Sometimes, some songs that you had heard so often before, come back to you - all new! You find new meaning and new melodies in the same old track. And then, times like these stay etched in your mind...forever!

Come back.. once

Last evening, when I went to the terrace of my granparents' house, some sights I had long forgotten, came back to me..

I saw a six-year-old girl who held her grandfather's hand and kept giving a broad smile every now and then..why? That evening, she had lost her first milk tooth to the tooth fairy..She wanted all the older kids who were playing there to ask her about her missing tooth. But of course, they were busy with their games. So she clung to Grandpa..

And then, there was the same little girl, standing on her toes, trying to peep from the terrace into the window to her grandfather's room. She kept staring at the bed in the room because it was empty..Grandpa wasn't resting on it like he always used to. The bed had been lying empty ever since Grandpa left two days back..never to come back again..and she hadn't even been able to meet him before he went away. She hadn't been able to put her head into his lap and hear a cute little bed time story from him.

In fact, it had been ages since Grandpa had told her a story. He was ill, and so ill that sometimes he refused to recognise her and once he even shouted at her. And she had always thought she was his little princess.

And even now as the girl, not little anymore, stared at the empty bed from the terrace, she wished Grandpa would come, just once...

Yesterday once more

"I may come home next week and I hope we all get to meet," I messaged a friend last night. It's been over a week that I am away from home and I miss my pack of mad friends immensely. Beep Beep..My phone..He had replied. "I am going to A'Nagar for an audit. I can make it back only the week after that."
So one member already dropped, and this even before the plan is made, which is just fair because I am planning to go in the middle of the week, a time when all sane people are busy working.

And here I am, suddenly missing all those days (though not for the first time) when life was just about doing nothing. When a bunch of us would just hang out at wierd places, doing nothing, yet doing everything!

I remember those evenings that we spent on the hill..why did we even go there..certainly not for an evening exercise, because we would climb down and promptly grab a bite at the nearby eatery.

I remember the stone quarry, the dried up lake, those overgrown bushes, Amol's aeroplane we all saw at 6.15, his face flushed with child-like excitement, Kartik's silly comments..I remember it all.

That was where I first learnt to ride a bike..and by bike I mean a motorbike, like those heavy ones, Amol's Pulsar, to be more precise..I can imagine what a site I must have looked..my miniscule frame on that humumgous vehicle!

And then we would all gather at someone's place and try to strum a few notes on the guitar or chorus a song together.

And how I could I forget, that solitary tree in my college where we all sat (need I say we bunked lectures to do that).

Where have all those days gone, why did they just fly away..

Death -- a number

“When you read about deaths in my country, they are only figures. For me, they are my friends, uncles, aunts...” I read this somehere recently. It's not new..we have all read it several times when stories of tragedies have been written.
Yet, each time I read this line, it churns my stomach for whatever reason. It just disturbs me somewhere.
Being a journalist, stories of death are not new to me. I was working with The Indian Express in Pune during the 7/11 Mumbai train blasts. Th Express carried a series of articles called '187 Mumbai Life Stories' that narrated the tales of the kin that the victims had left behind. They were tales of horror, grit, gumption, tragedy, tears, determination, hope and every other human emotion one could name.
I did one of the stories in the series -- not something that I would want to cherish for my life. Nonetheless, I had to do it and at the end of the day it was just a story for me.
The young widow whom I met, had lost her whole world. Even as I spoke to her, I felt as if I was rubbing salt on her wounds.
I don't know why I felt like writing about this. As a journalist, I will still have to deal with news copies that speak of deaths in figures. Unfortunately, I won't be able to change that.