I open the balcony door of my new house and the sea breeze wafts in, much welcome. My Buddhist prayer flags flutter continuously, a little stained from the leakage in one box during the shift but still colourful and graceful enough to redecorate my premises with. I remember where I bought them. At the corner off Brigade Road, opposite HM Towers at the Tibetan shop, after a combo meal at Indiana's and some rapid shopping at the adjacent cotton expo.
Yeah, I do miss it. I miss the big trees, the sunny winter sky, the pavements, parks, the bright, alluring lights of my beloved (Brigade road), the haggling with autowalas (atleast they bothered to have a meter), my office, the breakfasts (whenever I woke up on time or hadn't slept the night before), brunches, lunches and dinners. I miss going out for beer in the day time, the wind and sun making me feel like a baked bread, the kind of smell that hovers in the air when you pass a good ol' bakery. Five years in one city, and here I am, sitting in my new office in a new city, reliving all of it, just for a moment.
You can only guess how much I miss the pubs. My evenings occupied with meeting different rounds of friends (although I had my steady partners, you know who you are) and 'downing' the beers, one mug after another, maybe a shot or a few whiskys too, and then some more beer, smokes of course, often the illegal kind, and maaaaybe some fries to go with it. Or fried bacon, if at Pecos.
I don't miss college much, considering that I was never such a regular. I don't miss the formalities of it all, the begging and pleading for attendance. I miss a few of the good times, a few teachers, although even then, much of my memorable moments were outside, probably in my first PG, or the terrace house we shared. I remember evenings when we used to sit on the terrace with pillows and a mat, a little buzzed, or the marathon Old Monk-One Tree Hill sessions, the fights, girl issues. Bangalore was new then, and there was so much to discover. I remember spending a lot of time with one person but neither him or me are the same anymore.
My orange house. I was free. I was myself. I was somewhat unstoppable and yes, I've had a great run. Customised, it was my shelter, my refuge and savior, shaping me, everyday that I learnt to do it all on my own. I've thrown up in some unspeakable places in that house, broken perfectly harmless things in anger, cried my heart out over spilt maggi and kept dogs, five of the best, who tattered the place into even more of an identity for me. I know each stain, every crack, chip, scratching. I know the secret words penciled into the walls. The leakages and the spot to place the mug when the roof leaks. The sunny terrace where I played with all of the dogs, cleaned their poop, tottered about on the terrace ledges, some nights. Uncle has been kind.
I'm not a person too attached to anyone else. At least, I thought so. But I find myself aching for those people that I saw everyday. I want to trace back all those evenings, doing nothing. Don't smoke the J without me, don't go to for 'a couple of drinks' without me, don't make more friends, don't tell anyone else what's bothering you, don't plan road trips, don't buy new shoes, don't make my favourite dinner, don't go on dates, don't buy beer and go to someone else's house. Stop at number 42, Benson Town, and head straight down from the gate, white door. I'll open it, maybe a dog will rush out. And you can come share my slice of seclusion. Sometimes, the knocks on the door were unwanted. I didn't want to but I still let in some people who slowly made their way through my unpredictable moods, and surviving that, my ashtray of a heart. Friends, and slightly more intimate friends, hats off to you guys for bearing up with me. I still don't know why I am like this. But if you know me, you should know that only sometimes do I regret it!
Few months ago, I thought I knew what I wanted. Maybe I didn't. And maybe I still don't. I uprooted myself off the complacency I built around me and arrived in a seemingly quieter place, starting all sorts of new things for no reason. I wanted to be so careless about everything, weight-free, but some of these memories smile up at me from the bottom of the pool of timepassedby, while unpacking all the useless bits of Bangalore I've brought here, and they don't let me go, some evenings.
It's not going to be back. We've moved on and along with the pace of things around us. It doesn't take me more than half a day to get over anything and like most of timepassedby, it may have all been a gigantic mirage. But I carry with me totems of small kinds, swaying the mind back to breezy days when we shared a smoke, a laugh, a hearty bitch about life, a house, a holiday, a beer, an auto somewhere or the other, and you know it's true, you don't forget.
Yeah, I do miss it. I miss the big trees, the sunny winter sky, the pavements, parks, the bright, alluring lights of my beloved (Brigade road), the haggling with autowalas (atleast they bothered to have a meter), my office, the breakfasts (whenever I woke up on time or hadn't slept the night before), brunches, lunches and dinners. I miss going out for beer in the day time, the wind and sun making me feel like a baked bread, the kind of smell that hovers in the air when you pass a good ol' bakery. Five years in one city, and here I am, sitting in my new office in a new city, reliving all of it, just for a moment.
You can only guess how much I miss the pubs. My evenings occupied with meeting different rounds of friends (although I had my steady partners, you know who you are) and 'downing' the beers, one mug after another, maybe a shot or a few whiskys too, and then some more beer, smokes of course, often the illegal kind, and maaaaybe some fries to go with it. Or fried bacon, if at Pecos.
I don't miss college much, considering that I was never such a regular. I don't miss the formalities of it all, the begging and pleading for attendance. I miss a few of the good times, a few teachers, although even then, much of my memorable moments were outside, probably in my first PG, or the terrace house we shared. I remember evenings when we used to sit on the terrace with pillows and a mat, a little buzzed, or the marathon Old Monk-One Tree Hill sessions, the fights, girl issues. Bangalore was new then, and there was so much to discover. I remember spending a lot of time with one person but neither him or me are the same anymore.
My orange house. I was free. I was myself. I was somewhat unstoppable and yes, I've had a great run. Customised, it was my shelter, my refuge and savior, shaping me, everyday that I learnt to do it all on my own. I've thrown up in some unspeakable places in that house, broken perfectly harmless things in anger, cried my heart out over spilt maggi and kept dogs, five of the best, who tattered the place into even more of an identity for me. I know each stain, every crack, chip, scratching. I know the secret words penciled into the walls. The leakages and the spot to place the mug when the roof leaks. The sunny terrace where I played with all of the dogs, cleaned their poop, tottered about on the terrace ledges, some nights. Uncle has been kind.
I'm not a person too attached to anyone else. At least, I thought so. But I find myself aching for those people that I saw everyday. I want to trace back all those evenings, doing nothing. Don't smoke the J without me, don't go to for 'a couple of drinks' without me, don't make more friends, don't tell anyone else what's bothering you, don't plan road trips, don't buy new shoes, don't make my favourite dinner, don't go on dates, don't buy beer and go to someone else's house. Stop at number 42, Benson Town, and head straight down from the gate, white door. I'll open it, maybe a dog will rush out. And you can come share my slice of seclusion. Sometimes, the knocks on the door were unwanted. I didn't want to but I still let in some people who slowly made their way through my unpredictable moods, and surviving that, my ashtray of a heart. Friends, and slightly more intimate friends, hats off to you guys for bearing up with me. I still don't know why I am like this. But if you know me, you should know that only sometimes do I regret it!
Few months ago, I thought I knew what I wanted. Maybe I didn't. And maybe I still don't. I uprooted myself off the complacency I built around me and arrived in a seemingly quieter place, starting all sorts of new things for no reason. I wanted to be so careless about everything, weight-free, but some of these memories smile up at me from the bottom of the pool of timepassedby, while unpacking all the useless bits of Bangalore I've brought here, and they don't let me go, some evenings.
It's not going to be back. We've moved on and along with the pace of things around us. It doesn't take me more than half a day to get over anything and like most of timepassedby, it may have all been a gigantic mirage. But I carry with me totems of small kinds, swaying the mind back to breezy days when we shared a smoke, a laugh, a hearty bitch about life, a house, a holiday, a beer, an auto somewhere or the other, and you know it's true, you don't forget.
Touche
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