Ripe Mountain Peaches After School

“I’m hungry again. It has been raining all morning, and I can tell that my brother is worried. He and I are both excruciatingly aware that we went to sleep last night hoping to wake up to the prospect of a hot meal at school. If we make it there in this rain. I’ve been living in this town for a year, my brother for about three. He’s only two years older than me, but he’s my sole support system here. I like to think he relies on me, too, but I don’t really know. It’s just the two of us here and he takes care of everything. Being thirteen years old would have meant I was a grown boy back in my village but here, I’m a child with a lot more on my shoulders than the other town children living with their parents. Sometimes I don’t know who I am. That doesn’t sound very pleasant, but it’s still better than remembering who I actually am. My brother and I are the children of poor farmers in the village who work their fingers to the bone to keep us here in the town so that we can go to school. Sometimes I dream of being like the other kids. They have mothers who shout at them for not eating, fathers who drive them to school and back, parents who fuss over their report cards and birthday parties. Us? We have to worry about next week’s meals. We don’t have kind uncles or aunts who spoil us. Grownups love you only if you wear nice clothes and go to a good school. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like in the schools they go to. They speak English, and their teachers know their parents. My brother and I are relieved on the days we get to eat three meals. Coming back to that, we must get ready for school. Our rice has run out, and the shopkeeper wouldn’t let us take any more on credit, and there are still five days left of this month. If our parents manage to send us money by the start of next month, maybe we can stay home on the heavily rainy days. But not today. We need the midday meal at school so that we can go to sleep with some biscuits for dinner tonight.” 

“Thui, let’s go! The rain seems to be slowing down a little!” cried his brother from the door. 

 Snapping out of his thoughts, Thui hurriedly ran after his brother and the duo set out under one brown umbrella, dressed in their school uniforms and rubber slippers, bracing themselves for the muddy roads. The rain beat down hard on the town that morning, and the two shivering young boys fading in and out of the mist had to make stops along the way for shelter. One such stop was at a big shop with a large tin roof covering the entire cemented pavement in front of it. As the boys stood there soaking, quiet and staring out into the rain, a man drove up in a car, got out with a large, sturdy umbrella and walked hurriedly onto the pavement. He was about to step into the shop but stopped when he saw Thui and his brother. 

“Boys, what are you doing here on a day like this? Surely, school has been cancelled today?!” he said, noticing how cold and drenched they were in their school uniforms.

“We still have to go,” murmured Thui, not making eye contact.

“Our teacher said we could get lunch there,” added his brother.

The man’s eyes became a little sad and he didn’t ask any more questions. He walked into the shop, and came out a few minutes later with a new green umbrella and handed it to Thui. “Here, this is for you. This rain is too heavy to share umbrellas,” he said. He sounded as if he was trying to talk cheerfully but his solemn face betrayed his tone. The shopkeeper looked on from inside the shop, sipping hot tea from the lid of a Milton flask and stacking a shelf of biscuits. His own children were home that day, warm, dry and safe. He watched the two brothers jump back onto the road and carry on their way, the green umbrella staying steady against the sweeping rain. 

When the two finally marched up to their school, they felt the familiar thick air of the hot steaming pots of food and tea as their teachers and other staff hustled about in the school kitchen, cooking and looking after the preparations. They both quietly sighed in relief and went to each of their classrooms, where they would have to wait to be called for lunch. Thui went to his usual seat next to his friend and nudged him on the shoulder, giggling. His best friend Cham, who was a little younger than him, was an orphan living with his relatives. Cham was more of a help than family to the people he was living with and he could only afford to go to this school because it was for free and classes were only a couple of hours a day. He was still irregular and depended almost solely on the school and thoughtful teachers for his school supplies. Cham didn’t respond to the greeting but sat quietly, covering his face with a notebook, making Thui poke him again, saying, “Hey! What are you doing?” Cham still did not look at him and was instead scratching the pages with his fingers quietly behind the book and trying to look away towards the window, shuffling his feet. A girl in the seat behind him nudged Thui and whispered, “Miss gave him a brand new notebook, so he’s crying.”  

Thui then, with softer movements, sat down next to his friend. In that classroom filled with noisy kids jumping to the sound of the tin roof and the old wooden window panes, the two boys sat still. A lot of the children in that classroom had stories which weren’t happy or easy to carry, but somehow, they always found a way to be children in that space with their teachers and each other. And on that particular rainy morning, the drenched class in tattered school uniforms and rubber slippers was a cheery bunch as they waited for some warm food. In there, they were not the ones carrying plates to others like they did every other day at the town households they were living in. Cham did not laugh and play with them on that particular day but it was still a safe place for him. To cry, to feel, to have a teacher who thought of him, to be understood by his friend who sat next to him, drumming his fingers softly on the desk.  

As the kids chattered and licked the last bits of food off their paper plates, Miss Suina stood outside the door chatting with another staff member, sipping hot tea. The heavy rains usually made the town still, and that morning too, was not very different, but the small building was awake and brimming with warm murmur. After a few minutes, Miss Suina walked over to the teacher’s table, beaming, looking at the children warmly as they put their plates away in the bin near the door. Her eyes followed them as they all ran out to the verandah and put their hands out under the gushing trails of water falling off the roof. Time could very well have slowed down as Miss watched the children, splashing and playing, their eyes alive and no longer hungry.  

“Miss! Miss! What story will you tell us today?” Miss was jolted out of the quiet reverie she was allowing herself. She had been drifting away to her own memories of childhood. There were no “good schools” and “bad schools” back then. There were just schools. She too had put her hands out under little waterfalls of roof rainwater, she too had gotten drenched in the rain. But all those years ago, every child did. Not just the ones who go to free schools with midday meals like now. She wanted so much more for these children. They shouldn’t have to walk into school blue-lipped, shivering and eager to eat. 

“I’ll tell you about the tiger and the monkey today!” she said smiling brightly. 

“Miss! I have my own tiger story!,” chirped a boy from somewhere in the middle row. 

“Your streaky face looks like one, too,” said a girl seated across him.  

The class roared in laughter as they shuffled in their seats and prepared for another one of their teacher’s fantastic stories. School went on for longer than usual that day. The children did not complain. If they could live there, they would have. Some of them were often secretly happy going to school on rainy days, hoping to be kept there longer by the rain. Smiling, sniffing, holding little overused pencil stumps with pen caps on top to make the pencils longer, they often lost themselves in those rooms. There was something about the way the mist covered and hid them away from the eyes of the town on mornings like that. 

It was finally time to go home. The rain had stopped, the late afternoon sun was out and bright again, shining through, making leaves glimmer and all kinds of mountain insects dance. Thui held the now folded green umbrella as he walked beside his brother.

“Look, big brother! The peaches are ripe!” he exclaimed, pointing to the peach tree that stood with its bright fruits hung low by the side of the road. His brother hopped a little to the nearest branch and pulled it down with the handle of his umbrella while Thui jumped up and picked a handful. A few others ran up and helped pull down more peach-laden branches and set about plucking, stuffing their pockets, while the smaller children chased after the ones that fell and rolled past their feet.  

“Cham, see you tomorrow! Make sure you come, okay?” Thui finally bid goodbye to his friend and everyone else separating at the little fork in the road. Some were running and chasing, some strolling, some too caught up in chatter to see where their feet were stepping on the moss-filled paths.  The young brothers then held a peach each in their hands and kept the rest in their woven sling bags. And then nibbling on their fruits and stepping lighter, they slowly trudged the old mountain road, down and away into the ember sunset. 

The Cicadas Are Singing Again

The sun was setting and it was time to settle in for the day. Each house was coming to life in a different way, as the people in them prepared for the evening. There were games cut short and chirpy children hurrying home before their parents called out thrice, elderly people getting up from their quiet spots, some hurriedly finishing their chores with light hearted chatter and low hums. Now and then, the distant strumming of a neighbour’s guitar would waft in and dance with the evening breeze. Cicadas were out singing and the clear night sky had just about begun to twinkle. It was another evening in the hills in the small, faraway town of Tamenglong.

“Is Lulu here?” Mama asked.

“Yes, we’re here. She’s with me.” Uncle Ahuan said. He had been out playing with five year old Lulu for the better part of the day. They both were still in high spirits as they came in to the kitchen, giggling and talking between themselves. The rest of the family had quiet smiles as the duo settled in and took their seats at the dinner table. After a hearty dinner of warm, soft rice and smoked meat cooked with potatoes, chilies and herbs, the family gathered around, the grown-ups each holding a cup of their traditional black tea. Papa and Mama were talking to an aunt and uncle who had just dropped in, while Lulu’s young cousin who was living with them gave Grandma a massage for her tired limbs. Lulu went and sat with uncle Ahuan, looking up at him with eager eyes.

“Looks like it’s story time!” gushed uncle Ahuan with a delighted smile. The little girl’s eyes lit up in excitement, smiling at her uncle. Then staring with dreamy eyes into the room around her, she waited patiently for him to start. He knew that look all too well, so he took her onto his lap, her favourite place of refuge, and began.

“A long time ago, in a land old and far away, one little girl set out with her basket to pick fruits and berries in the forest. Down the lane she merrily skipped along, greeting everyone she saw on the way. She ran into Grandpa Bear who asked where she was going. Next was Uncle Squirrel who told her about a big ripe bush of berries and pointed the way to her. So further along the little girl went. And when she finally reached, my oh my! Guess what she saw!”
“Heaps and heaps of sweet, red berries?” Lulu gasped as though she had not heard the same story a hundred times before.
“Yes!” said uncle Ahuan. “The ones that you like too, which we call Nuainuaina-thai remember? Yes? So she picked and picked and filled her basket to the brim with the berries, then put some more in her pockets. After a while, the sun started to set, so she went home happily, singing all the way. At the gate, she was met by her little sister who was delighted to see the brimming basket. And that evening, her whole family had a wonderful time eating berries together.”
The beaming little girl with wandering eyes then asked, “And what did they do after that?”
“Many other things but that’s for another day. It’s time for you to go to bed now,” said uncle Ahuan.
“Okay, but can I play in your room for a little while?” she asked.
“Alright then, let’s go.” He said.

Uncle Ahuan sat down at his table with a book while Lulu pranced around on the bed talking to herself, clearly somewhere else, the images of the story still vivid in her little head. It was amazing how much a story as simple as that could do for her. These stories were the highlight of her tender days. In her world of make-believe, she had built for herself a sweet and safe place which would come to mean much more with time. That night, the little girl thought about lovely red berries, pretty woven baskets and faraway places filled with nice, magical people as she drifted off to a soft sleep.

The stories never stopped, neither did the friendship between uncle and niece. It was a special bond, one that was also often the occasion for inside jokes in the family. You see, uncle Ahuan was quite a special one. He had always been a bit different ever since they all could remember, and old enough to be a father and have a family of his own, according to a lot of people’s opinions. But he was still playing with the ants, whistling and smiling to himself, playing the flute and saying the most unusual things. That game with ants was one Lulu particularly loved. They would sit for hours on end sometimes near the tiny pond beside the kitchen garden, looking at the long, endless lines of ants marching about, gathering food. Uncle would create dialogues for their friends, the ants. There was that story of a little bread crumb or that large defeated insect and the shy Queen Ant who sat somewhere deep inside those miniature hills and ate all the food, whom Lulu so wanted to meet. It was a fascinating world they held for themselves. They had built it bit by bit with each tale, every giggle they shared, the strange and unusual ideas, the magical talking insects and faraway lands.

As Lulu grew up, the stories flew along with her like a welcome chatter, trailing her youthful days. They would never stop for as long as uncle Ahuan was around, and that was a great comfort to her nine year old heart one day as she sat playing with him. Suddenly she noticed that he had begun to talk in frustrated and raised voices with another uncle.
“You will never learn. Your ways are always off and nobody can even begin to make sense of what is going on with you at all times! No normal person can even have a simple conversation with you. You’ll become a complete joke if you keep at this!” the man was saying to him. Uncle Ahuan was trying to say something in return and explain himself, but it was evident that the other man did not bother to listen to pay attention.
Lulu thought about it and just could not understand why anyone would find uncle Ahuan strange or silly. He was wonderful and always full of fun. Everything he did always made perfect sense to her.

As time passed, Lulu began to notice that there seemed to be more and more people not getting along with uncle Ahuan. Once she ran in to the living room to show him a lizard’s egg she found while snooping around in the woodshed but found another member of the family talking to him angrily, saying, “This is why you cannot even get a wife. No one wants to marry you. They all think you’re not right in the head! Stop embarrassing yourself and grow up. We only want what’s best for you.”
Uncle Ahuan looked sad but did not say much in return and instead was quietly muttering to himself, eyes lowered and looking at the carpet, fidgeting with his shirt like he always did whenever he found something unpleasant or uncomfortable. Then he turned and saw Lulu and his eyes instantly lit up as he handed her a toy he had been making out of herb stems, excitedly whispering, “This is Miangzai, ask him questions and he’ll tell you what his mother packed in his tiffin!”

There were good days and there were bad days, but they remained ever fond and close.

“Miangzai” (Indigenous toy figurines of an insect by the same name, made from kenaf leaf stems, known to the Zeliangrong Naga community).

When Lulu was about twelve, uncle left home for some amount of time to go live in a different state. Lulu would cherish the times he came home for short visits. He would always find time to tell her new stories about the places he was seeing. Then he would always finish by saying, “You will also go to those places and even farther away, one day soon. You’ll grow up to be someone great and you’ll do many wonderful things. Always remember that.”

Whenever it was time for him to leave, he would always hand her twenty rupee notes, sometimes fifty, as a way of saying goodbye, perhaps hoping to try and make it easier for the both of them. Little did he know that she would memorize every detail on those specific notes and tuck them safely away in her piggy bank, saying to herself as she swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked back the tears, “He’s gone again but at least these notes are here.”

Then she would usually pick up a story book and begin to read but quite often her rich, colourful mind would wander back to the stories he would tell and the ones they’d make up together. There was that story about the good woman turning into a turtle in the river where she went down to gather crabs and fish for her starving children. And another one about the poor girl’s older sister turning into a tree. And that memorable one he told her about the strange women who ate too many onions and had to run away because they smelled so awful. The women wove a long rope and threw it towards the sky, then climbed up and up until they became stars and lived in the sky forever. He had pointed out the stars to her. Now and then, she would remember and go look at them before bed. The hills where they lived often had star studded night skies, when the heavens would feel particularly close. This was how Lulu grew, this was how her heart was made.

The seasons and years passed and Lulu was growing up into a dreamy, passionate soul. She now lived in a big city, away from the mountains, her heart still searching for stories. One fine evening, as she sat on a rooftop watching an urban sunset, she found herself drifting back fondly to memories of evenings back home in the hills. She thought about her mother watering her flowers, the aroma of the dinner bubbling away on the stove finding its way out of the kitchen and playing with the evening air, children running about trying to see who could imitate the cicada sound best, neighbours knocking warmly on each other’s doors with hot bowls of food, her mother’s fragrant freesia lilies, she could go on. She thought about uncle Ahuan whom she barely found time to talk to anymore, but who was still the exact same.

PC: Saint Kamei

She closed her eyes and pictured him where he would be, somewhere in the heart of those faraway mountains, humming and strumming a quiet tune on his guitar, basking in the company of the cicadas and thinking about the summer plums ripening in his garden. Still without a wife but also without a care, still laughed at, still misunderstood but absolutely true to his own heart in every way. He was living every day like one caught in a time capsule, as though time itself decided he was too magnificent to be pushed to the far corners only reachable by nostalgia. Lulu thought about the way he used to tell her she would be someone great, and wondered if anyone ever told him how great he had always been. She reached for her phone, her heart swelling in her chest, but then remembered how the cicadas would still be singing there. So with twinkling eyes, she softly turned to her friend sitting next to her and said, “Have you ever heard of the strange women who ate too many onions and smelled so bad they had to run away to the stars?”

Daydream

She has come far.

Started in a little hut in the hills,

PC : Saint Kamei

Until one day she got on four wheels,

Next, a plane,

And went to a farther set of hills.

All the while listening

To a song about wildflowers

To always remind herself

Of her dreams

That were bubbling up

Bit by bit to the surface

Though she didn’t always know.

Now she has landed in the midlands,

Seeing, hearing and knowing.

Though the hills beckon often

And she has looked and looked

She never turns back.

She is ready now

At times more ready than she knows

To be a citizen of the world in flesh,

Of the universe in thought.

The stars are nearer now

No matter where she goes.

It hardly matters if eyes don’t see

Or if heads are stiff.

So now more eyes even see

More heads willingly nod.

Every new day she seeks

More of the magic that binds.

She looks forward to more,

To grand old cities,

To new faces and different minds,

To great big skies,

To many different pages.

She will not forget

The little bamboo huts

And roofs made of hay.

And the proud green hills

Bubbling with rich stories.

And colourful tales of old.

She will not forget.

But she does not turn back

For she carries the beauty of the hills

In her vast, endless heart.

She has become the stories,

In her is found their richness.

Every strand of her hair tells an old tale

Each time it flies in the wind.

In every blink her eyes take

Colours come to life

Moving in sync with her wild heart,

As she keeps on keeping on.

A citizen of the world in flesh,

Of the universe in thought.

 

 

Through The Eyes Of A Storyteller

Through the eyes of a storyteller

I wonder how this would look.

It’s an evening in the Delhi University gardens,

A windy one with clouds bearing rain,

Making eyes look happy and peaceful.

And I sit here by the pansies

Thinking about daisies,

Sprawled out on the grass,

Constantly pausing my pen,

Looking up from my paper.

For I cannot help but wonder

How this would look

Through the eyes of a storyteller.

Some grassy steps away

Sits a group of cheery smiles

They have a guitar and nothing else seems to matter.

Some quiet, curious eyes have sat down with them,

Maybe they want nothing to matter too.

Some more steps away on the grass,

I see fresh faces poring over a book

Teaching themselves things,

Their hearts must hold many dreams.

Back to the smiling group with the strings,

Two more light faces with silvery hair stopped by

With kind words, smiles and a camera.

As they wave and go on their way,

I can only imagine the stories

That those silver strands must hold.

On the other side of the grass,

Are three happy faces caught unawares

By the strange pair of eyes that is mine.

I ought to stop looking now,

They keep glancing my way.

But simple joy is very infectious a sight,

The storyteller too will agree.

The quiet chatter around me

Moves along in perfect peace

As I sit here by the pansies,

Thinking about daisies,

Still wondering how this must look

Through the eyes of a storyteller,

As I simply try

To mark my evening of Haro Strait.

Put it on a pansy first

Until I had a thought

To throw in some words for good measure.

So here I go again,

Wondering about the sight

Of my evening of Haro Strait,

And the heart of a storyteller.

MULBERRY

Ever since I was little,I’ve always had a fondness for the mulberry fruit.I remember well the joy I used to feel whenever I would unexpectedly come across a ripe bunch of it when it was the season while out playing in the woods.And then one day,it became more than just a fruit to me.I was about nine years old at the time.A young relative of mine who was staying with us, one day ,told me a story from her early childhood. With four growing children and harsh living conditions,her parents had been struggling to make ends meet. “There were mulberry bushes growing around the house where we lived,” she told me. “And whenever all the vegetables in the small kitchen garden were eaten up and there was no food left, my mother would pick the young mulberry leaves and cook them with small red potatoes and chillies along with rice she borrowed from the neighbours.The meals she cooked were always delicious!” she told me, “We never went hungry, it was somehow always okay,” she added. Those times didn’t last long for them because her father passed away shortly after and she and her three siblings were sent to live with different relatives.

Up until that time,I was not even aware that the leaf of the plant was edible. Now each time I come home for the holidays,I ask her to cook the dish for me,which she does with a knowing smile.I was intrigued by her story back then because to me,it seemed out of the ordinary for someone to be living in those kind of circumstances and it sounded so much like the old stories I used to read about and hear of. Hearing it from her made it more than just a story to me. For a long time after that, whenever I ate vegetables cooked in the traditional way, I would pretend that they were mulberry leaves and go over that story countless times in my head .Now when I think of her and her story,I understand that it cannot possibly come across as a happy one. But I remember clearly that there was no sadness in her when she spoke about those times. She was that happy child again who had no doubt that her mother could put food on the table,the one to whom it didn’t matter that they had to borrow sometimes.That little girl who took delight in a simple meal. As far as she remembers, her family was okay, so she was okay. She was just happy to remember, to have memories with them and of them. So now it is my turn to be okay with it and to learn and draw from it at best.

Often we get caught up within our circumstances and we get impatient with God and we get frustrated when we are reminded to wait on His providence. It doesn’t make sense sometimes. But God works in mysterious and higher ways. Who would have known that He would use a little girl who ate mulberry leaves for dinner many years ago to make me stop short in my tracks today and make me realize that there is happiness in rejoicing in His creation, in taking delight in the little joys of everyday which are all gifts from Him and that in doing this I would come to see bigger things clearly? Like waking up to a new day and smelling the fresh morning air, watching the last rays of a sunset, the first flowers of Spring ,the stillness of quiet starry nights, a kind smile. All of this reminds me that I am a child of the awesome and living God who promised to be with us even unto the end of the world.Blessed be His name!

 

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“Finally brethren,whatsoever things are true,whatsoever things are honest,whatsoever things are just,whatsoever things are pure,whatsoever things are lovely,whatsoever things are of good report;if there be any virtue and if there be any praise,think on these things.”

Philippians 4:8

IT IS FINISHED

I had the honor of reciting it in church and I’m truly grateful that He is using me to bless and speak to other hearts as well. Leaning on His promises. Looking forward to much more. Amen.

Many times I have felt

That only I have been waiting,

Waiting for You, Jesus.

Often have I strayed,

Prideful but fumbling,

Doubting and spurning,

Drawing circles in my head,

Pushing back the clear waters

You painted just for me.

In folly I have ran,

Running to strange places,

Places where I never belonged.

Feeding on false relief

Vainly attempting

To place my life

In my own fragile hands

And putting You in a box.

But the story goes on,

Because You,

The Author of salvation,

Had written my story

On the day You spoke life into Creation.

And thus I stop short

And feel once again

The glorious strings of love

Tugging at my heart,

Pulling me back in.

I close my eyes

And I think of You

And I hear the sound of the whip

Crushing down on You

But in Your blood that poured out

Were grace and love

Washing away my pain.

The thorns pressed into You,

And You called me by my name on that cross,

For even then,

My name was a song in Your heart

As is Yours in mine today.

I go further in,

And I hear a battlecry,

One that tells of victory.

And I remember,

It is finished.

Now my soul is laid bare beside still waters,

My spirit dances on this mountaintop.

You dip my heart in floods of assurance,

That I may not be shaken.

You honor my thoughts,

You tell me who I am.

The power to choose You’ve placed in my hands,

And the authority now I claim,

It is finished!

Now a new hallelujah emanates

From the depths of my heart

As I walk into eternity with my King.

The Class “Bully” and I; A Fond Reminiscence

We were in 8th grade. I must have been 12. Year 2006. All was well and good until a problem came up at school in my class in the form of a boy. We’d been classmates since first grade and we had never had any problems with each other up until that year. At first he would do crazy stuff and make people laugh. Breaking rules was his thing. I admire that now when I look back. I think I was a goody two-shoes, on the outside at least, always on my toes, trying to be good enough. But that’s another story altogether. So by eighth grade, this boy had somehow managed to get himself tagged as the class brat or bully among classmates and teachers alike. Our teachers would often be exasperated at him and his antics. So, me having always been one to be open about my likes and dislikes, especially the latter, I would often show my annoyance at his mischief while others would just leave him alone to his business or for the teachers to deal with. He probably thought that I was a miss snotty-pants ,(maybe I was, a little bit, but his opinions might have been a little exaggerated there and hey, I was just learning to speak up for myself) and began to pick on me more and more as days went by. Of course I retaliated, but our exchanges mostly consisted of rude, childish comments or sarcastic responses, aimed-to-provoke jokes and such. I am not too sure how it all happened but gradually, we started to strongly dislike each other and would jump at the first opportunity to be mean to each other, passing comments and writing rude notes. He had his friends on his side and I had my friends on mine, though we all had been essentially friends. So, to me, it looked like his sole mission in coming to school was to make things harder for me and I was getting angrier by the day.

An uncle made this doodle when I told him this story. Thank you, uncle Alfred. You’re the best!

One particular morning, as I reached school and was walking to my classroom, I was met by my friends who came rushing out to tell me something was happening in there. I went in with them and was met with the sight of my name sprawled across the blackboard in huge letters with that boy laughing and making up funny words out of it and writing them all down, his friends looking on and joining in on the “fun” and the rest of the class staring, worried about what was to follow. That was it. The final straw. I had to do something to preserve my 12 year old dignity. And I was going to. Now, before I continue with this story, I would like to say that I am a firm believer in non-violence, that I have never agreed to or supported any form of violence, and I believe that no one should be subjected to it. So the only way to explain this is that I was all-horns-blaring-mad that morning. So, upon meeting with that scene in the classroom, I first told myself to calm down, walked up to him, who by this time had perched himself on a desk, and told him as calmly as I could(I don’t think I was that calm) to erase all he had done and to never do it again. I don’t remember what exactly he said in response to that but he didn’t care and he didn’t budge. Then I threatened to slap him and he said,”Go ahead.” I have a feeling he didn’t think I would actually do it. So I raised my hand as high as I could, then brought it down on his face as hard as I could. A friend told me later that the sound echoed through the room. The room went still and for a second, he just stared at me, taken aback, then his reflexes started to kick in. He pushed me, I fell down, then got up and half pushed, half threw the teacher’s table towards him, which he pushed back at me. Before we knew it, we were kicking, pushing, pulling, scratching, clawing and shoving. We were finally pulled apart by my friend and the biggest boy in class. Right after which the assembly bell rang so we had to stop there. As we were lining up for assembly, the boy who helped stop us came up to me with a handful of buttons asking if I had lost any. I was still furious and shouted at him saying no, so he left saying,”Alright, they must be his then.” I was still not done and so I challenged him to another one on one, telling him to show up at a spot near my house the following morning. That morning, I rose early and stood at my gate and waited for a while. When he didn’t show up, I took it upon myself to give the final verdict to the whole matter. I had won. Of course, we continued hating each other and didn’t talk again for the next 3 years. By ninth grade, we were placed in different sections, so that made things easier.

But at the end of those 3 years, when we all had left home for higher studies and would only come across each other on social media and sometimes during holidays at home, we got in touch again through friends and have been good friends ever since. Little did we know that whatever we did, we were creating memories, ones we would fondly look back on. Now every time we meet, we greet each other with knowing smiles and I ought to mention that our story has served as a worthy anecdote over the years to our friends. Everyone who was there that day still remembers.

Now I’m putting this up here because I know now how important it is to have memories and people who know you without you needing to explain yourself. The ones that you meet after 5 years and within the first five minutes realize that nothing has changed. It doesn’t matter who or what you may seem like to the rest of the world, they are the ones who have been there with you, seen where and how you started and can see most clearly how far you’ve come now. The ones who were there when you were creating those memories and who live in them now. The ones you can think about at 3 AM and laugh like an idiot with the lights out on days when the world seem particularly cruel. The ones I blog about here so that if I ever wake up one day with amnesia, I can log in and see this and maybe find a piece of myself even for a short while and smile for the first time in weeks. Here’s to you, my friend.

THE DRUM ROLL; A short work of fiction (Dedicated to my muse, Arnok Tzudir)

It was a rainy day. The kind that makes you think. With fog in the air, a shimmer in the streets and trees standing as purely green as possible, Grace was in remarkably good spirits that particular August afternoon. She had been thinking for the better part of the day and she intended to do so with the remaining as well.

“That’s my element,” she thought to herself, as she sat next to the window in that blue city bus. She looked out the window past the raindrops on the sill and liked how the streetlamps shone through the fog. It gave her a warm,cozy feeling.

” She looked out the window past the raindrops on the sill and liked how the streetlamps shone through the fog.”

After what seemed like a few minutes of admiring them, she was about to break into another chain of thoughts, when she was snapped out of her reverie by a voice near her saying, “Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?” She turned and looked up to see a young man, probably in his early twenties, looking at her, evidently waiting for her response, with a polite and slightly crooked smile.

“Yes!I mean, not at all!” she managed to say.

“Thank you,” he said, still smiling and sitting down in the seat next to her.

“Cliché,”she thought to herself, turning towards the window again, “a crooked smile.”She found herself smiling too and musing over how rare it had become to encounter strangers with polite, crooked smiles. “A charming one in this case, I might add,” she thought when she heard the voice again saying, “Sorry?” and she realized she had said it out loud.

“Huh?Oh, uh …nothing, I’m …I’m just being weird,” she stammered, letting out a nervous little laugh. She looked at the blinking, unassuming stranger with good manners and couldn’t help smiling and saying, “I’m Grace.”

“Nice to meet you, Grace. I’m Arnok.” he replied very composedly.

“Hello Arnok, keeping aside the fact that you’re sitting next to someone on a bus who must be the weirdest and now possibly the most annoying stranger you’ve met so far, would you care to tell me where you are from?” she asked, her eyes laughing and round.

At this, the young man laughed calmly and replied, “ I’m from Nagaland. And I’ve had worse experiences on buses with fellow passengers. Believe it or not, you might be the least annoying one yet,” he added with a slight wink. “And the loveliest,” he thought to himself.
“Oh,cool!” she said with a small smile.
“What about yourself, if I may ask?” he said
“Everywhere!”she exclaimed with an expression which Arnok wasn’t sure he understood.
“By the way, you don’t have to tell me what you’re doing in this city,” she added.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he replied, “but considering that you’re from “everywhere”,you might be having a fairly good idea about it.”

“Why do you say so?” she asked, amused.

“I’m not entirely sure, ma’am, but if you’re from “everywhere”, you must be everywhere, or at least must have been!” he replied, “like…God.”

“God?”she asked, “Why is that the first thing you can think of and not something else, like, say, the wind?”

“I’m afraid that’s not a very easy question to answer.” Arnok replied.

“Try me,” she said.

“It’s complicated,” he said.

“I like complicated,” she insisted.

“It’s just that…I often wonder about the whole concept of God being a deity who is omnipresent and omnipotent, and I find myself increasingly unable to accept this entire idea of God being everywhere we are and capable of anything. I mean, if that is so, then, why are children dying of hunger? Why did we have to see wars? Why do we hate each other? It does not make any sense. If God really exists, are we being played? Is He having fun at our expense? When it comes right down to it, being born was an imposition in itself. I did not ask to be born. That homeless infant crying by the roadside did not ask to be born. We had no say in it.” he said.

“That is thought provoking, Mr Arnok. And do I see a humanitarian in the making?Because that would be the silver lining in this most depressing case you have presented!” she said with a warm smile and searching eyes.

He laughed and replied, “Well, I’m not sure what to say to that, since you have warned me not to say anything about what I do.”

“So you believe in silver linings,” he added.

“I’m a big fan of them!” she exclaimed.
“ Why?” he asked.

“Why not?” she replied.

He looked at her and felt that she had eyes which seemed to see more than they should. And he had this strange feeling that she could see right into him. He tried to shake the thought off, telling himself he was crazy and said, “I feel that I have been doing most of the talking, and I have to tell you, I’m a bit of a bore. Always am. Tell me something about yourself.”

She smiled and said, “Not at all, I’m enjoying this conversation. I couldn’t have imagined I was in for such a transaction when I boarded this bus. What would you like to know?”

He laughed and replied, “Transaction indeed! Nice choice of words. I never thought a word as ordinary as that one could be used to describe something as interesting and pleasant as this.”

“You find me interesting?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am, invariably so,” he said, again smiling his crooked smile.

He sensed that she was deliberately holding back and letting him do the talking,probing even. Like she was in search of something. He thought of the way she started this unusual encounter and conversation with him, a stranger, like it was the most normal thing to do. He sensed in her an urgency, as if she was holding onto each moment and feeling every bit of it, but without a sense of finality. He felt as though she had a thousand secrets and he was suddenly interested. He looked her in the eyes and said, “So tell me something about yourself.”

Fora brief moment, she looked back at him, then looked away, turned towards the window again, paused for a while, and said, “Do you see those trees out there,standing pretty? I like the way trees look when it has just rained. You know,one year ago, I might have sat here and picked a fight with you, a stranger, or talked about just how burdened I am with what is happening before my eyes in this world of ours. Maybe I would have ranted at you about gender issues, inequalities,about how unfair life is, or why I don’t agree with this philosophy and why I do with that. Because being aware makes you a better person? Or because each of us feels that the world owes us something? I know many great men and women have lived and died honorably and I cannot tell if I will ever be one of them. I know things are not always okay but I also know that I cannot pretend to have all the answers. So here I am now, just breathing and thinking about how beautiful streetlamps look on a rainy day, when they glow through the fog on top on shiny streets surrounded on both sides by trees. Doesn’t that…”

“GREEN PARK!” boomed the voice of the conductor.

“That’s my stop. Goodness! This has been one heck of a bus ride, never had anything quite like it. Though I can’t decide whether it has been the shortest or the longest,” she smiled.

“Timeless?”he replied, smiling too.

She smiled back and said, “Timeless it is.”

Then she deftly pulled at her long, loosely braided hair, adjusted her denim shirt and straight skirt which reached just below the knees, tugged at her brown combat boots, picked up her embroidered leather bag and stood up to go. He stood up as well to let her through.

“So long, stranger!” she said cheerfully.

“Wait,will I see you again?” he asked.

She laughed pleasantly and replied, “Why would you want to?”

“Well,I think I might have just stepped onto something…good…and I have an incredibly good feeling about it.” he said.

“Well then, wouldn’t you rather have some things stay that way? The “drum roll” part is often the best part, you know. It carries the best of things forever, if left untouched.” she replied, her eyes twinkling.

“How can I find you?” he asked, staring intently at her.

“It’s a small world, Arnok. As clichéd as it already may be and no matter how big you want it to be. It’s a small world,” she said, with a quiet smile.

And then she was gone.

Arnok sat back down and thought over how all that had just happened. He thought about humanity and life and all else in between. He thought about love. He thought about Grace, who, just hours ago,had been a complete stranger but who had now made him stop and think. She seemed so young, younger than him, which made him wonder what she had had to go through to think and talk in that manner. And then he thought about what she had said about the “drum roll” part of things. If this was as good as it could get, he felt that he should go forth and create more drum rolls for things in the world so that some good could be preserved. It pained him to think that they had to be kept out of human reach for them to remain good but it also excited him to think that he had the power to create that space.

It had stopped drizzling. Grace stood on the pavement and looked back at the bus which was disappearing round the corner.As she stared, she heard herself say, “Go on. Find your own answers. Get past the drum roll and see for yourself but never forget what the drum roll was like…”

“We won’t break if we let go. You and I already know, we were bound to be set free…”  Tristan Prettyman singing on her ringtone startled her out of her brief spell of fragmented thoughts.

“Hi, mum.”

“Gracie! Where are you?!Are you studying?  Should I remind you that you have an exam in five weeks? I wonder what your father would say if he knew you were out and about now instead of being at your study desk. Remember how much is at stake here… Everything that you’ve worked for…. this is all we’ve…you’ve ever wanted , honey. Where are you? I’m sending the car to come get you.”

“The streets are shimmering and the trees look beautiful today, mum. You should come out and see them too. Don’t wait up for me, I’ll catch the last train home.”

“Grace! Don’t…”

“One day at a time, mum. One day at a time,” she said and hung up.

She reached into her bag, pulled out a Classic and lit it, inhaled deeply and exhaled, the small puffs of smoke disappearing into the fog. The fresh, cool breeze was in her face as she stared out into the open and said, “It’s a perfect day for a perfect day.”

WARRIOR OF THE PEN (This goes out to all aspiring writers who know what it’s like to be faced with the prospect of giving up on our dreams.)

“I shall live by my pen,”

She had said.

Yet the mirrored faces cringed,

Lunging at her with tales of woe,

Of pain and dark skies.

Their fear made her rise

Above all things impossible

As though mastering a sickle,

She cut and bound,

And danced along,

Never looking back;

The seasons not withstanding;

For they come and they go.

While the leaves rose and fell,

She only rose.

As the rain splattered,

She toiled.

One mind and soul with her pen,

Creating rhythm and voice,

Thoughts flying across

Like the arrows of a hungry hunter,

Spewing the limitless sky,

Where there is no end to the horizon.

At last she stood,

A warrior of the pen.

Yes! A warrior!

Do you hear?

LINES

Hello there, sir!

Good day to you!

Are you a good man?

Would you buy a flower or two?

Do you love? Or do you think?

For sometimes you must choose

between the two.

Oh wait!

Before you answer that, sir,

I bid you, don’t.

Might do you better to leave it

alone.

Have you seen a war, sir?

Have you been in one?

Or were you born along with the lilies

And have been spared the sight?

What do you make of hunger, sir?

Tell me,

Do you eat bread every morning,

Which starving little hands have made

From across mountains and waters?

Or are they too far away for a good man

to fret about?

Such sweet comfort distance is,

aye sir?

Those lines make some men good

and some bad.

I sing of the day, sir

When we tell each other

That such lines are only in our heads.

A flower for you, good sir.

Lovely day, isn’t it?