Of all the things that I missed during the prolonged limbo, writing was the foremost. Oh, by writing I mean anything other than ECONOMICS, the last millions of years were only about that. The PhD grilled me like a raw steak on charcoal, extracting every ounce of energy and leaving me a walking dead! But, it also left me with a lifetime of experience, a hardback as proof of three and a half years of existential crisis, and in the end, time for what I love to do the most. Hence, I decided to forgive and forget, sit by the window on a rainy Sunday evening in the heart of the city that takes my breath away every single time I watch her from up above the world so high, and write.
If the prelude looks like I have something extraordinary to write about, clearly it is not the case. I wanted to write about the rains, that strangely makes me romantic and transports me to a wonderland where memories are served as welcome drinks, lunch and dinner (yes, I do relate everything to food, that's a genetic disorder). But as I start to write, I feel an array of dark clouds hovering around, mystifying the thoughts. On and off conversation with Ma distracts me, while at the same time fills me with a happiness that was missing in the past several months. We talk about life, love and experiences that have molded us, hopes and dreams, and destiny. She tells me stories of her childhood, her upbringing, when a teen-aged version of her met Baba and fell in love, and their journey ever since. She talks about her childhood crush, of friends she has long lost contact with, her school and college days, and I listen with a lump in the throat and the rain pouring incessantly outside. I have listened to her stories umpteenth times, but I still love to hear them. It makes me dreamy, and her too, as I continue the conversation with snippets of my own stories of a teen-aged version of me falling in love, of traveling around and making friends and memories for life, and of misjudgments and naiveté. I urge her to secure her stories in the pages of a diary and lock them there, as I would mine someday, only to open them on days like today. On days that turn out to be perfect, not for their fifty-shades-of-grey weather and intermittent activities, but because of rainbow-colored conversations and laughter that resonate across the room. No wonder, even after spending an enormous amount of time trying to write something in an organized way, I end up with nothing in particular. Only with a strange post that soothes :)