Postcards from the trip
Today, as I was looking through some of my old things, I came across a dairy. As I pulled it out, almost on a whim, my eye caught the name in block letters on the cover. My name. This diary was what I’d used as a notebook in college. As I ran my hand across the cover to wipe the dust off, I felt the familiar ribbed texture that I’d hardly notice while handling it three years ago. All at once I felt a plethora of memories envelop me. Some pleasant, others mediocre, yet others downright unpleasant – all poignant. As I gingerly opened the diary, I could almost smell the smells that were once me. Vivacity, idealism, a sense of immortality, tremendous belief, confidence and a devil-may-care attitude.
The diary automatically opened to a page in which I had scribbled some random words and sentences. They were lines from my then favorite songs. Songs that I still cannot listen to without being reminded of some incident, event or occurrence of those days. I couldn’t help smiling as I read the words of the songs “Gin Soaked Boy”, “Arms Wide Open” and “I Believe I can Fly”. I actually did- believe, that is. I believed that I could do anything I wanted, irrespective of whatever obstacles the big bad world might throw my way. Its been only three years since I passed out of college, but that belief has waned so much that this reminder of my youthful idealism was almost over-whelming. I found myself wondering at what point we lose the fiery enthusiasm of our college existence. Is it sometime during post graduation, when you realize that politics is not just a dirty word, but a stinking piece of reality; or does it take place during your first job, when you realize that your position in the rat-race is all that counts, as it is the one and only thing you are judged by, and that survival amongst constantly circling, ever-watchful vultures takes up almost all the reserves of energy one might have stowed away for bigger, better things?
I tilted the diary a little, and as if the memories were particularly strong there, the pages flipped over till they stopped at a photograph tucked away between them. It was a black and white photograph of my class in college. I turned the snapshot over, and saw, in my handwriting, the names of all the people in the photograph. I couldn’t help but smile indulgently at myself- as if I would ever forget those people. They, every single one of them played an important role in making me the person I am today- by broadening my thought process just a little, by sensitizing me just a bit more, by touching me in ways that are too trivial, yet too momentous to mention. From hard-core philosophical discussions to arbid abstract ones, from endless glasses of nimbu paani to conversations about first loves and first heartbreaks, from wild, aimless excursions into unknown parts of town to focused, deliberate and purposeful trips to the favorite watering hole.
As I was recounting these memories, a couple of pieces of paper slipped from the notebook to the ground, by my feet. Upon inspection, they turned out to be a letter I’d once written in a fit of temper to someone I was extremely peeved with, at the time. Of course, the discovery of the letter in my notebook suggests that it was never sent. It was just my way of blowing off steam. The letter brought to my notice yet another change in my personality. It is the fact that I hardly seem to get quite as upset over unpleasant conversations as the letter suggests I did then. The difference is one of outlook. I suppose, today I would consciously try to remain unaffected as much as was possible in an unpleasant situation and am able to do it better now than I was then. Some would say time has made me less sensitive, while others might feel I’ve gained more control over my emotions. I expect, as we grow older and experience first-hand the muck we knew of only through hearsay, we each develop our individual defense mechanisms.
I flipped the diary over to its last page, and was confronted with timetables I had tried desperately, but in vain, to adhere to. Also phone numbers of friends and quotes I’d particularly liked at the time. And oh- I also found, amongst the vast ocean of memories, a smattering of college notes, taken sporadically and hurriedly during the few classes I attended. Also, the doodles framing each such page provide an accurate assessment of my time spent in classes. Having said that, I will also say that I learnt more in those three years of college than many years before it, and certainly more than in the three years after.
My time in college seems like it was eons ago, yet in another way it seems like the memories are fresh from just yesterday. Nostalgia.
The diary automatically opened to a page in which I had scribbled some random words and sentences. They were lines from my then favorite songs. Songs that I still cannot listen to without being reminded of some incident, event or occurrence of those days. I couldn’t help smiling as I read the words of the songs “Gin Soaked Boy”, “Arms Wide Open” and “I Believe I can Fly”. I actually did- believe, that is. I believed that I could do anything I wanted, irrespective of whatever obstacles the big bad world might throw my way. Its been only three years since I passed out of college, but that belief has waned so much that this reminder of my youthful idealism was almost over-whelming. I found myself wondering at what point we lose the fiery enthusiasm of our college existence. Is it sometime during post graduation, when you realize that politics is not just a dirty word, but a stinking piece of reality; or does it take place during your first job, when you realize that your position in the rat-race is all that counts, as it is the one and only thing you are judged by, and that survival amongst constantly circling, ever-watchful vultures takes up almost all the reserves of energy one might have stowed away for bigger, better things?
I tilted the diary a little, and as if the memories were particularly strong there, the pages flipped over till they stopped at a photograph tucked away between them. It was a black and white photograph of my class in college. I turned the snapshot over, and saw, in my handwriting, the names of all the people in the photograph. I couldn’t help but smile indulgently at myself- as if I would ever forget those people. They, every single one of them played an important role in making me the person I am today- by broadening my thought process just a little, by sensitizing me just a bit more, by touching me in ways that are too trivial, yet too momentous to mention. From hard-core philosophical discussions to arbid abstract ones, from endless glasses of nimbu paani to conversations about first loves and first heartbreaks, from wild, aimless excursions into unknown parts of town to focused, deliberate and purposeful trips to the favorite watering hole.
As I was recounting these memories, a couple of pieces of paper slipped from the notebook to the ground, by my feet. Upon inspection, they turned out to be a letter I’d once written in a fit of temper to someone I was extremely peeved with, at the time. Of course, the discovery of the letter in my notebook suggests that it was never sent. It was just my way of blowing off steam. The letter brought to my notice yet another change in my personality. It is the fact that I hardly seem to get quite as upset over unpleasant conversations as the letter suggests I did then. The difference is one of outlook. I suppose, today I would consciously try to remain unaffected as much as was possible in an unpleasant situation and am able to do it better now than I was then. Some would say time has made me less sensitive, while others might feel I’ve gained more control over my emotions. I expect, as we grow older and experience first-hand the muck we knew of only through hearsay, we each develop our individual defense mechanisms.
I flipped the diary over to its last page, and was confronted with timetables I had tried desperately, but in vain, to adhere to. Also phone numbers of friends and quotes I’d particularly liked at the time. And oh- I also found, amongst the vast ocean of memories, a smattering of college notes, taken sporadically and hurriedly during the few classes I attended. Also, the doodles framing each such page provide an accurate assessment of my time spent in classes. Having said that, I will also say that I learnt more in those three years of college than many years before it, and certainly more than in the three years after.
My time in college seems like it was eons ago, yet in another way it seems like the memories are fresh from just yesterday. Nostalgia.
posted by Mojo | 5:24 PM
4 Comments:
800 words...perhaps the longest post she has written so far...hmm asks for a loong comment:)
Your comment is a delight to read for me, no not because I am your friend, but coz it talks about things I think about and makes a very good study...
There is a strange objectivity in all that you have written, you are very conscious of the changes between then n now ...wriiten for yourself...with great indulgence.
For every one line that you have written there are 10 that you have not written (very much like Rupen:D) This writing style is interesting because you guys can say things which mean something to you as if in code language and when other people read they just seam through the layers of meaning.
"Ribbed texture I'd hardly notice while handling" - fascinating statement, yes we do not register the micro but then unconscious would retain everything and the thing which you hardly noticed then, can open the cork off the soda bottle. Now, things like the name, the photograph and the letter...worked like gateways to memory.
"The diary automatically opened to a page ..." wow I knew you were painting the picture, 'automatically' adds a lot to the post. Memory comes...!
Now the post says a lot of things important to me esp. if you see memory. I will state one of those.
1) Going through an experience 2) Revisiting the memory of the experience. Look at the experience people have when they look back at the memory of a fond love...there is a knowledge of a Before and the After! Conscious memory recollects and (unconsciously) judges or rejudges and we trace the highway with the updates/learning. Insi with a sense of immorality (amoral is what you imply for me) did sound of calm and mature ease with her own voice (diff. from the voice I heard in project meetings:) during that hour long conversation we had....to be continued.
Just one teensy correction....not immoral but immortal, a tiny semantic difference, but means a completely different thing.
Secondly, thanks for the looooonng comment :)
ha ha ha immortality!! The meaning of the whole post for me changed yaar.
I also went through this youthful optimism. It lasted quite a while post college. Then, India hit me and I was...words can't do justice to my feeling at that time. During this phase, I've learned not to let it, i.e. the people, negatively impact me. I remain optimistic in a more cautious manner. You might wonder why cautious. Well, that's the experience, India has given. It has taught me to love, the bad and the good. It has made me come out of a cocoon and experience people. I've looked back many times and have been called back even more, I still stay with the belief that the experiences gained here give me a perspective of Yin-Yang. My mind awaits the next experiences, eagerly.
In college, I was, and still am, a dreamer. I was never the idealist that I've been called today.
A nice read!
Oh one last thing...you should look back and smile, but do come back to the present because that's where you know me :)
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