Can you still find this day, my dear, among your possessions?
Among the souvenirs of your trips to faraway lands, the textbooks from those halcyon days when you walked the hallowed portals of that engineering college, the cassettes whose covers were left behind after one of those bacchanalian sessions in the hostel, the photographs of those classmates whose names you can't remember? Or is
I can still find it here, in the
I am probably better off now. Without secrets to keep from my parents. Without someone to come between me and my friends, me and my pastimes, me and my work, me and my sensible, understandable, utilitarian life. The life that I keep trying, keep failing to bring in line with the expectations that I keep trying, keep failing to make my own.
It is not that I always feel like this, sometimes I yearn for those days when tears and laughter both came easy. Those easy and quick transitions from ecstasy to despair. When a compliment could keep my mind occupied for hours on end and a harsh
Was I not supposed to be different from the rest? Not for the silly schoolgirl infatuation with the football team captain or the fascination with the good for nothing, pot-smoking aspiring poet. Ours was a mature friendship that had blossomed into more. How could I feel a pang of envy then, when you lent a helping hand to another girl, when you spoke about someone who's far away and about to be married, when you were so involved in the book you were reading that you did not notice that we never met all day?
When we decided that it had been too long and that we should meet, I carefully started preparing a package for you. A small poem, that book you always wanted but never found, an old photograph and a bar of chocolate for us to share. What would I wear and what would we talk about? The package still remains in my drawer waiting for the phone to ring again.
It was a rainy Sunday afternoon when we sat in my tiny hostel room, discussing capitalism and campus gossip with equal fervor. When it seemed as if those conversations could last forever and we would never tire of them. When Joni Mitchell sang "California" seven times on continuous play before we thought of getting out.
Then one day suddenly we were looking for each other. You were always somewhere else, doing something else and strangely enough so was I. Those
Then came the
Back home, I still continue leaving those post-its to this day, hoping that someone will write their whereabouts on them as well.
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