The evening dust had started to settle on the verandah. Indications of a winter pour were imminent in the weather. If one tried hard enough, you could see the clouds engaged in frolic as children do, making a game out of anything, even the space between them. As I drifted to the sight on ground, there too, was a game in progress. This had to be played by rules and penalties were high. There was life on the streets and solitude in the sky and in the verandah was me, perched in between.
Glancing at the inside, as the shadows took over the walls, I brought the book outside into dusk. It was the only worthy object in that entire room laden with my belongings. I don't know what made me pick it up; it had been lying at its designated corner rack without any clamor. Later I noticed, it was the only one with a bookmark sticking out, rest others had been read and laid to rest. 'This bookmark needs to justified for its wait...lets get the remaining pages to their end', I thought. Passing through the words, line after line, my mind conveniently drifted away from the contents of the page to the more crucial question of why was the bookmark here, stuck between the greying pages.
Page 247-My reading had stopped here (fifth chapter). Picking the bookmark up, I happened to notice some amount of scribbling on it. Renewing my focus on the book, I tried to make sense of what was written. However, after some struggle, I had to give up. There was nothing on that page that could hold the interest of an ardent reader. Then why was it here, with all other things, with a bookmark, left unfinished. How did I reach till page 247 then? What brought me here? Was it someone else's doing then? Could it be that I'm forgetting someone who had accompanied me till this page and then left? I turned over to the writings on the bookmark-there were random amount figures, some reminder notes and a mathematical equation. 'This bookmark surely has come a long way', I said.
Page 139-Tracing back my steps, I stopped here. There was nothing significant on this page, except what was written on its corner. "Could we meet in the evening...at the university canteen?". The canteen was a special feature of the campus-situated in north corner, tucked under the banyan tree. Students frequented 'Chacha's stall' at the front gate. That's because we could avail that special tea and rusk on credit. Usually our accounts ran for months, sipping in glory all the while. On that particular evening, thankfully, my wallet was not completely barren. She was already there, a smile under the shadow of the leaves. 'That's a horribly awful book you're reading,' she said.
'It belongs to my roommate. And I must say, it has found a purpose today,' I tried to look into her eyes. They were still, like the leaves above, calm and poised. That evening, I wished there could be endless cups of tea, but there was no credit here.
Page 76-Recounting many of such evenings, I went back further into those days when finding a shade was easy. Where you could sit and listen, and let the birds do the talking. Let the wind remind you of your presence. You could flip trough pages, or let them be where they were, unmindful of their existence. Another evening I stumbled upon was on this page. It had been cloudy since afternoon. The heat was becoming unbearable; a rain spell was immediately required. Climbing the stairs to my room, I imagined sinking myself into the rickety bed with the fan at full speed. But that was not to be. Power cuts was a regular feature during summer and I couldn't escape its wrath that day. After a while, I heard a thunderclap and it started to pour. Along with the wind in its company, the monsoon had declared its arrival in the city. My roommate entered, half drenched. 'This is not the time to be inside. Come, lets be children for sometime' and he carried me outside. On the street, we both were behaving like lunatics caught under a spell. Dancing under the first rain brings out the innocence of the prime, which, just like the first drops, is pure.
He was making a paper boat, I hadn't noticed. Handing it over to me he said, 'Lets sail to freedom today.'. And I let that boat flow, watching it pass into oblivion down the drains. That paper boat was from this page.
I stopped and looked around. It was dark now, both inside and outside. I placed the bookmark back at its designated place. Placing it back in the rack, I went inside. The remaining pages will never reach an end-he thought. Some journeys need a "bookmark", to remind you of whereabouts, your existence.
Glancing at the inside, as the shadows took over the walls, I brought the book outside into dusk. It was the only worthy object in that entire room laden with my belongings. I don't know what made me pick it up; it had been lying at its designated corner rack without any clamor. Later I noticed, it was the only one with a bookmark sticking out, rest others had been read and laid to rest. 'This bookmark needs to justified for its wait...lets get the remaining pages to their end', I thought. Passing through the words, line after line, my mind conveniently drifted away from the contents of the page to the more crucial question of why was the bookmark here, stuck between the greying pages.
Page 247-My reading had stopped here (fifth chapter). Picking the bookmark up, I happened to notice some amount of scribbling on it. Renewing my focus on the book, I tried to make sense of what was written. However, after some struggle, I had to give up. There was nothing on that page that could hold the interest of an ardent reader. Then why was it here, with all other things, with a bookmark, left unfinished. How did I reach till page 247 then? What brought me here? Was it someone else's doing then? Could it be that I'm forgetting someone who had accompanied me till this page and then left? I turned over to the writings on the bookmark-there were random amount figures, some reminder notes and a mathematical equation. 'This bookmark surely has come a long way', I said.
Page 139-Tracing back my steps, I stopped here. There was nothing significant on this page, except what was written on its corner. "Could we meet in the evening...at the university canteen?". The canteen was a special feature of the campus-situated in north corner, tucked under the banyan tree. Students frequented 'Chacha's stall' at the front gate. That's because we could avail that special tea and rusk on credit. Usually our accounts ran for months, sipping in glory all the while. On that particular evening, thankfully, my wallet was not completely barren. She was already there, a smile under the shadow of the leaves. 'That's a horribly awful book you're reading,' she said.
'It belongs to my roommate. And I must say, it has found a purpose today,' I tried to look into her eyes. They were still, like the leaves above, calm and poised. That evening, I wished there could be endless cups of tea, but there was no credit here.
Page 76-Recounting many of such evenings, I went back further into those days when finding a shade was easy. Where you could sit and listen, and let the birds do the talking. Let the wind remind you of your presence. You could flip trough pages, or let them be where they were, unmindful of their existence. Another evening I stumbled upon was on this page. It had been cloudy since afternoon. The heat was becoming unbearable; a rain spell was immediately required. Climbing the stairs to my room, I imagined sinking myself into the rickety bed with the fan at full speed. But that was not to be. Power cuts was a regular feature during summer and I couldn't escape its wrath that day. After a while, I heard a thunderclap and it started to pour. Along with the wind in its company, the monsoon had declared its arrival in the city. My roommate entered, half drenched. 'This is not the time to be inside. Come, lets be children for sometime' and he carried me outside. On the street, we both were behaving like lunatics caught under a spell. Dancing under the first rain brings out the innocence of the prime, which, just like the first drops, is pure.
He was making a paper boat, I hadn't noticed. Handing it over to me he said, 'Lets sail to freedom today.'. And I let that boat flow, watching it pass into oblivion down the drains. That paper boat was from this page.
I stopped and looked around. It was dark now, both inside and outside. I placed the bookmark back at its designated place. Placing it back in the rack, I went inside. The remaining pages will never reach an end-he thought. Some journeys need a "bookmark", to remind you of whereabouts, your existence.
