He looked at diary and sighed. There was no need to read what was written. Memories are strange, he thought, as clear visions in sepia flooded in, transporting him back to Kolkata, then Calcutta.

It was the first day of the IIT classes. And, he was lost in the bylanes of South Calcutta, looking for the house number 1402, to let himself to be tutored by the best Math teacher in the city. Surprisingly, the address of a man so popular was so obscure. He, then saw, an equally confused her, walking down the other side of the road, and then he noticed the puchka waalah, standing at the corner. He and just moments later, she, reached the puchka waalah, and blurted out the same question at the same moment. The puchka waalah did not know, but now, they were partners in searching.

That's how they met.

When you meet an unknown 11th standard student searching for an IIT-JEE math tutor, you just ask two questions. Which board? How much did you get in the boards. He asked her. She said, CBSE and 411. The coincidence surprised him. Friendship blossoms in the most unlikeliest of situations.

Time flies when you are in 11th. And, with time swirling, the bond grew, in trams and the share autos, at the friendly chowmein store accross the tution centre, at Ekdalia evergreen sarbojonin pujo, at the book fair, and at Vibes and and over the phone.

The IIT fiasco, left them both attending different colleges in Chennai. And for anyone not knowing any Tamil, Chennai is a nightmare. Hostel, was no home away from home either, with sambhar and rasam everyday and 99.99% telegu population. A known friend, in a sea of unkown is a solace, and every saturday, he would make his way through the city to meet her, and return, to his room-mates asking him about his girl-friend, and he would spend the evening, convincing that they are just friends.

As he took his shower, he wondered, how time loses essential details in the story. About, how you remember the event, but you forget, the thread of events and thoughts that lead to it.

That's precisely, how he remembers, the long bus journey to her college. Of, how, suddenly, she felt all different, a touch too special, as the best-est friend. But she was still casual, chatting about labs, about the movies, about the good-ol' calcutta days, about the books that they were reading. In the sepia-tinged flashback playing in his memory, there was a golden hue around her on that saturday. And the next. And the one after that. (Her sepia tinged memory still was sepia tinged)

There are some events that you just remember more. And, the memory time, contrives this by making that memory so slow comparitively, that everything else seem to be the duration of a lightning strike.

The evening on the Coromandel express was that memory for him. Time had come to a standstill.

The semester (which one?) was over, and they were on the train back home. He was in the hot sleeper coach, and she in the relative comfort of the air-conditioned ones.

It was dusk, when he walked into her A-2 coach.

The sun was setting, as the train sped past Ankapalli station. The paddy fields, green till infinity swayed in the light breeze, the setting sun painted a golden hue accross the sky, the hills just beyond, played with your vision, purple images of hills, flirted alternately with your belief and disbelief that they exist. And, through the other window, the long highway that jogs parallely with the tracks, and a lone bus, overflowing to the brim chugging along, falling behind the train continuously, till you lose sight of it, and just beyond that, a temple atop a small hill, with lighting on it, a carnival about to begin. And, all this, seen through the muted doors of the AC coach, with a slow periodic AC hum in the background, and a muffled sound of the train speeding. It almosts disconnects one from the scenery around, until, another train shouts past, and the increasing horn of the other train, and the noises of the other train speeding, revives you.

Over the din of such a train going in the oppositte direction, he proposed to her. The train went past, and once again, the disbelief of the coach set in. The disbelief reflected on her face, as she asked him to leaver her alone.

Later in the night, Vishakapatnam came and went. The train reversed directions there. Suddenly, you feel that it is retracing the route back to Madras, undoing the journey of the day in the night, but then, there is no undoing. It just goes on a new path, and the older one moves farther and farther away.

Late in the night, he was standing by the door of his S-6, smoking his last ciggarette for a month (his parents did not know about it). Inside, people settled in to sleep, trying to forget the heat of the resin berths that they were on, trying first,to be oblivious of the sound of the train speeding, and slowly sleeping to the periodicity of the sound, and then to be rudely awakened, when the train pulls into the station and the sound dies. The night lamps were on, and except for the bright light at the two ends of the coach, everything inside was dark.

Everything outside was dark too. Darkness engulfed the feeble attempts of the moon and the billion stars to brighten the night. Darkness engulfed the paddy fields, and the road, and the hills far away. And the bright lights of the town far away, looked surreal, out of place. Periodically, small stations flashed by, with just a light on the name of the station, indicating the exsistence of a village.

He stared into the darkness, and tried to figure out the fields and the houses. He stared into the darkness and searched for meaning. She came to him, and told him, casually, matter-of-factly, that she does not reciprocate his feelings, the she had never thought him to be anything else but a friend. She walked away, as he continued to gaze into the darkness.

As he dressed up, he wondered, about the feeble attempts at forging the relationship again, till, one day, he (and her) just stopped trying. His life, also, tried to retrace back, but was foreced to go on a different path.

He put the diary back inside, stuffed the memories back in, put on the smile. And, convinced himself that he had to be happy. Afterall, it was Pentane's wedding. Pentane was marrying his best friend for God knows how long, and as he backed his car out of the driveway, he pondered, once again at the question.

What/ Where is the line between good friends, best friends and that someone special?

Years ago, I started contemplating. That was the beginning of the end.

It was early February in 2002. I had just broken my hand, and was learning my way around the infinitely many tasks that needed to be done, so that I could salvage a couple of university exams using a scriber (so I would dictate and he would write my exam).

So, that day, I went around Bangalore, talking to people, getting request letters signed et al. Finally, late in the evening, armed with the permission letter and the modified admit card and all the other official papers for writing the exam, I walked into a small restaurant called Chulha in Jaynagar, along with Suku, who had come with me to help me out and give me company.

We ordered the usual stuff, and were generally chatting about stuff. Slowly, the conversation leaned towards girl-friends and relationships. Almost, as if on cue, two couples, entered the restaurant.

On our way back, we came up with the pact, and named it Tandoori roti or Indian Masala pact (or something that sounded like that). The pact was that, by May 1st 2005, Suku, Anshu and I would have found our girl-friends, and that on May 1st 2005, we will go on a triple-date.

There was much enthusiasm and 'lets-do-it' attitude put later in the hostel, and we spent time talking about the innovative concept for a few days after that, mostly on our after dinner walks around the campus.

Then the holidays came, and the next semester came, and other interesting stuff happened, and the pact was totally forgotten. I don't remember mentioning it again till, probably the visit to LA last december.

Life rolled on, picking up interesting stories, discarding some, storing some in the deepest recess of memories, and by 2005, the landscape had changed. Suku had found Bhav's and Anshu, after juggling with so many others, was going around with Shruti.

Later, I found out that, they indeed, kept up the pact, and went to Three-quarter chinese for lunch.

Its October-2008, and Anshu has gone through the breakup that we all wanted, Suku and Bhav's are as fresh as ever, and are going to tie the knot later in November.

It seems, that marriage is in the air. By November, Suku, Bhavs, Parry, Jassi, Shru and Shekar would be married. News drifts in that other hostel acquanitances are contemplating the knot. Munna would be married, so would Tumul. Orkut updates of random school friends shows up marriage photos. Still, more have found love this year (Shriram had be surprised the most). And, more surprises are yet to come. Hardly a phone call goes by without some discussion about impending marraiges in it.

All this makes me happy. The cliched 'Settling-down' is happening. But, it leaves me slightly jealous also (I just hope that it is OK to feel jealous, and that it is not a major psychiatric symptom). My friends are experiencing the relationship of the life-partner, and sometimes, on home-sick nights, I get sucked into imagining mine.

And, I imagine, a lazy evening, sitting in the verandah, and chatting about the crazy bus driver, the over-zealous co-worker, the evil boss, the neighbour we love to hate, her cousins' 'perfect' wife, the home loan, the furnitures etc. And I imagine, late sunday afternoon naps, with music in the background, and the dinner battles and the breakfast wars, the expensive gifts and weekend trips. The kids, and the re-living of childhood as they grow up.

Just sometimes, I imagine.

I hope that this is just another phase of growing up, from the 6th standard boy, who thinks all girls (except his mother) is from another planet, to the naive teenager, who believes that their story would be like ____(substitute your favourite romantic classic), to the 4th year hostelite, who bets about which of the guys will be ruined my marriage first, to perhaps, this one, of thinking about a life-partner, a relationship in which you share everything. (I wonder what the equivalent phase for girls would be, The all boys are obnoxious because they do not understand the monumental games that we play with our dolls and the toy utensils stage to the a Hrithik Roshan is waiting for me stage to college seniors discussing, nah! he ain't in love with me unless he crawls on all fours and begs and gifts me diamonds, to hopefully!, the stage about respecting your partner.)


And yet, most of the times, I feel like fish out of water. I feel lost while I am talking to them. As though, even though, I have known them for so long, I still don't know them. A new facet in their personality, that I am not familiar with, and I don't know about.

And, at times, I still feel like that 4th year hostelite.


Frankly, I have been mulling about this since January, when post the LA trip, all of a sudden, life saw this discontinuous change, and people started calling in about new girl/boy-friends, marriage etc, and went through a phase of confused reaction to the calls, that I can hardly believe myself if those calls would be replayed now.

It has been quite cathartic that I typed this out.

Well, you go through a phase, and come out the better man.

Congratulations to all my friends, and a heart-felt wish that you find all your life's joys.

My Kismet was bad, that I had to see this movie. It was as though, I saw the movie twice. Seconds before a scene would play out, I will think about it.

Two scenes, where even I could think up of better direction/ dialogue/ screenplay, goes to show, how much off the mark the director was from making even a half decent attempt at making a watchable movie.

One was, an totally contrived scene, where the wrong guy is going to marry the heroine. A old hag and a old thatha try to engage the wrong guy in a conversation which goes like how are you going to keep the girl happy. The wrong guy gives the cliched answer. The girl says that is not enough. The wrong guy says, what more can I do. I have no answer. The hero says, I have an answer.

And what is his answer- A stupid song, which just paraphrased what the wrong guy said.

And what could have been much better- An a-la Sharukh Khan's Kal Ho Na Ho monologue. I never thought, I will come close to praising SRK, but I have to.

The second was when the Kismet Konnector, aka the fortune teller, who in all the previous scenes, asks for $10 as consulation fees, lets the hero go without paying because he is going after true love. How stupid!

How much more funnier it would have been, if she after making him realize about his true love and put all the funda, asked for her fees. Sigh!

Anyways, dont watch the movie, and if it is releasing at a cinema near you, stay away from the cinema.

The good part of the day, though, was I got a few books that I have been wanting to buy. I got Salman Rushdie's latest book - 'The Enchantress of Florence' last week. And, I got an autographed copy of the book, and listend to the man himself, read a few pages from the book. It has been an engrossing read so far. Given that Chicago trip stands canceled, I can finish it this weekend (and maybe review it).

Ever since I read the Midnight's Children, I have been wanting to read more Rushdie. So, I grabbed -'The Moor's Last Sigh' today.

Ever since I read Two Lives, I have been wanting to read more Vikram Seth. So, I grabbed -'A Suitable Boy' today. Phew, it is thick.

I have always loved 'To Kill a Mocking Bird'. I owned a copy once, but lost it. The first time I read it, it was borrowed by B from her library and she lent it to me. The second and third time, I read it, it was my own copy. Then, I gave it to a friend to read, and he never read it, nor did he ever return it to me. Now, I have my copy, Again.

But, it is such a book, I am always looking for friends even remotely interested in reading to lend it to.

I also got an Arab stories book, translated to English. Only because I liked the title and the first paragraph of the book.

Already sitting on my shelf is short stories by Agatha Christie and Asimov. And, there is one -'The selfish gene' on the way from the library.

It will need a big effort for me to finish these, as lately, I have been devoting much less time to reading too. It is mostly weekends. The laptop and streaming and chatting, and general reading on blogs and wiki and news sites and random clicking is eating most of my evenings away.

I also started watching 'Cheers'. Absolutely loved the first six episodes of Season-1. I know, I am into watching it for the long haul. All 11 seasons (although Wiki says that the 11th season DVD is still not out). It will take some time for me to get there though. I have Fraiser going parallel with this too.
~Kaushik

Ashwin was wearing his favourite Singapore T-shirt. Kavitha was mixing colours with water. She had just seen 'spray painting' on the T.V., and had stolen the her tooth-brush to play with colours.

Thinking, it will be fun, she sprays red on her brother's favourite Singapore T-shirt.

Kavitha found it funny.
Ashwin did not.

'You-donkey', he said, and pulled her hair.
'You-monkey', she said, and sprayed a little more red on his shirt.
'Fool'
'Mad'
'Your wife fool- your kids fool'
'Same to you'
'Iditot'-'You-Idiot'-'Fatty'-'Patlu'...

The war of words morphed into a fight. Ashwin was stronger than her, but she bites. Shrieking in pain, he said, what should never have been said
'Amma is not your Amma'.

Kavitha stood still. The weight of the words, slowly pulled her down. A trickle of tear, a river of tear-drops, as she sobbed and cried herself into the arms of her amma, who was not her amma.

Truth is better than the lie. She thought, as she told her kids the truth, a few days ago. Kavitha was not her child. Ashwin was. He was 11. She was 9. They did not understand the details. A few innocent questions, and all was like before. They were the best of friends, and she sighed in relief, for within a couple of days, they behaved as though, the conversation did not happen.

A week later, now, she wondered if the lie was better. She hugged her. Slapped him. Everyone was crying now.

Kavitha spent the next few hours, playing with her teddy underneath the bed, her tent. Ashwin, took to his favourite corner with his Tin-Tin. She stared into her laptop, but her eyes were lost in a whirlpool of memories and thoughts.

Later, Ashwin, comes to her, and asks for 5 rupees. He wants to buy Kavita a chocolate. He says, he is sorry. Kavita, surprised, on being offered a chocolate by her brother, promptly offers half to him, and asks him to help her with the spray paint. They paint till late in the night, and fall asleep in each-others arms.

She looks happily at the children, sleeping arm on arm, leg on leg. How quickly they forgive eachother. How quickly they forget.

The next day, he comes to pick up the kids for his weekend with them. As they run into the car, she tells him, 'You know, I can forgive, but I cannot forget'.

Kavitha, was his daughter, her husbands daughter.

----
As a kid, forgive was always accompanied by forget. The sorry, and all is well handshake, was really meant. No matter, how big the fight. You forgave and forgot. I wonder, where we lose this ability as we become adults. We forgive but we pretend to forget.

Sometimes a memory just jumps at me from nowhere, and lingers on. And, it makes you think, why is it that, such a trivial thing, is so special that you filed away the memory.

It was back in the summer vacations in 1994 or 95. We had just moved into Vishal Apartments, and gelled in with the gang of kids there. Thatha, had just gifted us (me and my sister), the coolest set of board games. We had Scotland Yard, Life and Battleship to spend our days with. Mama, had given us the amazing concentrates for the grape juice and the mango juice and the orange juice. Amma, had made them, and got a bunch of other small things to eat.

The mood was all set, for afternoons after afternoons of board games. Of, fighting to decide who gets to be the Mr X. in Scotland Yard. Of chalking out strategies to outwit the thief (many of which included following the thiefs eye-board movement). Of gasping and smiling when someone got married in the game of Life. Of sharing school stories. Of making fun of the maths tutor, who came with 15 pens. Of making fun of the dance teacher, who thought he was a she. Of discussing the morning Cricket matches. Of making teams for the evening kho-kho.

It was a magical summer.

So, this one afternoon, we were playing Scotland Yard, and sipping the wine-colored juice, thinking we were rich people, betting with millions of rupees and sipping whiskey as they see the game unfold. Amma (and Appa), has this incredeble ability, to gel in with the kids, so much so, in a few minutes, you don't even think that there is an adult around. As, we were playing, Amma, as a matter of conversation, asks all the kids, 'What does your father do'. And, everyone starts answering, Business, Doctor, Doctor, Banker etc etc.

As the question, travelled round the circle, it stopped at another brother and sister pair of M & J. Of everyone in the group, only me, Vidya and amma did not know. Suddenly, everyone became quiet. M looked upto J, and slowly whisphered that their Father is no-more. That he passed away, when she was quite small. Amma, quickly changed questions. And, in a few minutes, we were back to concentrating deeply on the game.

Till then, death, to us was just a phenomena in the movies, and a orphan ( M& J havetheir mother, a truly faboulous lady) was Oliver Twist. At that moment, it became reality.

At that moment, I (and am sure, Vidya too) realized that, some people are really not as lucky as us.

Appa would have been surprised by the extra attention, we showered on him in the evening.

-------
A couple of days ago, I learnt that M is pregnant. I am sure, she will be a great mom.
For me though, it is just as shocking, as to learn that my 5 of my friends will be married by the end of the year.
---------
As I was standing in the bus stand in the evening today, there was a squall. It was getting dark and ominous, as I stood waiting for the bus. As the bus approached my stop, it got the red signal just before my stop, and the squall stuck. The sky emptied everything it had, like it just overturned a bucket full of water, and the bus was standing, a few feet away from me. And, I got totally drenched. And, I loved it.

Just finished watching 'What Happens in Vegas'. It is a formulaic movie. Take a guy, a girl, apply formula, put happy ending, release it. But, well made. Just like Jaane tu. Any movie that makes me feel good, is a good movie.