejuvenating therapy for the soul. If possible, I silently urged, let the digital clamor of phones recede into silence. Solitude and loneliness, I pondered, are distinct states, one a fertile ground for introspection, the other a barren landscape of disconnection. Fortune smiled upon us; the heavens were a flawless canvas of blue. The lake, a flawless mirror, reflected not just the sky, but a breathtaking 300° panorama of giants. Chaukhamba, Nilkantha, Bandarpunch, the Kedar Range, and Kalanag stood sentinel, their snow-dusted peaks piercing the horizon. I found a spot on the shore, the silence broken only by the gentle lapping of water, and surrendered to the vista. For nearly an hour, my gaze remained tethered to the Kedar Range. So tangible in the crisp air, yet separated by a mere twenty miles – a poignant reminder of life's inherent nearness and farness, the dreams that shimmer just beyond our grasp. A silent promise bloomed within me: I will return. Soon.

The air itself felt different here, a pure elixir that seeped into weary lungs, invigorating not just the body, but the very essence of being. Surrounded by such serene grandeur, a quiet alchemy occurred, a subtle recalibration of the spirit. It was a reminder that sometimes, the most profound journeys are not about conquering distances, but about finding those pockets of stillness where the soul can breathe and remember its own vastness. There is a bittersweet truth about moments of profound joy – their ephemeral nature. And so, the mountains receded, and the concrete jungle reasserted its presence, the relentless rhythm of people, clients, business, and the imperative of numbers. This, too, is an inseparable thread in the tapestry of life. 

I've heard the yearning for perpetual escape into nature, but perhaps the true wisdom lies in finding a delicate balance between the two. The journey concluded, a brief chapter etched with the indelible ink of memory, scented with the crisp fragrance of the high mountains, and resonating with the quiet echo of the divine. It was, ultimately, a return to the self, a silent dialogue with the soul, leaving behind a profound sense of peace, of belonging to something larger, of a quiet, unshakable joy. And lingering still is a sense of wonder, a deep, abiding awe, and a gentle, lasting touch of the sacred, a whisper of something more, something beyond the reach of words, something that resonated deep within – a quiet, profound knowing.

The weight of days, a suffocating blanket of obligations and the gnawing fear of missing out, often casts life into a stagnant stillness. In those moments, the soul whispers for respite, a quiet peeling away from the clamor. The answer, I've come to believe, doesn't lie in frantic outward searching, but in the gentle art of pausing, a retreat that reconnects us to the quiet wisdom within. And what a profound paradox it is that the deliberate slowing of a trek, the measured rhythm of footfall on earth, stills not just the body but the very torrent of the mind. Where then are the rapid-fire calculations, the urgent strategic pronouncements of the everyday? Lost in the hushed reverence of no signal, no electricity, only the expansive embrace of peace. Trekking, in its unhurried grace, becomes a tender reintroduction to the self.

The Traveler, Oasis and the Mirage (Part - III)

The setting sun cast long shadows across the familiar canteen, painting the walls in hues of gold and amber. It was their spot, the one where campus gossip had christened them "the simple couple." Chinmoy leaned against a chipped table, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips. 

"Remember this place, Naina? Our place."

Naina’s smile was tinged with nostalgia. "Those days feel like a lifetime ago."

"Speaking of lifetimes," Chinmoy chuckled, "I have to thank you for the countless boxes of sweets and sev. I always knew they were from home, smuggled in through Thebdi and Nitish. Their elaborate cover stories – Nitish claiming orange sweets were a Chennai delicacy, Suruchi insisting her Jodhpur family had a sudden penchant for Nagpur’s Sansarchand Mithaiwale – were hilariously transparent."

Naina laughed, a genuine sound he’d missed. "Impressed by your deduction skills, Mr. Logical Chinu. Though, I must admit, I knew about the reports and slides you made for me these past two years."

Chinmoy feigned shock. "Thebdi’s loose lips strike again! I’ll have her hide."

"Please," Naina rolled her eyes. "I just checked the file properties. ‘Chinu’ as the author, or the auth code pgpm523 – not exactly subtle."

"Smart girl," Chinmoy conceded. "No wonder that MNC hospital snapped you up for their HR department."

"Sarcasm detected," Naina retorted, a playful glint in her eyes.

Just then, Suruchi burst into the canteen, her usual whirlwind of energy. "You two finally talking! Naina, come on! Warden’s clearance, packing, the cab’s almost here!"

The next hour was a blur of hurried goodbyes and frantic luggage loading. The cab driver, impatient and harried, barked about extra charges for the overflowing bags. The sky, mirroring their emotions, was a heavy, bruised grey. As Chinmoy helped load the last suitcase, he felt a strange hollowness settle in his chest.

Suruchi, ever the affectionate one, gave him a warm hug. "Thanks for all the amazing cultural nights, Chinu! I’m going to miss you, dude. All the best!"

"Love you, Di," Chinmoy replied, a genuine warmth spreading through him. "I promise, no more ‘Thebdi’.”

Naina’s goodbye was more restrained. "Thanks, Chinu. Even with the misunderstandings, you were always there."

Chinmoy’s voice was low, sincere. "I’m sorry, Naina. For everything. Especially… that day."

"It’s okay, Chinu,” she said softly. “Bye.”

As the cab pulled away, Chinmoy retreated to a nearby bench, the same one where they’d shared countless conversations, late-night study sessions, and stolen glances. A strange, unfamiliar ache settled in his heart.

Then, the cab stopped just down the road. Naina stepped out. Chinmoy’s heart leaped. He rushed towards her, confusion etched on his face. “What’s wrong? Did you forget something?”

Naina’s eyes were searching, earnest. “Chinu, for years, I’ve wanted to ask you… why do you hate me so much?”

Chinmoy’s breath caught. “I… I never hated you.”

“Then what was it?” she pleaded, her voice thick with emotion. “Tell me!”

“Nothing,” he mumbled, unable to articulate the tangled mess of feelings inside him.

“Nothing?” Naina’s voice cracked. “Great. Wonderful.”

“Naina, you have to go,” he urged, his voice tight. “You’ll miss your train.”

“Right,” she whispered. “I have to go...I need to”

She stepped closer, her eyes locking with his. Then, she did something he hadn’t expected. She hugged him, a brief, desperate embrace. “Chinu,” she murmured against his chest, “you never understood me.”

She pulled away, got back into the cab, and it finally drove away, disappearing down the road.

The sun, now sinking below the horizon, painted the campus in soft hues of rose and gold. A cool breeze swept across the grounds. Chinmoy stood there, alone, the echo of Naina’s words ringing in his ears. He looked up at the vast expanse of the sky, as if searching for an answer written among the clouds. A single tear traced a path down his cheek. As the last rays faded, Chinmoy sat down, the warmth of the day still lingering in the air. He closed his eyes, and in the quietude, he could almost hear the echoes of laughter, the rustle of papers, and the soft murmur of their voices, a timeless symphony of their shared past.

He whispered, the words barely audible, carried away by the gentle wind: “I love you, Naina.”

Hazel (Part - II)

The aroma of roasted coffee beans hung heavy in the air, a familiar comfort in the now-renovated café. The chipped wooden tables of their youth had been replaced with sleek, modern ones, but the corner booth, their corner, remained. Chinmoy and Sumona, their faces etched with the passage of time, sat facing each other, the years melting away with each shared glance.

Sumona’s laughter, though a little softer, still held the same infectious quality. Chinmoy, a few more lines etched around his eyes, still possessed that quiet intensity that had always drawn her in. The years had sanded down some of the youthful exuberance, replacing it with a quiet understanding, a shared history that needed no words. The silence that followed Chinmoy’s heartfelt words wasn’t awkward, but rather a comfortable pause, a shared understanding that transcended spoken language. Sumona’s eyes, still holding that captivating blend of hazel and green, softened.

"Remember that time we spilled an entire latte on Mr. Majumdar?" Sumona chuckled, the memory bringing a genuine smile to her face. Chinmoy laughed, the sound rusty at first, then blossoming into a warm rumble. "And he blamed it on the ghost of the old owner! We were terrible."

"You always did have a way with words, Chins," she said, a gentle smile gracing her lips. "Even now, you manage to make a simple pair of eyes sound like a grand adventure."

Chinmoy chuckled, a self-deprecating shake of his head. "Just trying to live up to the writer title, Summs. Though, I suppose, some things never change."

A comfortable silence fell between them again, punctuated only by the clinking of cups and the murmur of other patrons. It was a silence filled with unspoken memories, shared laughter, and a deep, abiding respect. The years had changed them, shaped them into the people they were today, but the core of their connection remained untouched.

"Remember that time we tried to write a play together?" Sumona suddenly asked, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "It was supposed to be a tragic love story, but it ended up being a comedy of errors."

Chinmoy laughed, the memory vivid in his mind. "And you insisted on casting me as the romantic lead, even though I couldn’t deliver a line without cracking up."

"You know," he began, his voice soft, "I never did tell you what your eyes reminded me of that day."

Sumona raised an eyebrow, a playful glint in her eyes. "Oh? And what was that?"

He paused, searching for the right words. "They reminded me of…home. A place I always knew I could return to, even if I never actually did."

A flicker of understanding passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken feelings that had lingered between them for so long. It wasn't regret that filled the air, but a quiet acceptance, a recognition of the path not taken, and a deep appreciation for the friendship that had endured.

 

They spent the next hour reminiscing, revisiting old haunts and forgotten jokes, the years between them fading into insignificance. The unspoken “what ifs” lingered in the air, but they didn’t dwell on them. The past was a tapestry of shared experiences, a foundation for the present.

As the afternoon drew to a close, a sense of quiet understanding settled between them. There was no need for grand pronouncements or promises. Their connection was etched in time, a bond of friendship that had weathered the storms of life.

"It was good to see you, Summs," Chinmoy said, his voice sincere. "It feels like no time has passed at all."

Sumona nodded, her eyes glistening slightly. "You too, Chins. It really does."

A brief, comfortable hug sealed their reunion. As they parted ways, a unspoken agreement hung in the air: this wasn’t goodbye, but rather a “until next time.” It might be five years, or perhaps even longer, before their paths crossed again in person. But the bond they shared, the mutual respect, love, and care, would continue to exist, a quiet constant in their lives. The borrowed eyes, the shared laughter, the unspoken understanding – these were the treasures they carried away, a testament to a friendship that transcended time and distance. They were friends, forever connected by a shared history and a deep, abiding affection, a connection that needed no constant reaffirmation, just the quiet knowledge that it existed, strong and true. The café, once a symbol of youthful dreams, now became a monument to a friendship that had stood the test of time, a poignant reminder that some connections, like the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, linger long after the last drop has been savoured.

The Rain (Part - II)

Years spun by, a decade etching itself onto Chinmoy’s soul, not in lines of hardship, but in the subtle nuances of wisdom and quiet strength. Mumbai, the city of relentless motion and hidden corners of grace, had been his proving ground. The early years, following that rain-soaked new year’s eve, weren't defined by financial struggle. Chinmoy had always held his own in the corporate world; worrying about his next meal was never his burden. His struggle was internal, a gnawing uncertainty about the future, a persistent echo of the past that clouded his present. It was a lack of clarity, a sense of being adrift, not on a sea of poverty, but on a vast, uncharted ocean of self-discovery.

He’d chased promotions and projects with a driven focus, not out of necessity, but as a distraction, a way to outrun the ghosts of what might have been. He worked late nights, not to make ends meet, but to silence the internal monologue that replayed memories like old film reels, grainy and bittersweet. He remembered countless nights staring out at the city lights, a million tiny beacons mirroring the confusion within him. The rain, always the rain, would fall, a familiar soundtrack to his restless nights, a constant reminder of that pivotal new year’s eve.

Yet, even in the midst of this internal turmoil, his small notebook remained his constant companion. It wasn't a record of hardship, but a chronicle of his inner landscape, a place where he could wrestle with his doubts, his fears, and his hopes. He wrote about the city’s vibrant tapestry, the fleeting connections with strangers, the moments of unexpected beauty that pierced through the urban grime. He wrote about the lingering ache of the past, the questions that haunted him, the “what ifs” that lingered like shadows. And slowly, painstakingly, through the act of writing, a sense of clarity began to emerge.

Time, as it always does, began its gentle work of healing. The sharp edges of memory softened, the sting of regret dulled. The ghosts of the past began to fade into the background, no longer demanding center stage. Chinmoy realized that the clarity he’d been seeking wasn't a destination, but a process, a gradual unfolding of understanding that came with time and experience.

The contrast between then and now was striking, not in terms of material possessions, but in the quiet transformation within him. The restless energy had given way to a sense of calm, the internal noise replaced by a quiet hum of contentment. He understood now that the past, with all its complexities and uncertainties, had played its part in shaping him into the person he was today. The “what ifs” no longer haunted him; they were simply chapters in a story that had led him to this present moment.

One evening, years after that transformative new year’s eve, Chinmoy found himself drawn back to the office lawn. The streetlight still flickered, a comforting reminder of the past. He didn’t make paper boats this time. He simply sat on the damp grass, the cool night air a welcome embrace. He looked up at the sky, a vast canvas dotted with distant stars. He thought of the young man who had once been so lost, so unsure, and smiled. 

He understood now that everything, even the periods of confusion and doubt, had happened for a reason. Everything happens for good. It was a simple truth, a quiet revelation that brought him a profound sense of peace. He had finally found the clarity he had been searching for, not in some grand revelation, but in the quiet acceptance of the journey itself. It wasn't about forgetting the past, but about integrating it into the present, weaving it into the tapestry of his life. 

He had let go of what “should” have been and embraced what is. That, he realized, was the essence of life, a continuous unfolding, a constant dance between memory and hope.

The Missing Link

"Am I missing something?" 

Chinmoy muttered, the question a restless echo in his mind. It was the third time in an hour, a persistent hum beneath the rising panic. His 9:30 AM flight to Mumbai loomed, the clock ticking relentlessly towards 7:30. In Kolkata, summoning a ride at the eleventh hour was akin to chasing a mirage. Two ride-hailing apps had already flashed the dreaded “jabona” (won’t go), leaving him stranded.

Then, a beacon of hope: one of Kolkata’s iconic yellow ambassador taxis, its paint faded like a well-loved photograph, crawled into view.

“Dada! Airport jaabe?” (Brother, will you go to the airport?), Chinmoy blurted, practically diving into the back before the driver could even respond.

A sly grin spread across the driver’s face. “Tinso ponchas taka lagbe.” (350 rupees).

Chinmoy recoiled. “What?! The airport is barely four kilometers! The meter fare is 80-85 rupees. This is daylight robbery! You should just go and hold up a bank! I’ll give you 100, not a paisa more.” He made to get out.

“Meter cholchhe na,” the driver countered, his voice softening slightly. “Duesho taka din, aar kono kotha noy. Deal!” (The meter’s not working. Give me 200, and that’s my final offer. Deal!)

Chinmoy glanced at his watch. 7:50. Arguing over 100 rupees wasn’t worth missing his flight. 

“Fine,” he sighed, sinking back into the worn seat. 

“200 it is. But turn on the meter anyway. I want to see the actual fare.”

The driver gave him a skeptical look, but nodded and flicked the meter on.

Chinmoy’s internal monologue resumed. What is it? What am I forgetting? He rummaged through his backpack and carry-on, checking for his passport, wallet, boarding pass. Everything seemed to be there.

Midway through the journey, the driver pointed to the meter. “Dekhoon dada, apni bolchhilen airport 4 km door. Meter ki bolchhe dekhoon… pray 5 km chole eschhi aar ekhono 2 km baaki. Ae taxi ta amar shob diner byapar, ami tomake mithhe kotha keno bolbo?” (Sir, you said the airport was 4 km. Look at the meter – we’ve already gone almost 5, and there are still 2 to go. I drive this route every day. Why would I lie?)

Chinmoy conceded, “Okay, my mistake. Don’t worry, I’ll pay you what I promised.”

They arrived at the airport at 8:45. Perfect timing. The meter read 165 rupees, but Chinmoy handed over 200, thanked the driver, and hurried towards Gate A7.

“Ek minute dada! Ekhane ekhane!” Chinmoy heard the driver calling after him. Now what? Is he going to ask for more after all?

“Dada, apni headphone gari te chhere diechhen. Taratari korle erokom i hobe… ekhon jaan, noyto flight miss hoe jaabe.” (Sir, you left your headphones in the car. When you rush like this, you forget things. Go now, or you’ll miss your flight.)

Chinmoy plugged in the earphones and a beautiful track was on…”Stay gone”; a masterpiece by Jimmy Wayne…

 

I found piece of mind I'm feeling good again

I'm on the other side

Back among the living

Ain't a cloud in the sky

All my tears have been cried

And I can finally say…

I know everything's gonna be okay

If you just stay gone…

 

He smiled as now he realised what was missing... :)

 

 

The Traveler, Oasis and the Mirage (Part - II)

Chinmoy reached at C-505. 

Suruchi: Hey..hi. 

C: Where is aunty? Let’s go and have lunch together. 

S: She had been waiting for you since morning. A while ago mom left for a relative’s place. She would be back by 5.  

 C: Hmm. Am also not that hungry. Let’s open the sweet box. ☺ 

Suruchi : Yeah. By the way, it is with Naina. But are you sure that you do not want to meet Naina?

C: Hmm…ooo…ok. Is she here?

S: She is inside. Go and talk to her…finally!

Chinmoy went in. Naina was busy in packing her books. She gave a fleeting look at him, ignored and then again kept herself busy in packing. Oh! What an arrogant girl! Chinmoy thought.

 

C: Hi Naina. Hmm…came to know that you are leaving tonight. And yeah...Congratulations for your job. Initial posting will be at Bangalore right? Cool yaar! Umm…I mean that place is cool. The weather is good too. Also the people are! I mean to say that…that…ok…leave it. How’s Duggu doing? (Her brother) oops! How are your parents? Are they coming to pick you up today?

 

Naina: Mr. Enough! Can’t you see how messy the place is? Are you going to help me with packing and yes…stop conducting my stress interview.

 

C: Yes, yes...sorry for asking too many questions at a time. No problem. Give me that carton…No, that bigger one and some tape. Let me pack the books first. 

 

It almost took 3 hrs to pack the entire things. There was a pin-drop silence. Even Suruchi wanted to say something but Naina gave her a glare. So she dared not to speak!

 

C: I guess everything is done. Cool! I already have booked a cab to drop both of you at the railway station. Girls, get ready, the cab would be here by 7.30 pm. 

N: Ok. Anything else?

C: No…yes, the sweets. The packet that Suru’s mom brought. She mentioned that it’s with you.

N: It’s there on my study table. Pick that while you leave.

C: Naina…we have enough time for tea. Can we go to canteen as I don’t know when and where we would meet up next. 

N: Ok. You go ahead, let me take a shower; would join you in 15 mins.

The Rain (Part - I)

The afternoon of December 31st carried a peculiar melancholy. The morning had been crisp and clear, a false promise quickly betrayed by brooding dark clouds that gathered like mourners. Then, the rain began. In Mumbai, a city that rarely saw rain after August, this unexpected downpour felt like a tear shed by the year itself.

“Just a quick coffee break,” Chinmoy murmured, escaping the sterile confines of his cubicle. Pressing his hand against the cool glass of the window, he felt the chill of the raindrops, a sensation that transported him back to his childhood. He remembered his mother, her persistent hand forcing a raincoat into his schoolbag despite his protests. He’d preferred to dance in the downpour, each drop a tiny, joyful rebellion. Rain had been there the day he left home for higher studies, a constant companion in a world of unfamiliar faces and a daunting new environment. It had witnessed countless shared moments with friends, laughter echoing against the rhythmic drumming on rooftops. And, he thought with a pang, it had been there when she left, a silent witness to his quiet grief. Only the rain remained a constant.

“Hey.”

Sonal, his boss, stood behind him. “Still here? It’s New Year’s Eve! You should be out celebrating.”

“I’m leaving soon,” Chinmoy replied, his voice a little flat.

“Want a ride? It’s pouring.”

“Thanks, Sonal. You go ahead. I have some things to finish. Happy New Year.”

“Chill, dude. You need a break. Happy New Year!” Sonal smiled and left.

By 6 PM, the rain had eased, leaving behind a sky washed clean, tinged with the bruised hues of twilight. The office, already sparsely populated, emptied quickly. The air crackled with the anticipation of celebrations. Chinmoy watched them go, each figure disappearing into the promise of a new year. He had no such plans. “Home…rest,” he thought, a simple, quiet desire.

He stepped out into the office lawn. The rain had created small, shimmering pools on the grass. Instead of heading to the cab stand, he found himself drawn to one of these ephemeral lakes. The streetlights flickered, one in particular struggling to maintain its glow, a lonely beacon in the growing darkness. He sat beneath it, removed his shoes, and stepped onto the damp grass.

A wave of nostalgia washed over him. He remembered the paper boats of his childhood, meticulously crafted, each one adorned with vibrant colors and hopeful little messages. He longed to build one now, to launch it onto the miniature pond, a symbolic gesture of letting go and embracing the unknown.

He rummaged through his bag, a flicker of disappointment when he found no paper. Then, his eyes lit up. He pulled out two well-worn sheets: copies of her resume. They had been with him since last January, a lingering reminder of a chapter now closed. She was thriving, he knew, forging her own path. These pages were no longer needed.

With trembling hands, he began to fold. His origami skills were rusty, the folds clumsy, but a fragile boat slowly took shape. It wasn’t as perfect as the ones from his childhood, but it was enough. He gently placed it on the water’s surface.

“Who’s there? I’m asking, who’s there?” a voice boomed from the darkness. A shadow approached, followed by the sharp blast of a whistle. It was Bahadur, the security guard.

“Sir? Is everything alright? Did you drop something in the water? Oh, your shoes! Let me get them.”

“It’s okay, Bahadur,” Chinmoy reassured him. “I was just…taking a walk. My shoes are in my cabin. Thank you.”

Bahadur, still looking perplexed, retreated.

Chinmoy watched his paper boat drift further and further into the darkness, until it was swallowed by the shadows. He knew people would come and go, seasons would change, but the rain… the rain would always return. It was a promise, a constant in a world of uncertainties. And as he stood there in the quiet darkness, he felt a flicker of hope ignite within him. Perhaps, he thought, the rain wasn't just a reminder of the past, but also a promise of a new beginning, a cleansing before the dawn of a new year, a new chapter. He knew everyone would leave him, except this rain...

The Traveler, Oasis and the Mirage (Part - I)

It was the day after convocation. Chinmoy was busy in packing as the next day he had to move out of the campus. Last few hours had been heart-wrenching as seeing-off buddies was not so easy. Most of his batchmates had already vacated their hostels.

 

He stopped for a while and looked around. Oh yes, that’s the famed PDP point. Huh! Ragging was never a part of their life; it was PDP…a series of Personality Development Programmes :) . It was the place where he had been ‘pdp’ized right through the first semester. It was fun. However at the beginning of 2^nd year he was at the other side of the court. Per se…there was no noteworthy turnaround; except a suffix ‘Sir’ added up to his name. Chinu had been upgraded to ‘Chinu sir’. 

 

Two years ago we all started out as strangers, became friends, and then ended up as buddies. A few became temporal parts of life so when they leave, one would feel nothing but excruciating pain because they have plunged too deep. At this juncture, it became a struggle to let people go as we all have had history, treasured memories for life. Yet one had to see off them; not as strangers, but as buddies.

 

It requires a lot of courage to put on a brave face and wave good-bye to some, knowing that we might never see each other again. The time has come to realise that “your wings already exist, all you have to do is fly”.

 

Chinmoy gave an amiable look at his trophies that he received during last 2 years. He pulled out a sticky note from bookshelf that quoted Mariaanne Willianson’s lines: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond imagination. It is our light more than our darkness which scares us. We ask ourselves – who are we to be brilliant, beautiful, talented, and fabulous. But honestly, who are you to not be so”.

 

He was nostalgic; yet quite indomitable as he could envisage his career path from here.  

 

Tring…tring…the intercom was set on full volume. Chinu ignored it. 

 

It rang up again. Perhaps the intercom was on a mission to distract the master of room no. D-105 from further moving into weighty thoughts. 

 

“Who is irritating now! Must be a junior”. He was annoyed.

 

Since last Monday, at least half a dozen juniors had approached him and probed about the exact day and time when would be leaving the campus so that they could occupy D-105. 

Today during breakfast, a junior was enquiring about the travel plan until “Hey you, hang on!’ a manly voice stormed in. It was Nitish, Chinmoy’s roommate. ‘You can shift to D-105  only after our departure from the campus. Let us stay in peace for next few days. Anyway, June onwards the entire campus will be yours” Nitish replied.  

 

The phone was ringing incessantly. Chinmoy went and picked it up.

 

Chinmoy: Hello.

 

Suruchi: Chinu! Where are you? You became deaf or what. I’ve been calling you for last 10 mins.

 

C: Yeah. I was busy.

 

S: Now listen. We are leaving the campus at 7pm. Gotta catch Narmada Exp at 9.30.

C: Huh…We mean who?

 

S: Me and Naina…u idiot.

 

C: Oh…fine.

 

S: Kya ok? Are you gonna carry this fight right through your life? Both of you have not spoken to each other since last year’s annual day.

 

C: Change the topic Thebdi (he used to call Suruchi as Thebdi, means “mentally retarded”). Right now I’m not in a mood to argue. I know that you have been on a ‘patch up’ mission for one and half years, but it’s not possible. I’m not going to talk to her…Please.

 

S: As you wish…anyway, come down to C-505. Mom has carried a box of your favourite Mawa ghewar. She would love to meet you. 

 

C: Oh…Aunty has arrived. Ok…will be there around 3pm.

 

S: No. You come now. We would have lunch together.

 

The line got disconnected. But for a minute, it gave him a flashback of what happened during  the initial days of PDP sessions where Naina and him were tagged as ‘Ms. Simple’ and ‘Mr.Simple’ respectively. He laughed realising how goofy he was. 

 

By now, folks in campus had started weaving a story around the ‘Simple couple’. In spite of Chinmoy’s irk, people started pulling his legs and at times he lost his temper. All these added fuel to fire. On the contrary, Naina was poised. Moreover, someone from the senior batch had already threatened Chinmoy to stay away from Naina. (there could be multiple reasons. God knows for what!) . This incident happened on the night before Institute foundation day & it had tormented Chinmoy. His impulsive mind could do nothing but pick on Naina as the culprit. It’s high time and let’s have a tête-à-tête with Naina. He called her as asked to be at the terrace garden in 10 mins. It was already midnight and people were still practicing for the cultural programmes going to be performed next day. 

 

Naina: Haan bolo. What happened? Why are you not with your drama club members? By the way, kudos! you have managed to pull out a nice script for this year’s show. Now you should be with your team. Hey, you don’t look well too…is everything fine?

 

Chinmoy: Shut up Naina! Don’t make a theatre in front of me. Well, you are a fine actor…aren’t you? Do you think that I got a solitary objective in life to chase you? What do you think of yourself? I am here to ‘study’…you got that right?

 

N: Hey…hang on! What’s wrong with you? Why are you shouting at me?

 

C: A while ago Sangram was here. For God’s sake don’t tell me that you are not aware of this. That self-acclaimed ‘well-wisher’ of your’s abused me and he wanted me to stay away from you. What a piece of crap is this? Could you explain the rationale behind this fiasco?

 

N: Chinu…Please calm down. Trust me. I am not aware of all these. Let me call Sangram right away and ask why did he do this. 

 

C: Enough Ma’am. You are the root-cause behind this saga. Neither I want any explanation, nor clarification from any x, y, z. But Naina, can you do me a favour? Both of us would study here for next one and half years. Never ever talk to me. We shouldn’t cross each other’s way. Just do whatever you want to do…but pls stay away from me. 

 

N: Are you gone insane? Drunk or what? We will talk tomorrow after foundation day celebration.

 

(Ankit shouted from the Auditorium…”Naina, is our nautanki boss with you? If he is around, just tell him that we would rehearse the entire script on stage for the final time. Prof. Sodhi is here and looking for Chinmoy.”)

 

N: You must go now. We will continue this debate tomorrow.

 

C: Bye. But you remember what I said.

 

Chinmoy stuck to his decision. Naina made several attempts to rekindle a friendship…no way! Suruchi (Naina’s bestie and roommate) tried her level best to bring these guys together. But all her efforts went vain. Chinmoy somehow convinced Nitish with some lame reasons and they changed their room from C-302 to D-105 as it was around the terrace garden; most importantly, quite far from Naina’s room.  He used to opt out of the presentation groups if by chance they have been picked on a random basis. (But yes, every time he ensured to prepare the ppts as well as helped in Naina’s reports whenever required. He used to share all these through Suruchi with a condition of anonymity). Gradually people forgot it, except Chinmoy. 

 

Life moved on. They had completed their 1^styear, core courses in second year, got placed, done with job internship, and finally convocation. They were yet to speak... 

 

 

It was 1:30 already. He decided to reach C-505 by 2 pm.