Masters, they say!

One by one, the last bit of dirty linen went in. On most other days, my thoughts would have already been captured by mom made curd rice. If on the rare days the thoughts did not travel this far, they would have been eagerly waiting for the next 356. Today, they refused to leave the room. The thoughts took the form of a lump in my throat.
Slowly, I locked the doors of my room. But the eyes were threatening to open up any instant. My legs led me to Subbu's room. My mouth murmured, "Yennada naaye, weekend yenna plan". Ears heard something, did not listen. Did not want to listen. I walked away. The mind did not. How could it?

The address of my home has not change. But, the address of my room has. This is MY room, MINE. This is the place where I found my solace, my identity. Where I could lock myself all alone an err, no not cry, but compose mails to sometimes troll, sometimes lol people. Where I could sometimes study, yeah sometimes! Where I could simply sit! Imagine doing THAT at home. Where I could find myself waiting for me, every afternoon, every evening, every night!

Indian kids across generations are threatened,"eat your food right or else you would be sent to hostel". Little did my mom know curd was served in abundance in the hostel. Perhaps, I will force my kid to a hostel. Because, It is only here you know how to talk to a person who has flunked his fourth re test! It is only here you know how to share happiness. Here, you know the art of running away from birthday bumps, even if it is not your birthday.

The transition from a non-hosteller to a hosteller does not happen on the day of joining the hostel. Takes a month. You know you are a hosteller when the formality of knocking your friend's door is invisible. Your phone becomes our phone. Huddled in a room together with the high and glorious aim of studying one day before examination and ending up cursing the teacher, only to come back to curse yourself and your friends. Asking your friend to wake you up knowing fully well he would be fast asleep. Knocking each door after coming back from home. Never feeling shy of letting an expletive from the mouth.

Sigh, the journey from home to college was long. From a boy to man. The journey from college to back home is longer.

The dawn of The Apocalypse

THE glories of our blood and state
         Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against Fate;
         Death lays his icy hand on kings:
         Sceptre and Crown
         Must tumble down,
         And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

 So said, the greatest of men, who never tasted death,nor would they. Ironical as it may sound, the immortals found death fascinating. For them, death was just a play of thoughts, food to brood on for hours in darkness, ammunition enough to make generations weep. Much as these men could make death sound romantic enough, the more unfortunate ones are fortunate enough to know death more closely. Death for us is seasonal. I have died many times in the last few years. It might disguise itself in arcane ways.Yet, not so tough for mortals like me to find my hands shaking, brows breaking in sweat. The death bells have started ringing. In a grad college,death is known by the calender. The dusk of the semester is the dawn of the apocalypse.
The end of the semester is a great leveller. To watch the kids who knew not was darkness was for three months, who conquered the angel called sleep, who so beautifully seduced you everytime you opened the notebook, the ones who knew not what was life was for three months, to watch their face glow in the end of semester is a joy indeed. And then, there were some other people. The ones who knew not how to tell a NO. They never disappointed sleep everytime she courted him, their mind tried to drag their fingers away everytime the fingers went over the words t,w, i, e, r to write “twitter”, the ones who impulse always made them tell “hello” even though, somewhere at the back of mind, they knew the other person has finished his work. Truly, the end of the semester does even it out all. The inner guilt of not competing enough is consuming. For every person who drops in to say, “our project worked only at the last moment!” and watch him heave a sigh of relief, there is a river am forced to swallow down my throat.
This is not the first time I have felt this, and probably not the last time too. Its in these times, we promise ourself, “Come next time!”. I am waiting for the next time from the past 22 years. Elusive, she is! Nothing truly pinches you more than a walk across the wing where you stay. To see rooms bolted, lights switched off and to see people sleeping is a rare sight. Probably, they are sleeping after a hard day’s work. Err, a hard semester’s work. In a few more days, all the lizards will have to leave their habitation. The bags will be dusted. The clothes will adorn the bag which has locked itself for months in the cupboard. The tickets are already booked, i hear. The smiles have already started to break. It wouldnt be long before,they call all their near ones whom they resisted talking to for months about them coming back. Smells of victory there.
 For them, the holidays will mean vacation. For me, its a wait.A wait for the semester to begin. For me, its a wait for another chance to redeem myself. The end of the semester is not death in itself. Its only the ringing of the death bell. Its much worse than death itself. Infact, death can only relive the pain and release you to the next birth. The feeling is terrible, when you can see the writing on the wall, however dark life is. You know in this dusk, it wont be long before the moon washes the earth with milk. Yet, that hope, false hope that I mistaked dusk for the dawn.