26th December, 2015.
6 more days to the year’s end. And yesterday was Christmas. Was
it yesterday? Or was it every day? Or none of the days were?
Anywho! It doesn’t really matters. It’s winter! The season
of hot coffee, cold wind, flaky skins, smooth talk and a lot of poetry. Some being
of joy, others reminding the basic pains of everyday. And a time when we all
look back, or crane our necks a bit to south and try to ascertain where did we
do wrong, what went good or better and where we could’ve, would’ve, should’ve done
and what we did anything about anything. And we see that at times, during the
year, sometimes we lost control, sometimes we lost hope and at times we held
the sun in our fist, we took control and made lemonade.
Coming to an end of the year, we do reflect at these things.
The most private moments of our lives when we stop, sit and think. Maybe with a
few cigarettes in the night on the roof, facing the coldest winds. Maybe with a
drink in our hand with the room heater to comfort us. We think and ponder and
float around amongst the finest developments and smiles and amongst the deepest
regrets and loss. Maybe that one song that was just ours now belongs to ‘us’ or
maybe there is a whole ruined playlist with too many strings attached to delete
it for good or even a whole new playlist, who knows? Just for perspective,
there were times when all of us must have brooded over a song that reminded us
of some beautiful moments, of love and the absence that exists. And similarly
there were times, when some of us must have strutted around like John Travolta
while playing ‘Stayin Alive’ by the Bee Gees. I strut a lot these days.
We think, about the first 9 o’clock class in room 313, or
any other room for that matter with fresh faces, a lot of empty spaces and a
whole opportunity even in the face of the most monotonous lecture and the insomniac
eyes gorging down on Marxian theories regarding South Indian empires or the
Colonial development, only to run out of the class for a lovely cup of coffee
and salami sandwich, sometimes a king sized goldflake. And a lot of new laughs
and some pre-determined taste which brought us together to new people. And we
think about that unsent text, which we wrote 10 times but then deleted it,
maybe now regretting, maybe deliberating that ‘what if?’, maybe even thinking
that it could’ve changed everything amongst the ones who aren’t on good pages,
or who aren’t on any pages anymore, opening the door, bridging the gap,
bringing the wall down and letting the light inside. But we backed out because
we are so afraid, or maybe we did sent the text, as a prayer, maybe, just
maybe, I am just assuming, that we still have a draft, in our message box or in
mail, I do! We look at it every day in
the morning or every night and maybe one day we will hit send it out, maybe we
won’t. Then there are photographs same issue with them with the catch that we
can’t really edit them. And we also ponder over, smiling sheepishly over the
newly found treasures. We put our hands in our pockets and find a handful of
wishful thinking, or just a letter that somehow crept in our dreams, a pocket
full of rye. We find a reason for careless whistling, and if we can’t whistle,
humming bird it is!
We reflect at these things, I know because I am just as
human as everyone else and because I am right at the moment. We ponder over
these while walking under a balmy sun or a frosty evening, while planning for
the next one, resolving for a better time than the previous one, resolving against
all the odds and quite magically we do end up in the miracle of Father Christmas
with our wishes coming true. Sometimes it doesn’t happen; it’s really okay I guess.
Wishes are like lotteries, or the scratch card.
So it was a winter of 2015, just like the last 22 winters. Or
maybe it wasn’t! Or, just for the sake of an argument that I might put for
myself, it still is a winter of Christmas past. Who knows? Who nose? It was a
year of Charles Dickens’ first page from ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ for me, for us.
So before the clock strikes 12 on 31st, I just
will quote Neil Gaiman’s toast –
“To absent friends,
lost loves, old gods and the season of mists; and may each and every one of us
always give the devil his due.”
And if I may be audacious enough, I’d like to add -
To absent friends, lost loves, old gods and the season of
mists; and may each and every one of us always give the devil his due. And if
anything, may this wine give us all the second chance we deserve, to love again and
to forgive the past.
Regards.
