Whispers and Cannonballs...

Everybody is leaving. Our gang as we have known… is breaking. True, we have all vowed that we’d never forget each other and stuff. True also, that we’ll all meet at the Pujas. But then, I should doubt that it’d ever be the same. There is more to the concept of time, speed and distance than 10th standard arithmetic.
And everything is happening so fast- “You blink and you miss”.
And all of this has got me so properly messed up, that I can’t even recollect the exact chronology of things. So I shall be jotting down certain excerpts, and trust the reader to be considering enough to get some meaning out of this…

***
The usual Round-table conference in JU[ minus the table, we see only green as far as the fields stretch]. People coming up with weird topics and bizarre polls, for example, who’d you choose to be your brother-in-law [to be picked among those sitting there], who’s more vulnerable to have an extramarital affair [and to think that one of us pulled more votes in both!!!], the most irritating person in the 4 years and lastly beauty/makeover tips for everyone [although I don’t put much stock in growing a beard in near future].

***
The t-shirt fiasco: I’d like to thank Sagar for making our departmental t-shirt see the light of day [only when we could wear it no more].
I’d also like to kill him for making a complete mess of my t-shirt design. For me, heart has always come first, then my art. No, I can’t simply let him go scott-free this time.

***
Sunday night at Eden. My first visit there. Never could believe its glamour and its glory. Last thing all of us did together. I depart early, tables are turned, Sourav’s bat speaks and KKR rides to victory. I missed the show, and came home flabbergasted. And those last words before I’d left, “Hath ta to miliye jaa, erpor to mone rakhbi naa mone hochhye.”

***
Two days later. 5 a.m. I send an sms while taking a morning stroll. Half-n-hour later my cell phone rings. I bid goodbye to the only person who came closest to understanding me in recent years. The sun begins to rise and strikes my eye. The morning sun is known to be mellow, but it scorches my eyes.

***
A week before all this, all of our gang’s at Budge-Budge, and we’re standing by the riverside. From nowhere a storm appears, typical Nor’wester, and wrecks havoc. People run for shelter, the boats drifting midstream hurry ashore, while we stand ground, hand in hand; not so much to defy the forces of nature, as to define the human-bond. The spray on our faces smells sweet. Someone sings a Dylan. In the end even we make a run, nine odd boys in an auto, soaked through-n-through, the rain biting down hard.

***
Two days back, I’m chatting with a very elated friend in Hyderabad. He is happy(!?). He is free. His taste buds have taken to the local biryani. He asks whether I’m still having sleep related problems. And many other stupid questions he knows the answers to. I oblige him. He talks about the weather there and the seemingly impressive abundance of the fairer sex. I suggest he take up blogging seriously, and he threatens that he’d be a better write. And then laughs as I frown. He knows that my ego does not permit being done in by someone of my own sex. Damn! He knows a lot about me.

***
Months ago, as I was opting for a second job, I sat for the interview at Samsung. HR round, a very grouchy looking fellow asks me, “So how’s life going?”
“Great!”
“You mean to say you are enjoying it?”
“Every moment.”
“Are you into something new?”
“Yes, very.”
“Then share it with us.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Er....what?”
“It is kind of personal.....the matter is....very close to my heart.”
A disgruntled shrug of shoulders greets me, and two very annoyed eyes.
I am not saying that I would’ve cracked that interview otherwise, but, as it were, things would’ve been very different then.

***
Every memory is fading. I wish these words to be true.

The last year in college has been the most tumultuous and most beautiful of my life, most certainly so. Each page from my past, each remembrance woven together forms a fiction too damn fantastic to believe. And most of it, like I said, too damn personal to share.
A thing of beauty may be joy forever, but its memory, decidedly, is not. And so I’ve half a mind to pay a brain surgeon a fortune to whitewash this permanently. A recycle bin won’t do for me; I’ve to summon up enough strength to press Shift-n-Delete.