Musings: School Reunion – Season 2/ part 2 (?)

Musings: School Reunion – Season 2/ part 2 (?)

School Reunion – Season 2/ part 2 (?)

First of all the title of this blog – should I call it part 2 or season 2? I prefer season 2 with the hope that there will be many more seasons just like our daily soaps and reality shows that always keep coming back with different twists. The part 2 of school reunion took some time to happen but it did happen. Some of us just dint want to bid farewell to 2016 without the second reunion. So after much planning and speculating and collapsing of the plans nothing seemed to be happening. Something or the other cropped forcing us to shelve our plans. When we reached the fag end of the year and had given up hopes of a reunion in 2016 after the successful first reunion in 2015 we were all invited to the marriage of one of our friend’s daughter. So this became the reason for us to meet again. The wedding was again in the same town where we had all grown together studying in the same alma mater. But again like the previous year not all of us could make it but those who could did it. Even if we were a handful it still meant a reunion of old friends or old memories of old days but of young hearts. We have to thank this modern technology which keeps us in touch on day to day basis through whatsapp. If not for this we would never have met, never have known the joy of meeting childhood friends again. I recall the story by Ruskin Bond ‘The meeting Pool’ in which three friends decide to meet at their favourite haunt – the pool after 10 years. They fix a date ten years on but except for Ruskin none of his other friends turn up. Apparently they have forgotten or something else happened. But those days they did not have any means of communication except snail mail (letters) and that too was not a regular feature which is why old friends never met up much after their paths had parted. And those who promised to meet like Bond and his friends never turned up and there were no reunions of friends. I remember vividly how sad I felt when I read that story for Bond who came to their fixed spot on the fixed date and waited in vain for his friends and went away sadly recalling those bygone days. In fact I still feel bad whenever I recall that story. But our story did not shape up that way, thanks to providence. (And to modern technology, again lol). However the 2nd reunion was different. Dressed in finery we gathered to bless the bride and groom whose pair was the cutest ever. While all the invitees were busy watching the wedding process we friends were busy catching up with each other and bursting into laughter now and then while people around perhaps wondered, what’s with these women? Dressed as ladies but behaving as ‘kool kids’. Still crazy after all those years!!! There was an orchestra playing at the wedding and on our request the orchestra played a song of eternal friendship of school buddies. After the wedding we gathered at the place where we were put up for more chatting, jokes and more catching up. We counted the friends who had missed this reunion and hoped they were in our midst now. And some of them parted as they could spare only a day. The rest of us few in number but great in spirit gathered for supper. And later in the warmth of our lodging rooms where the numbers had dwindled again leaving only 5 of us sharing a 5 bedded room. And since the number was less the proximity was more and through the night we talked sharing our painful experiences from the past after passing out of school and graduating to a new life. Stories of pain caused by prolonged illness were shared through tears and the hugs that were due from old friends as only these hugs could reassure and heal even after the years. Someone has rightly said, a hug by old friend is all we need when we are down and broken. Or just to feel alright. Sharing your pain with a friend is definitely a healing process. Long through the night we talked sharing our experiences and wisdom garnered over the years. These midnight conversations drew us more close which I do not think is really possible through the whatsapp. In the morning we parted after breakfast back to our routine life with its responsibilities kissing sad goodbyes. Time spent with old friends – is precious. Nothing can beat it. ‘Every parting is a form of death, as every reunion is a type of heaven’ – Tryon Edwards Till we meet again to experience another type of heaven for the Reunion – season 3 or is it part 3? What do you say girls??

I Cross the road to get to the other side

Growing up in a small town with few choices for higher education and career opportunities is not all that bad when today having moved to a city I see myself tied up in work from dawn to dusk; no friends; no neighborly chats and the ever busy streets that stretch on and on with vehicles in all colours and sizes screaming for space streaming in endlessly. And the result is that pedestrians are left behind. Crossing the road is an adventure. Every single day. Even after 20 years in the city for me crossing the roads is still an adventure. The traffic is not only congested but in total chaos because people in this city don’t care about the traffic rules. Traffic rules are not for us, Hyderabadis.. I remember those days clearly when I had moved to the city in the hopes of having a bright career. I did not own a vehicle and had to depend on public transport mostly the overcrowded buses or at times the auto rickshaws that refuse to run on meters. (I missed the small town with its tidy roads and organized traffic. No rush. No hurry. Everything moving at its own pace.) Well that was somehow the part I could manage – get myself to a bus bay and get into a bus (the right number after seeking help from others at the bay). The next was the part I feared most – crossing the road. I would wait and wait hoping for the vehicles to slow down and finally when they did; cross the road in a sprint. But often the waiting period cost me dear. I would be late for my workplace and cut a sorry figure. So the next option was requesting people who were crossing road to allow me to walk with them. Some people were really helpful they used to hold my hand and help me cross the road. But soon I realized they were not really ‘helpful’ they were just enjoying holding hands with a young woman while crossing the road. Ugh. I dint want that. I would cross the roads by myself I decided. No matter how much I steeled myself, I would get all jittery when I was on the road. Cars would screech to a halt or the bus driver would honk madly at me and those on the two wheelers were even more rude, they would shout, “ Aunty, marne ka irada hai kya?” I did not give hope. I observed people who crossed the roads. There were two groups. One that comprised of the brave confident people who crossed the road and the other comprised of senior citizens, the blind, small children and me – the not so confident group of people who also crossed the same road. After watching the group one for some days my confidence grew slowly and I learnt the knack of crossing the road at the right moment when the vehicles were thinner and correctly gauging the gap between the cars and my own speed of motion; to wait when there were heavy motors that could crush you; the safe moments to cross. It was all about timing. And after nearly 6 months (which I know is very long) I overcame the fear of crossing roads. And many times I recall the old joke: why did the chicken cross the road? To get to the other side, of course. It has now become one among the fears I no longer fear. Whilst there are still some fears I need to overcome. ‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’ http://forum.blogadda.com/images/wowbadge.png This entry got me a WOW badge!

My Confidant

I took to writing diary from age 16 when I was in college and away from home. I was lonesome in a new place amongst new people and one fine day took up a note book and writing my thoughts. And soon it became a habit because every day after college I wrote down the date and shared with my new found confidant every little detail. It was like I was sharing everything with my folks the way I used to after coming home from school. And I finished notebook after note book. All these books were neatly piled in a corner of the shelf. And when I returned home for good a box full of notebooks were amongst my luggage. In fact the box was my most precious luggage. And my habit of writing diary continued and I never missed a single detail..not even when I was bad. I wrote down that as well. And when I fell in love and out of love it was my confidante that got to know every little detail in detail. I described every feeling, every emotion to my confidant which I would not do with any human being. My anger, my depression, my fear and sorrows, my dreams and nightmares..I left out nothing. Soon as my age advanced the number of diaries kept increasing year after year and there were two boxes full of diaries. And I kept them away in the attic. One in a blue moon I took out any of the note book and read a random page and it was like living that day of that year all over again because of the minute details I had captured in it. I was addicted to writing diary. A note book accompanied me everywhere I traveled. It was an extension of me. And I could not do without it. IF for a day I was not able to write I felt restless. One fine day it just occurred to me that I am way too much addicted to writing a diary. Anyone who read it would know me inside out. But then I thought after I am no more someone who read it would know me better after I was no more. But did I want people to know me in such details..some were just too bold. I thought I should de addict myself. Stop writing these diaries. Say farewell to my confidant of over 25 years. One night when it was quiet all around and I was alone at home I removed all my diaries doused kerosene oil and set fire to them. I watched in stoic silence as the flames engulfed the books…and as the fire raged…something inside me began to crumble. I thought I would break down and cry but I kept watching the fire. I could not turn my eyes away from the sight of the burning books. I kept watching although I was deeply hurt within. Finally when the heap of ash lay at my feet I sat down in a heap myself. And it dawned on me that I had lost my confidant of my adolescence and my youth. And now I was alone. Because I would no longer write a diary now. My relationship with my diary was over.

Another item added in my league of lost things. I finally let go of the tears that were struggling to come out. I don’t know why I did it. I only knew that it was time for this habit to go. But now I still think if I did the right thing. When I told my friend about it after a few months she told me that would have made a good data for your to write stories and maybe even a novel. What a foolish thing to have done! Well..well.. ‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

The Rebel

We loved visiting our grandparents during our summer vacations as they pampered us to the core. During story time there was only one story we loved hearing again and again.

And this was grandma’s favourite story too. But wait it was not a story, it was something that happened to her during his childhood.

In the village where they resided grandma and grandpa were both lived in the same village in their childhood and were  buddies. But the older children in the village were bullies and used to wait near the big banyan tree for little children to come to the swings so they could bully them and extort goodies if they had any.

Little grandma was a rebel even then while grandpa was a timid boy. That afternoon Grandma had  sweetmeats made by her mom which she was carrying for her best friend – our grandpa. But she was bullied into giving it to the older boy who was waiting near the corner. 

She was livid with rage and flung a stone at the boys from afar. But the stone found its mark and hit the same bully on the head and he began to bleed. All the children panicked and so did little grandma.

Afraid she ran and ran away from their village and soon was lost. It was evening and it was growing dark. She was afraid and began crying but soon great grandpa along with the others found her.

No one scolded her instead they all pampered her and this made grandma happy.

And after that no one bullied grand ma and whoever happened to be with her as they were afraid of her.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.  

This blog got me the WOW badge. My 2nd one.
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An abandoned warehouse

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

There is an abandoned warehouse in our town and it always fascinated me. And I deliberately took that route while going to work though many avoided that narrow lane.

There were many stories regarding the old warehouse that after the British left India it was abandoned and later inhabitated by the people of the other world. While some said that it was used by the people of the underworld to hide their loot.

Whatever..I thought..as I gazed at the huge building in its dilapidated state, the huge wooden doors worn out and the locks rusted, wild grass around it.

I used to always try to imagine its past glory…how nice and majestic it must have been with activities bustling in it. What all goods must have been stored in it and from what different sources? What must have been the process of warehousing in those times?

How did the workers carry heavy loads? Where they paid well and on time? Or were the British were hard task masters and treated them cruelly?

I often parked my bicycle and stood gazing at the building wishing to go back in time and see firsthand how the warehouse back then functioned. 

This blog got the WOW badge

Washing clothes not a female domain

“I am joining the Ariel #ShareTheLoad campaign at BlogAdda and blogging about the prejudice related to household chores being passed on to the next generation.”

When I read about the Ariel contest on reducing gender prejudices and washing clothes my mind went back to my childhood when the ‘Dhobi’ used to come to our place to collect the laundry fortnightly and came back after 15 days to deliver the washed and pressed clothes. He and his wife took turns. It did not seem unusual back then that a man came to collect and deliver the laundry.  

And when we traveled past the river on the outskirts of our town both men and women could be seen washing heaps of clothes and drying them.

However when families became smaller and washing machines had not yet entered the household it was the mother or the ‘kaamwaali’ who washed the clothes along with the household chores which are considered ‘ womanly duties’.  And when the washing machines finally did enter the households it was still the women who did the laundry as with all the other chores. Even the ‘kaamwaalis’ were taught to operate the machine.

As I grew up I saw this transition and imbibed that indeed there are a set of different chores allotted to both men and women. I longed to outsource the laundry as it was time consuming and interfered with my free time. And I longed to go out with friends on the weekends.  But here I was stuck on Sundays with the cleaning and the laundry of the entire week.  

If I made any plans to go out with friends on Sundays I made sure I did the laundry on Saturday nights. (I work 6 days a week). It was always at the back of my mind that why the chores can’t be shared? Why these prejudices?

The society has defined separate roles for men and women and I learnt that these prejudices are imbibed and handed down from generations. There is nothing womanly about washing clothes and nothing manly about repairing the electric fuses in the house. These roles have been defined to suit the dominant ‘male culture’ with women at the receiving end. If my man washed the clothes it would not make him less manly. After all I go out and work.

And the Ariel share the load drive awakened my senses and I realized it’s time we women took up the challenge to oust these prejudices. There is no such thing as male domain and female domain.