My First Love

It was the best of times.

Full of self-conscious blushes, shy smiles and untameable giggles.

It was the best of times.

Brimming with delicate dialogues and clumsy passion.

It was the best of times.

And it hid in its bosom

the worst of times to come.

My first love,

the one full of blushes, and smiles, and giggles galore,

the one that promised a happy home and more,

that love - 

it died a death quick and crude,

without a reason, without a clue

and left behind an eternity to brood

about this whim they call love -
an experience I can only rue.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.
This week's WOW prompt is 'My First Love'.
*Inspiration derived from Charles Dickens' iconic opening lines in 'A Tale of Two Cities'.

Blogging: Writing, Inspiring, Networking

As I think about what to write for this prompt, my mind wanders down memory lane, and stops around the nooks of the building where I am a trainee journalist writing report after mundane report on this and that, and sulking about the inanity of it all. Some where around this time a colleague introduces me to the big and wondrous world of blogging. A blog, he explains, is an online diary of sorts where one could share their writings and photos. And that if I wanted, I could start my own blog and could unleash the creativity that I always cribbed about. And that's how I make my own blog - finalizing a name for it, gradually putting all the layout together, and finally getting down to write the first tentative uncertain posts.

Now that I reminisce about it all, my blog was my virtual diary indeed, where I could pour my heart out - I could WRITE about anything and everything. Random conversation with the rickshawala, an hour spent observing the mad woman across the street, a story about a lovelorn girl, musings about a hindi film from the 60s, comments on the lyrics of a particular song - my blog was the place where I could write anything without the fear of it being edited or modified to suit someone else's fancy.

Blogging for me initially was just about venting my observations and musings, and readers did not really matter. Though I must acknowledge that when friends and random readers came visiting and left a comment or two, it felt good and I would beam around a bit and would read and re-read my own posts, wondering what was in there that captured someone's interest.  The comments and interaction encouraged me to write more. It also helped me NETWORK with many fellow bloggers - blogger shared what they wrote, who read my posts, helped when I faltered, complimented when I won and pulled me up when I fell short of words. Bloggers, who with the passage of time have now become my buddies. 

It's now been a few years since I have been blogging. From writing about random observations and musings, I have moved on to experimenting with many creative themes and prompts, all thanks to the many blogging communities. From posts on big and small social and political issues to fictional tales about car tyre going flat on a deserted road, these communities give me ample opportunity to write more often and write on topics beyond my comfort zone. Just recently I got an opportunity to write on gendercide - deliberate and systematic killing of the female child, and the post was very well received and remains one of the most read post of my blog. The detailed post inspired many readers to do their bit against this heinous practice. It gave me a high too. Yes. A sense of pride in the fact that the what I write is motivating enough to INSPIRE people to do their bit towards the cause. Isn't it an exhilarating feeling to read comments where readers say that your post was beautifully written and it has inspired them.  You bet it is! :)

I am no slogan shouting, placard holding activist, neither a big-shot writer who has best-sellers to her name. I am just another eager soul who wants to share the incessant monologues that go on inside her head. Incesant monologues, random asides, musings, sane thoughts and insane tirades, quips, banters and what nots. It feels nice to scribble them down on the blog. And it feels even nicer when somebody stops by to read them all and leaves a warm comment or two. 

Blogging indeed has been a big, big blessing. 

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

This week the entry must contain the words - write, inspire  & network.

Love

Love helped sell everything - from cosmetics to lingerie, from whole wheat bread to even washing powder - one just had to weave a story around love and it would sell.

And now, after years of helping sell commodities, love too was reduced to being one of the lot - a commodity that could be sold, bought, showcased and flaunted. They who materialized the world, had now materialized love too. Like you flaunted your worldly possessions, you had to flaunt love too - to show the world that you loved to love. Whether or not you carried the flame in your heart was a a different story altogether.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

This week's word prompt is love and sentence limitation is 5.

Salaam Sahib...Said the Doorman

Update: This post was selected as a WOW post by Blogadda.com.

This post is in response to BlogAdda's WOW writing prompt : Write a post including the two words Salaam and Namaste.

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'Salaam sahib,' the doorman hastily moved forward to open the glass door as Sandeep strode inside the lobby of his new office.

He was an Assistant Manager at a logistics firm and had been transferred to the firm's Nagpur office to take charge as the new Branch Manager. The branch had been running a loss since almost a year now and he being a bright and enterprising professional, had been sent to breathe life back into the account books that were almost on the verge of absolute collapse. 

Ever since the news of his promotion and transfer was conveyed to him, he had been looking forward to the challenge, charting out big and small plans to get the Nagpur office back on track and ace the onerous task handed out to him by the big bosses.

And today morning, as he walked into his office, his mind was choc-a-bloc with things to do and plans to execute. There was so much to take care of, things to turn around... he was immersed in his plans as he neared the entrance of the lobby, and it was the doorman's languid 'Salaam sahib' that snapped him out of his thought flow. For a second he did not know what to say or how to acknowledge that slow salaam from the doorman who looked almost his father's age - gray haired but with a sharp presence. Coming from him, the salaam somehow sounded a bit strange. It sounded imperialistic - like the days of yore, when India was under the British rule and Indians would go about clicking their heels wishing salaam to every white man that mattered. This is how they show it on the TV, isn't it?

Salaam sahib...how he detested the words. Even in the malls and restaurants, he would cringe every time a doorman uttered the words salaam sahib. Ah, was there no alternative to these bureaucratic sounding salutations, he often wondered. But right now there was no time for such musings. He acknowledged the salaam with a small smile and moved on. Once inside his cabin, the first hour of his first day at work was taken up in getting introduced to the staff from the different departments. Because of the gradual slowdown in the branch's work, there were just a few people in the office now and his personal assistant had arranged for everyone to be formally introduced to  him. It was only when he was done with the formalities and doling out the first set of instructions for his assistant that his mind went back to the enervated 'Salaam sahib'. 

He buzzed for the doorman, as much for a little introduction as for the salaam sahib that he had a feeling would become a daily ritual if he did not nip it in the bud. Within the seconds the doorman appeared, expressions of shock, surprise and anxiety all visibly apparent on his face.

'Ji Sahib, aapne bulaya?'

'Ji. Kya naam hai aapka?' Sandeep's voice had a warm engaging tilt to it.

'Ji Bhairon. Bhairon Singh', the doorman sounded perplexed. 

'Kitne time se hain is office mein Bhairon ji?' 

'Ji sahib paanch baras ho gye. Kuch galti ho gyi kya sahib?' 

'Nahi, nahi, sab se mil rha tha to socha aap se bhi mil loon. Aap bhi to office ka hissa hain na. Chaliye, phir milte hain.'

Bhairon Singh heaved a visible sigh of relief. In all his 5 years at this office, no manager had ever as much as acknowledged him, let aside calling him inside the cabin to ask about his well being. And here was this new manager, calling after him. Though at first instance the call from the manager had sent shivers down his spine. Why was he wanted? Would they fire him? Was he now too old for the doorman's job? Questions such as these raced through his mind. But now, as he walked out of the manager's cabin, all his fears were gone, relief washing over him like a happy foamy wave. He was back at his position by the door with a new vigour and enthusiasm that looked somewhat odd for his age. 

Bhairon Singh was as alert and beaming as the day before when Sandeep walked into the office the next morning. 
'Salaam Sahib', this morning his voice was contagiously spirited as he clicked his heels together and wished Sandeep.

'Namasate Bhairon kaka. Aur sab theek? Aur haan, salaam sahib nahi, bas namaste boliye roz aap. Aapse bahut chhota hoon,' he smiled, a warm almost affectionate smile and walked inside.

Bhairon Singh stood there, weak in the knees, full of affection and blessings for the son he saw in the stranger that was his new boss. A son that he never had.

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

What's Your Roll Number?

Image Courtesy : Google Images

It all started with inquiries about each other’s roll numbers. We were freshers in college, sitting in the English Literature class, excitedly waiting for the professor to come in. There was still some time to beat, so everyone was either busy fiddling with their phones or making acquaintance with those sitting around them. And almost every new conversation was starting with the standard question - ‘what’s your roll number?’

You see in our college the roll numbers for the first year students were allotted on the basis of the student’s position in the +2 merit list. From 1000 upwards the roll numbers were for the first year students, and below 1000 belonged to the kids from the +2 section. So the person who topped the merit list got roll number 1000, and the next in line, with even a point of difference in the score percentage and rank would get 1001, and so on. So if your roll number was anywhere within 1000 to 1100, everyone would know that you are a top ranker and that defined who you were, at least for the first few months in college.

So here she was, sitting a couple of seats away from me on the left. I had not noticed her, of course, for I was busy with my nose dug deep into some book to avoid unnecessary question answer sessions with strangers. And also more so because I was a fresher not just in college, but also in the city, and feeling a tad out of place among all the Punjabi speaking super bubbly crowd around me.

As we waited, the two girls sitting on my left suddenly realized that they had been sitting in the wrong lecture hall all this while, and got up to come out of the pew. And so this development caused the seats next to me to fall vacant. She shifted towards the vacant spot so that we could all sit more comfortably. And that’s when I saw her.

How beautiful she was! Not pretty, not cute, but beautiful, so simply beautiful! Milky white skin, lush long hair plaited neatly, rosy lips and a sweet ready smile on her face. She was the quintessential archetypal Punjabi girl. Gosh, after so many years I can still see her there, turning to me and asking – 'aapka roll number kya hai?'

I was so taken aback by her innocent face, her beauty and the charming manners, that for a second I did not know what to say. A hello? A hi? Nothing, all I could muster was a curt and indifferent - '1020'. 

'Oh  wow!', she said, but by that time I was back into the book I had in hand, though of course now I was not reading it, but instead wondering if I should have said her a friendly hello at least. The wondering and contemplation lasted a few minutes, and it was her friendly silhouette that finally prompted me to turn and ask - 'And what's your roll number?'

'Aapse to zyada hi hai', she smiled admiringly, '1042,  aapka kya rank tha merit list mein?' she continued, and thus began our first little chitchat. By the time the first day in college wrapped up, we had been together since that English class - we had almost similar subjects, barring one (I opted out of Economics went in for Public Administration instead), we shared her food that she got from home, had some snacks in the cafeteria, strolled around the college identifying the different departments, discussing the teachers and crowd in general, and generally having fun at our own expense, confiding about our eccentricities and whims and fancies.

Looking back, I realize, we were so childlike - we came from simple homes, enjoyed the small and little things that life had to offer, we studied, we had fun, we talked, blabbered rather, about anything and everything - we were so transparent, and that's the reason why we bonded so well. It was later that she shared that it was my roll number that first got her hooked to me - haha, my 1020 as compared to her 1042! Because of the roll number, she thought I was more intelligent than her, and this thought still amuses me!

Later in college, when I joined NCC, I pestered her to join too, so that we could be together, and she reluctantly gave in. And what followed was mad fun at various outstation camps - singing late into the night, helping each other in the strenuous tasks, scrounging for food when the NCC mess became absolutely unbearable and standing for each other when random discussion with other cadets started going out of hand.

In our friendship, she is the one who has always been the more giving and affectionate one, and I admire her for that. There have been times when I have been unable to acknowledge and appreciate her love and affection for me - and I think about those time off and on - and I realize my shortcomings. But she knows me, knows how I am, and that keeps me comfortable.

Today she is a PHD holder, a happily married woman with a cute little son and I am so proud of her. Here are a few lines I wrote about her as I thought about our days in college:

Ek sohni kudi punjaban

Naal mere oh pad-di si
Gori chitti pariyaan wargi,
Te mithiyaan gallan kar di si!

 This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.