Some people are good writers, and some people are better because they connect. I don’t know the technicalities if there are any, but I know that there are very few things that can get me engrossed enough to read through them. Writing about nothing fancy. Rather, about the most mundane things in the world. Things one doesn’t look at or think about twice. But things that are always there. Having a perspective and communicating it too – it’s probably an art. And amidst all of it, it kindles a desire to be like it. And also making you realise that it is something unique. Something that you can never do because you are not what the writer is. You are someone else.
A recent power failure in my locality got me out of my house to take a walk around. And I realised that the place where everybody knew me, and knew my parents as Richa’s parents, has almost become alien. I don’t know anyone here, and nobody knows me. I step out only to go out. The only ten minutes a month I spend within the locality are when I go to drop my phone bill’s cheque. And today I didn’t even do that. The trees have grown so tall that I can’t see the houses on the other side. They have grown SO tall that I can’t see the moon sitting on my doorstep. I don’t sit on that doorstep now that none of my friends are here. I used to drive my ass sore sitting in and sharing that small space with them. And now I am leaving too. I wonder why the realisation of big changes never hits me till the time they are not stale news. But I am guessing this one is going to take a while before that happens.
I am going to miss these pink houses with blue and white doors. And I am going to miss being oblivious to the kids cycling around the block. I might not miss the maids gossiping in the afternoons, and the Mrs Sharmas gossiping in the evenings. But I will miss running to Pappu ki dukaan (which is actually Mohan ki dukaan) at odd hours to buy the oddest things. I might not miss ramming barefoot into furniture, but I will miss being scolded for sitting on the glass dining table. I might not miss the strange elements around the place, but I will miss seeing kids coming back from school with their bags hanging half way down. I won’t miss the permanent chaos outside Dilli Haat, but I will miss having the same sick chaat every time I go there with Mansi. I won’t miss the killer smell of masalas/fish/vegetables that inflicted the INA market, but I will miss the comfort of letting the same stranger take over my eyebrows every fortnight.
I will never walk the streets there hoping to run into someone I know. Or maybe I will do that even more. There won’t be any doorbells being rung by people who want to see me, but I will probably wait for a call that will say that I have a visitor. Yoga will probably keep me healthier, but I might hope for mom to come press my shoulders when my spondylitis will hurt me to madness. Tarun, Neha, Mansi or Avan won’t be a 50 paise phone call away, but I am hoping they will adopt GTalk for me. Sumit won’t be a Gurgaon DTC away, but I am hoping that there be a few surprises for both of us. I might have to live on Maggi, and I am guessing I won’t like it then. Mom will be the happiest for my intestines, she won’t have to imagine them being clogged.
Oh what do you know. I opened the gates to realisation right here. This is going to be hard.