I sit in my verandah
Staring out into the city lights
The beauty of that endless jungle of concrete
The moon's subtle presence in the night.
When my mother told me that I wouldn't return to my now former boarding school, I didn't cry. Nor did I cause any sort of scene that would display a certain level of defiance, helpless rage or melodramatic flair. I simply nodded my head, perhaps asked a question or two and went on playing Sims 2 on the desktop.
To any onlooker, I would seem perfectly all right, insensitive even. And I was, fine that is. Three months ago, the doctors in New Delhi had diagnosed minor scoliosis, a back problem that requires serious care till the age of 16. This meant I would be giving up basketball, which I had, right after the National Tournament. And I was fine.
So, I filled up a few applications, was called for an exam or two and was accepted into one of the premier schools of Kolkata. With slight trepidation, two girls and I sat together in the waiting room, clutching and unclutching our fingers, followed the lady who would be our coordinator, climbed the four flights of steps that lead to what would be our classroom for the next year or so. With a nervous smile and two deep breaths, I followed the girl in front of me into a class full of forty odd girls, smiled wider and tighter and assumed the seat I was directed to. So began my days in my new school.
Two weeks later, I sat alone in my verandah, my knees bunched up against my chest, chin resting on my folded arms, letting the silent tears course down. It wasn't that I was unhappy in Modern High School. On the contrary, I was all fired up about it - new friends, new teachers, new atmosphere. Day schools and hostels are as disparate as chalk and cheese. I was already part of the basketball team and had signed up for the school choir, the IAYP after-school club and had made a plan to go with friends in the weekend, which in my opinion was the biggest coup of them all. To be honest, I've always been a sort of extrovert, cheerful with an amiable disposition sans extreme degrees of expressiveness.
Yet, there I was, ensconced next to the railing, contemplating the glowing embers of light winking at me from across the road, humming Your Guardian Angel discordantly in between sobs. I felt shattered. No matter how beautiful a seashell may be, it will always be just that - a shell. I felt hollowed out. I'd simply up and left, without even a proper adieu. My alma mater, something I hadn't even thought I would need to look beyond. I'd left my home and come back again. It's funny how sometimes your own home can feel so alien. Surrounded by family and an ever-growing number of 'homies', I felt alone.
Looking up, I saw the solitary moon gazing down on me and felt a haunting sadness take over. A bond of kinship, strange though it seemed was formed. The moon, though surrounded by light and twinkle, is still a lone figure in the dark, fathomless sky. I took up my slightly blunt pencil and slightly damp paper, stifled a few sniffles and began to write.
Perhaps it was sometime when I was lost in the mosaic of words flowing lead onto vellum or reminiscing over past moments of jubilant joys and sweet sorrows. Perhaps it was when those images somehow began to feature glimpses of incidents in the recent days such as when I somehow mixed up a friend's and a song's name, or of how the basketball team created a complete uproar in McDonald's after a surprising victory. Perhaps it was when one train of memories effortlessly coalesced into another creating a colourful, heartwarming vista in the mind's eye. But somewhere between abstruser musings and inconsolable melancholy, my heart filled with epiphanic delight and my tears became those of happiness. I was happy again.
I heard the twittering chirp of a sparrow and looked up to see the moon slowly soaking up the dawn's bright light and realized that a new day had begun.
I feel the brush of the breeze on my face
I hear a little bird chirp nearby
I look up in search of the silver moon
But instead find a clear blue sky
Staring out into the city lights
The beauty of that endless jungle of concrete
The moon's subtle presence in the night.
When my mother told me that I wouldn't return to my now former boarding school, I didn't cry. Nor did I cause any sort of scene that would display a certain level of defiance, helpless rage or melodramatic flair. I simply nodded my head, perhaps asked a question or two and went on playing Sims 2 on the desktop.
To any onlooker, I would seem perfectly all right, insensitive even. And I was, fine that is. Three months ago, the doctors in New Delhi had diagnosed minor scoliosis, a back problem that requires serious care till the age of 16. This meant I would be giving up basketball, which I had, right after the National Tournament. And I was fine.
So, I filled up a few applications, was called for an exam or two and was accepted into one of the premier schools of Kolkata. With slight trepidation, two girls and I sat together in the waiting room, clutching and unclutching our fingers, followed the lady who would be our coordinator, climbed the four flights of steps that lead to what would be our classroom for the next year or so. With a nervous smile and two deep breaths, I followed the girl in front of me into a class full of forty odd girls, smiled wider and tighter and assumed the seat I was directed to. So began my days in my new school.
Two weeks later, I sat alone in my verandah, my knees bunched up against my chest, chin resting on my folded arms, letting the silent tears course down. It wasn't that I was unhappy in Modern High School. On the contrary, I was all fired up about it - new friends, new teachers, new atmosphere. Day schools and hostels are as disparate as chalk and cheese. I was already part of the basketball team and had signed up for the school choir, the IAYP after-school club and had made a plan to go with friends in the weekend, which in my opinion was the biggest coup of them all. To be honest, I've always been a sort of extrovert, cheerful with an amiable disposition sans extreme degrees of expressiveness.
Yet, there I was, ensconced next to the railing, contemplating the glowing embers of light winking at me from across the road, humming Your Guardian Angel discordantly in between sobs. I felt shattered. No matter how beautiful a seashell may be, it will always be just that - a shell. I felt hollowed out. I'd simply up and left, without even a proper adieu. My alma mater, something I hadn't even thought I would need to look beyond. I'd left my home and come back again. It's funny how sometimes your own home can feel so alien. Surrounded by family and an ever-growing number of 'homies', I felt alone.
Looking up, I saw the solitary moon gazing down on me and felt a haunting sadness take over. A bond of kinship, strange though it seemed was formed. The moon, though surrounded by light and twinkle, is still a lone figure in the dark, fathomless sky. I took up my slightly blunt pencil and slightly damp paper, stifled a few sniffles and began to write.
Perhaps it was sometime when I was lost in the mosaic of words flowing lead onto vellum or reminiscing over past moments of jubilant joys and sweet sorrows. Perhaps it was when those images somehow began to feature glimpses of incidents in the recent days such as when I somehow mixed up a friend's and a song's name, or of how the basketball team created a complete uproar in McDonald's after a surprising victory. Perhaps it was when one train of memories effortlessly coalesced into another creating a colourful, heartwarming vista in the mind's eye. But somewhere between abstruser musings and inconsolable melancholy, my heart filled with epiphanic delight and my tears became those of happiness. I was happy again.
I heard the twittering chirp of a sparrow and looked up to see the moon slowly soaking up the dawn's bright light and realized that a new day had begun.
I feel the brush of the breeze on my face
I hear a little bird chirp nearby
I look up in search of the silver moon
But instead find a clear blue sky
