A door opens and closes on the fifth floor of a flat in South Bombay. A simple two-word SMS saying-‘See ya.’ A handshake at Hazrat Nizamuddin station on a hot summer morning. Sometimes you can tell. That exact moment when you lose a friend. It might have begun earlier. But there is always a point at which you know that however bad matters might have been before, now there is no going back.
It hurts. Whatever the reason may be, even if it is not your fault, even if the person in question is clearly responsible and you have reached the limit of how much you can take, you always remember better times. The laughter, the banter, the memories you shared and how they made up such an essential part of you. And when they go, that part goes with them and makes you suddenly feel incomplete. ‘Then why do things go so wrong?’-you ask, ‘How can people so special and so integral to your existence manage to drift so far apart from you?’ Those are difficult questions to answer…and painful ones. But, as with everything else in life, people change. Perceptions change…and so do realities. The sad part is that you never notice these changes initially. You cling on to an image that has ceased to be true. And then that image grows until it overshadows the reality or replaces it completely. Both of you wonder how the other is so different now and why they act in a manner that you would never expect of them. When problems arise, there is a chance for redemption. Yet too often you never take this chance-simply because it is too frightening to acknowledge that those problems actually exist. Yet again, sometimes you just do not want to go back. So when somebody asks you what is wrong, you reply that nothing is. And turn around and walk away. Into the sunset…
I have had awesome friends. All my life. And I do not deserve them. In fact, my friends (and family) have been the reason why I have been able to manage my life till date. Every time something has gone wrong, I have run to them for help and they have been magnificient. Whether it is getting hold of a textbook they have never heard of just because I needed it for a competitive examination or running about with me to every college in town the week before university examinations or just listening to my drivel on the phone for hours at a time even with an important exam looming the next day, they have gone through all this and more without a word of complaint. And with absolutely no resentment either at being taken so blatantly for granted by me.
This one is to all the friends I have lost. Thank you. I was fortunate to have had each and every one of you as a friend. And if I lost you, it was not your fault in any way whatsoever, but entirely due to my own shortcomings. The same ones with which you put up time after time. To someone who grew up with me through my seven happiest years in school. I still cannot believe that we have drifted apart…and I could never fathom why. To an old friend who I lost once…and regained-because our magic was such that after months of not talking to each other, a message was all it took to bring us together over coffee and then to promptly agree to leave the past behind. Hanging out so much with you over the last seven months was one of the best things that ever happened to me. And now that it has come to an end, I miss those months terribly. To someone whose imminent departure moved me to tears for the first time in twelve years. I am sorry that I have failed you thus. To others too numerous to name, but who ‘I have loved long since and lost awhile.’
Thankfully there are still people who patiently put up with my many failings. And I am still fortunate enough to meet wonderful people who become great friends. This is to all the friends I have. I am an ungrateful wretch, but for once, I do realise how lucky I am to have all of you in my life. Thank you. To someone who forsook all traces of ego to reach out to save a friend she had known barely a week. Who continues to go far beyond what anyone else would to affirm our friendship every time any hint of trouble appears or we seem to be drifting apart. You are my one island of sanity in a crazy world-a place where I can always get my bearings right. To quote you-‘because you care, because you worry, because you love, because you keep in touch, because you are you…and you help me be me.’ To someone who was friendly enough to scrap a person she had spoken to only on the phone once…and now keeps becoming more and more special everyday. To someone who has calmly ignored multitudes of jokes and aspersions which become less funny and more tasteless with each passing day to become my very own ‘bridge over troubled water’. To my roommate who has quietly been there throughout these four years of college, never refusing anything that I asked of him and never hesitating to voice opinions and truths that were unpalatable if he thought that I needed to hear them. To all my other friends and colleagues without whom my life would have been much less special and enjoyable.
‘Heart-smitten with emotion I sink down,
My heart recovering with covered eyes;
Wherever I had looked I had looked upon
My permanent or impermanent images…
And I am in despair that time may bring,
Approved patterns of women or of men
But not that selfsame excellence again…
You that would judge me, do not judge alone
This book or that, come to this hallowed place
Where my friends' portraits hang and look thereon;
My history in their lineaments trace;
Think where man's glory most begins and ends,
And say my glory was I had such friends.’
(W.B. Yeats-The Municipal Gallery Revisited)
Eloquent lines…and never did they hold as much meaning as they do when used to describe the remarkable men and women I have been fortunate enough to have had as friends.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Welcome to Wherever You Are (Chapter 1 of my first year journal-Exile on Manipal's Streets)
The rain-blinding, furious, unrelenting-driving against the window-panes of the bus, seeping inside between the closed frames, pattering like the feet of so many little elves on the roof. I cannot see beyond a few feet and have no idea how far we are. I have told the conductor to let me know once we arrive and received an ambiguous nod of the head in return. The conductor calls out-‘Udupi’ and most of the other passengers leave their seats and move towards the exit. I know that it will not be long now. The brochure said five kilometres.
The now nearly-empty bus lurches to a start once again and I can make out that we are travelling through a series of narrow winding roads. There is no letup in the rain that is about to welcome me to my home for most of the next four years. But even that cannot prevent me from sighting the huge hoarding that welcomes you to Manipal with another one advertising the completion of the fiftieth year of Manipal in education and healthcare. The conductor bellows that we are at Manipal and this is the last stop. I pull my bag out from the overhead rack and exit into the rain. Collecting the rest of my luggage from the helper takes a little more time while that worthy searches for the key to the storage space. Then the bus pulls away leaving behind a trail of fumes that are fast dispelled in the downpour…and me…
I am already drenched to the skin and am thus in no hurry to seek the shelter of an auto. So I make a leisurely inspection of my surroundings. I am at Tiger Circle and I know from my mother’s description that it is the town centre. The buildings to my left-which a sign tells me are the KMC buildings-have recently received a fresh coat of paint. The others around the square look as if they could do with the same. But on the whole, the place is much less derelict than I expected.
It is six thirty on a morning in early September and the grey overcast skies look down on a nineteen-year old who has just joined the thousands of others who pursue the Great Indian Dream of a degree in the twin El Dorados of engineering and medicine. In my case, that pursuit, though by no means whole-hearted, has led me to this small mini-town after a fifty hour journey. Cast into a totally different milieu from the one that has formed the backdrop for my entire life, the weeks and the months to come shall bring me face to face with people and experiences hitherto totally unknown to me. That the people I come across shall be those with whom I have at least some aspects in common, I have not the least doubt. Youth everywhere are essentially the same-in their hopes, dreams and aspirations, in spite of the cosmetic differences that may seem overwhelming at first. But there shall be trying times ahead as I adjust to the world of Manipal and I can only hope that the excitement of discovery shall be greater than the loneliness of unfamiliarity.
It is time to move on and I hail one of the many autos that wait patiently nearby despite the weather and the earliness of the hour. Another ride-a brief one-through drenched streets, a glimpse of the buildings that dot the roadsides-most of them shops or eateries, the others college buildings or hostels and I am finally at Block 7, MIT Hostels. Soon I am once again standing alone again as I begin hauling my three considerably heavy bags up the front steps. Another auto pulls up in front of the neighbouring block and I wave a hand to the solitary figure emerging from it. We leave a formal introduction for later though, our minds are on other matters at the moment.
I finally manage to wake the caretaker after knocking incessantly on the door the sleepy guard pointed out to me for close to five minutes. The keys to my room are found and we climb six flights of stairs to my room on the third floor. It is at the very end of the corridor-a further distance to drag my bags. But I am finally inside Room No. 409-my abode for the next one year. It is not quite the ultimate luxury as far as accommodation goes, but the room is clean, well-furnished and a far cry from the horror stories of hostels that I have heard. The caretaker departs and I put off unpacking till later. A refreshing shower and a change of clothes later, I step on to the balcony next to my room. The rain has lessened by this time and the sun is struggling to break through the clouds that cover the distant hills that I can see from the balcony. Someone else arrives on the floor with a pair of suitcases. It is the occupant of the room next to me. He puts his suitcases inside the room and then joins me on the balcony. I stretch out my hand to make my first friend in college…
Here in these pages, I pen down the starting moments of my new existence. Many chronicles of this town and the life that I shall lead here will no doubt follow-some pleasant, some not-so, and most downright mundane. No matter that they are of no interest to anyone save me. Perhaps they shall afford a passing diversion years hence when I look back upon these fleeting moments of yesteryear.
School is over. Life, on the other hand, is about to begin…
The now nearly-empty bus lurches to a start once again and I can make out that we are travelling through a series of narrow winding roads. There is no letup in the rain that is about to welcome me to my home for most of the next four years. But even that cannot prevent me from sighting the huge hoarding that welcomes you to Manipal with another one advertising the completion of the fiftieth year of Manipal in education and healthcare. The conductor bellows that we are at Manipal and this is the last stop. I pull my bag out from the overhead rack and exit into the rain. Collecting the rest of my luggage from the helper takes a little more time while that worthy searches for the key to the storage space. Then the bus pulls away leaving behind a trail of fumes that are fast dispelled in the downpour…and me…
I am already drenched to the skin and am thus in no hurry to seek the shelter of an auto. So I make a leisurely inspection of my surroundings. I am at Tiger Circle and I know from my mother’s description that it is the town centre. The buildings to my left-which a sign tells me are the KMC buildings-have recently received a fresh coat of paint. The others around the square look as if they could do with the same. But on the whole, the place is much less derelict than I expected.
It is six thirty on a morning in early September and the grey overcast skies look down on a nineteen-year old who has just joined the thousands of others who pursue the Great Indian Dream of a degree in the twin El Dorados of engineering and medicine. In my case, that pursuit, though by no means whole-hearted, has led me to this small mini-town after a fifty hour journey. Cast into a totally different milieu from the one that has formed the backdrop for my entire life, the weeks and the months to come shall bring me face to face with people and experiences hitherto totally unknown to me. That the people I come across shall be those with whom I have at least some aspects in common, I have not the least doubt. Youth everywhere are essentially the same-in their hopes, dreams and aspirations, in spite of the cosmetic differences that may seem overwhelming at first. But there shall be trying times ahead as I adjust to the world of Manipal and I can only hope that the excitement of discovery shall be greater than the loneliness of unfamiliarity.
It is time to move on and I hail one of the many autos that wait patiently nearby despite the weather and the earliness of the hour. Another ride-a brief one-through drenched streets, a glimpse of the buildings that dot the roadsides-most of them shops or eateries, the others college buildings or hostels and I am finally at Block 7, MIT Hostels. Soon I am once again standing alone again as I begin hauling my three considerably heavy bags up the front steps. Another auto pulls up in front of the neighbouring block and I wave a hand to the solitary figure emerging from it. We leave a formal introduction for later though, our minds are on other matters at the moment.
I finally manage to wake the caretaker after knocking incessantly on the door the sleepy guard pointed out to me for close to five minutes. The keys to my room are found and we climb six flights of stairs to my room on the third floor. It is at the very end of the corridor-a further distance to drag my bags. But I am finally inside Room No. 409-my abode for the next one year. It is not quite the ultimate luxury as far as accommodation goes, but the room is clean, well-furnished and a far cry from the horror stories of hostels that I have heard. The caretaker departs and I put off unpacking till later. A refreshing shower and a change of clothes later, I step on to the balcony next to my room. The rain has lessened by this time and the sun is struggling to break through the clouds that cover the distant hills that I can see from the balcony. Someone else arrives on the floor with a pair of suitcases. It is the occupant of the room next to me. He puts his suitcases inside the room and then joins me on the balcony. I stretch out my hand to make my first friend in college…
Here in these pages, I pen down the starting moments of my new existence. Many chronicles of this town and the life that I shall lead here will no doubt follow-some pleasant, some not-so, and most downright mundane. No matter that they are of no interest to anyone save me. Perhaps they shall afford a passing diversion years hence when I look back upon these fleeting moments of yesteryear.
School is over. Life, on the other hand, is about to begin…
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