Find A Boat.

It's cyclic. And you think you're important.

But billions have come and billions have gone and somewhere, somebody must've tried to live the life I'm living, or had the dreams I dream everyday.

People don't make history. History makes people. And they too diminish as time flies.

It's all cyclic.

The point is to go through it, one second at a time, and do what you're gonna do anyway.

So really.

I think we spend too much time dwelling on nonsense.

We'll all become something anyway, be with someone anyway, and even if it doesn't turn out the way we imagined, which in all probability it won't, we'll be okay anyway.

After a point, the things that scare you right now will not scare you. There will be newer things to be scared about.

There will always be something to be scared about. That's how you value stability.

After a point, the things that make you happy now, will cease to make you happy and you'll consider things you would never consider now.

Life is in flux. Constantly, everyday, bazillions of little factors you have no control over, work their way towards determining your future.

So why worry.

Don't be paranoid. Don't be a control freak. Enjoy your choices as you make them. Honour your commitments as you make them. Your decisions are yours. Their repercussions are yours. Do your thing.

Remember the words 'sorry', 'please', 'thank you' and 'I love you.'

Don't mean them without saying and don't say them without meaning.

More importantly, remember the people you say them to, and remember the people who say them to you.

Life is a river. It'll flow as it will. People tell you to find a rock. Your rock of stability.

Don't find a rock.

You'll sink.

Find a boat. It's more adaptable. And it floats.

Find a boat.

Deconstructing 'Classy'

Back with a bang, again, guys. Feels good. :)


I have recently encountered people and situations (at close quarters, too) which prompt me into asking a few vital questions.
What is classy? 


Is it that bag from Fendi? A BMW in the driveway? The classicists must be shaking their heads in disapproval. 

Maybe it's tied to the phenomenon of the 'nouveau riche' (people who come to amass wealth within their own generations, making them prone to being 'flashy', given their sudden exposure and access to 'upmarket' goodies)

But this ties class and finesse closely with economics. So what about accomplished masters of the arts (dance, music, the works) who always seem to be impeccably turned out and live modest, tasteful, simple lives? What about men in uniform; the Armyman with his evening peg of blended Scotch, and his tastefulness reflecting in the clink of the ice with the glass? He's not loaded. But oh my, he's classy. Maybe discipline and principle entail class.

Then again, perhaps it's in the ancestry. The history of your 'purakhs'. But how long do you ride on that lineage wave before the good breeding trickles out of the bloodline and is quickly replaced by money and misplaced arrogance?

I give it 1.5 generations from when the bloodline peaked. (!!)

Crap. We seem to be at crossroads with this deconstruction.

In my view, I closely associate with a number of people who I consider 'classy' and it has precious little to do with their money. Some are classy and financially 'humble' and others classy in spite of the crores they sit on.

An eclectic mix. 

Taste, and finesse don't show because of money. They show in spite of it, my loves.

Call me elitist but ostentatious displays of wealth (and how much we, as a people, put by them) strike me as vulgar.

Money is but an essential commodity. A rationalization of the barter system. Of course, it augments aspiration. And aspirations are a must to keep people from stagnating. The goal however, is to rise above your purchasing power and enrich yourself with experiences. Broaden your horizons. Put your money into books, drama, travel, the likes. Try and absorb what's happening around you. It's the first crucial step to breaking free. Un-shackle your mindset, without abusing your upbringing and values.

Personally speaking, there's great perspective to be gained in knowing that you have access to 1st A/C train tickets but find yourself in the Sleeper compartment by a strange twist of fate. And it doesn't bruise your sense of self. You grow.

Over time, your experience, adaptability and dexterity in dealing with situations across a spectrum of possibilities become the ultimate exhibit of your class.

And your varied exposure will manifest in a refined, selective, personalized expression- your home, your get-up, the friends you make, but most most most importantly in how you carry yourself.

With dignity. 

In other words:

Money may buy love (in stating that, a hopeless romantic just conceded defeat. :( )

Money may perhaps even buy class (though I'm a strong detractor of that statement).

But money will never buy that deadly cocktail of confidence, humility and dignity.

Stay classy, bitches.

Out with the Old

Friends,fans and stalkers, let's be honest.


There's no dearth of life-inspirational stuff on your Facebook home feeds or your Tumblrs, and for those of you that dig a little deeper, on the rest of the internet.
But for the most part, life sucks. It takes a helluva lotta compromise and nail chewing to strike that all-elusive balance between hyperventilation and ignorance, especially when you seem to not be going anywhere, from where you stand.
And then there are those times when you wish you had a fast forward button. Most mid-semester bits, pan out thus, for me. So you'd think, into my 10th semester in architecture school, I'd be fairly well equipped to deal with these... 'bleh phases' (as I fondly call them).
But here I am, as despondent and uninspired, demotivated and procrastination-prone as ever… on a vicious hunt for meaningful experiences.
My day? Submission-Class-Gym-Sitcoms with my sister-Work-Sleep-Submission-Class-Gym-Sitcoms with my sister-Sub… you get the picture.
Bleh. I was considering a bhang outing. Or running away. Seriously.
It was time to do something. ANYTHING. Soooo I embarked on a journey, charting many a time and place (I love this dramatic verbal shit I do), spanning many…ahem… possible solutions to my despondent state.

Possible Solution 1:I skyped with my best friend in France, trying to get him to inject some life into my dead veins.
Outcome: Perspective gained. I felt significantly lesser lost, cheery too. Love you, Kins.

Possible Solution 2:I tried whiskey, oh yes sir. A good 4 pegs to drown my bleh-ness, last friday. Sat with one of my oldest friends, pondering about life and its intricacies, with Angus and Julia Stone droning on in the back.
Outcome: Perspective gained. I felt like life wasn't a rut, really. That I love the people I love and the people that love me, love me regardless. Ah, whiskey. :)

Impossible but Bang-on Solution 3:Faaaaak! I cleaned my life!
Before you guys jump, it's  hyper-important to know that parents are ALWAYS ALWAYS right. Even if it all sounds wrong when they say it to you. The Universe finds a way to make them the 'Heroes', no shit.

Here's what happened.
Ever since I bought my new laptop, Dad had been pestering me to format my 4- year old one for his office. On a dreary Saturday evening, I decided to just do it and get it done with.
But.. I couldn't find the charger. Not a great situation to be in. I searched hell and high water and turned up with nothing.
So began a slow process of emptying every drawer, every cupboard, every dresser of its contents. The last 5 years of my life lay unravelled and mixed up and piled on the floor. What an eyesore. I eventually found the wretched charger, which wasn't even in my room in the first place.

But fact of the matter is, the last 5 years were.

My bed contained drawers piled high with submissions I didn't have the heart to throw, interspersed with tidbits from my personal life, I'd forgotten, on purpose, perhaps.
I was sleeping on the past.

As I went about my business of sorting, my mind was on a parallel plane of time-travel.
The first to go were the scrap models, and the sheets I'd laboured on. Oh how my tummy knotted. Semester-by-semester, I threw it all away, into the recycling bin. I'd kept them thinking, they need to be kept, I worked so hard on them. But the truth is, today, tomorrow or 30 years later, their utility will still be scrap. Bummer, life.

Next, I cleaned up my dresser- the makeup and the jewellery.. giving the ones I'm too old to sport, to the maid and her kids. Earring after earring, necklace after necklace, handbags too, from my teen years; I packed them into little boxes and passed them on to her. The delight on her face can't be captured in words, but it totally made up for the knotting tummy.
The half-used stationery, bought solely in excitement at the prospect of buying new stationery, was given to the servants' children, who mouthed wide eyed 'thank yous' of awe.  How little it all meant to me eventually, and, how much it means to them! I felt good.
I tore off used pages from at least 14 drawing books and gave the bound clean pages to the drivers' and utensil cleaners' kids. Found some old library books I'm sure I'll have to pay a bomb of a fine on.  The miscellaneous things- a pair of drumsticks, mountaineering Captain's gloves, school flag. It brought years and emotions rushing back.

It was fascinating.

Slowly… the mess thinned, the drawers emptied, and then I came to the most gratifying part of the exercise. Also, perhaps, the most fraught with risk.
Diaries. Collages. Old relationship- keepsakes. Things I didn't have the time to make a decision about, when these decisions get made. They were just hurriedly pushed to the back of a dresser, and consequently my memory.
I sat and read. For a long time. I used to be this person. I used to think like this. I had these feelings. I was this brave. I was this vulnerable. I was this resilient.

I looked back and all the dots connected. I wasn't stagnant, I wasn't even stagnating when I thought I was. I was growing and growing and each day and each feeling was of consequence… It made me who I am.

These things were to be treasured. A lot has changed.
And then I tossed them. The diaries, the keepsakes, everything.
This too shall pass.

I felt so peaceful. So new. Fresh.

It's time to make space for some new diaries, some new keepsakes, and as they mount, which I think/hope they will, to make space in my heart and mind and environment for the next stage, whatever it may bring.

I'm going to graduate, bitches. I'm at the cusp, yes. Excited, and in love.
Out with the old.
P.s. The parents DO get it right. Go clean your room!!
xo

Just a Dream.

The moon was high over the lake. Vishal and I sat nervously over the edge of the cliff, 300 feet above.
It wasn't your typical cliff, more like a grassy lip on the side of a big mountain.
"Do you think they'll find us here?" I hug my knees to my chest.
"I can hear them... Shh" Vishal hisses.

A tense minute later, the crunch of twigs. Someone's above us, beating at the bushes to see clearer.
The crunching stops.
Vishal touches my arm to alert me.

I suck in my breath till my spleen hurts. I think I'm going to be sick.

They come at us every night. Every night we abandon our shelter, our home, and run and hide in the wild on this mountain. I have no idea who they are. I have been running from them since as far back as I remember.
We're supposed to run. We all are.

It is said that they come from that wrecked mansion on top of the hill that no one goes to.

Vishal says we'll go there tonight. When they've stopped wandering. And hunting. We'll go there tonight.

The crunching starts again. It gets distant. And then suddenly I can't hear it anymore. I heave and gasp with relief, as oxygen floods my lungs. Vishal smiles. It's time to go.

We clamber up through the bramble, trying to be as silent as possible. On flatter ground now, it suddenly made sense to run.

I looked at Vishal, and I knew he was thinking the same thing.
Spines erect, we bolted.

We ran through the high grasses without knowing what's on the other side. We ran till we were out of breath. We ran till we had the irrepressible urge to giggle.

I spotted the mansion up ahead, its top sailing over the grasses. The excitement was mounting. The adrenaline killing me. I turned to Vishal.

I turned to Vishal. Who was not there.

Panic.

My instincts urged me to drop to the ground before anything else. In the dark of the night, my torso hit the rough ground with a soft thud.

They took him. Oh my god they took my friend. I'm so angry inside. So scared.

So curious. Anger makes me brave.

I crawl on towards the mansion. My nails filling with mud as I drag myself forward without a sound.

I can hear my own rough breathing. What is this hell? How does it end?

The mansion is so close I can see its rough stone walls, solid and eternal.
Just as suddenly, there was no ground under me. I fell into a room lit by a sharp tubelight.
I hit the ground, ribs first.

Excruciating pain. My eyes scan the room, struggling to focus. A man sits on a table, picking at a glass bowl, filling it with mud, using a hammer to lightly assist the balance of the bowl.

"Run!!" I scream. "Run quickly! They're coming!"

He doesn't even move. He can't hear me! Why can't he hear me? Why doesn't he run?

A thought strikes me.
Wait. Am I inside the mansion?

I scan the room a second time. There's a fireplace-like opening.

I scuttle over and peek inside. It's a very narrow flight of steps. But there's light at the end. I think I can make it. There's no headroom. I have to lie down and scramble up.

I'm scared. What if they're waiting for me at the other end? I could be walking right into a trap.

I get nearer to the light and peek out slowly.

It's shocking. It's so shocking. What is this?
There's nobody at the other end waiting to kill me. No blades, no sharp lights, no blood or raw flesh.

It seems I've climbed up into the plush living room of a king. Its a large room. There are plush cushions here and there. The curtain drapes are gold and unending. I sweep my gaze swiftly across the long room.

And then I see him. He's sitting with his back to me, wearing a bedroom gown. He's old. He doesn't notice me.
But I'm scared of him. I don't want him to turn around.

He starts to turn to look at me. Fear strikes deep, and I turn in the other direction and run before he sees me. Or I him.

I run out of the long oak doors, down many hallways, past many empty rooms. I run till I see a wooden staircase with a gold plate pointing up to the library.

I pause. Unsure. I slowly climb up the steps and peep into the large room.
Half the room is exposed to a large courtyard.

It's daylight? Morning? When did that happen? I feel faint.

What is going on?

There's a table, dimly lit by the morning light, next to the bookshelves.

Two women sit at that table, eating, making pleasant conversation. I feel safer knowing it's day. I inch closer to them.

I know one of them. It's Protyasha.
What is she doing here?

Nothing fits. Nothing fits. Who is that other woman? I think I've seen her!

I can't control myself anymore.
I run to the table and sit, my eyes full of questions. Relief, too. But questions.

Protyasha cheerily hugs me. And then the other woman hugs me.

"Vishal wasn't well, they said. He was missing home."
"What?!"

I hear a car back up into the courtyard. I turn towards the courtyard. A door opens, and Vishal is carried out on a stretcher.

I can't watch anymore. What did they do to him?
Suddenly the man from that first underground room enters the library. He proceeds to clear away the plates.

My head is aching. Protyasha says he's the butler. How can he be the butler? Where are the killers? Who was that man in the dressing gown? What is this place?

Then the doctor walks in. He's not in his dressing gown anymore. I feel giddy.
There are so many people around me now. I think they've just woken up.

I want light. I want to look at light. I look at the Courtyard. I hope Vishal is ohkay.

Then I see it.
I see the sign. Or part of it.

'--me for schizophrenia'

Pain. So much pain.

"It's alright, Amri." A soothing voice.

I turn to the woman next to Protyasha.

Mamma.

Why I love rain.

Because it washes everything away. Dust, filth, pollutants, SPM, negativity.

Because the green never looks so fluorescent.

Because before the lightening crashes, the swirling energy of 'all hell about to break loose' makes it look like the atmosphere is holding its breath.

Because in quenching the parched earth, its coming signifies fulfilled hopes and wishes.

Because of the smell of the earth.

Because when it begins to rain, EVERYTHING exposed is in disarray for a moment, showing how nature is still all powerful.

Because it's a whiff of a breath of mountain freshness.

Because of the way Delhi's sandstone monuments, the wisely planned Islamic greens and the gray colour of the sky just form an amazing colour palette.

Because there is no traffic on the roads and I can race with the wind.

Because it's romantic. It's always been romantic. To be rain kissed. I've never been rain kissed. Have you?

Because there is a certain kind of music I only play when it rains.

Because I like the wind in my hair.

Because my parents never stopped me dancing in the rain as a child.

Because of the way the water trickles down from the edges of window chhajjas.

Because a sudden change in the energy of the atmosphere charges me up and wipes my own slate clean, regardless of how the day went, giving me the courage to not give a fuck.

Because when you let go, when you forget your problems, your inhibitions, your fears, your clothes, your hair, your kajal, and step out to be one with nature as the heavens pour and rejoice, you are truly, truly... liberated.

Moment

Even a person lacking the most basic exposure to the philosophies of life and the world would have heard, paused and pondered about 'living life in the moment.'

To shut your mind off, and put all your senses, full blast, into absorbing everything around you in the greatest possible detail, along with what you feel as a reaction, without the influence of what can be or what could have been, is a superhuman task.

The saddest part of it all, infact is that the more we grow up, mature, age, the more we lose this remarkable ability, having been tempered by life's ups and downs to regret, fear and procrastinate.

The truth, although, is very simple.

It's the moments that we do manage to 'live in' that we hold within us forever.

Cut to May 2004.

A little-known, rocky, raging, typical Himalayan river, the Tons. I'm in a raft with my Dad, my sister, my brother and the rafting camp coordinator, Nalin Uncle.

The setting: Virgin pine forests around us, the roaring blue Tons, the atmosphere thunderously holding its monsoony breath as we go screaming past rapid after rapid, body surfing in the calm stretches of the river, the still-innocent 13 year old me scared of crocs biting my behind, underwater.

As we approach the next stretch of rapids, with my stomach in my mouth because they're getting tougher and tougher, I see my 5 year old brother holding on to the rope ring line in the front of the raft.

We go blasting down the next stretch, and he squeals with the thrill as his legs go flying in the air, hands still holding onto the line for dear life.

I smile.

There's a song in my head.

'Chale jaise hawayein' from the movie Main hoon na.  We'd bought the cassette (yes, those) right before heading outta home and had been singing along with all the songs as we'd driven up to the rafting camp in this little heaven, a small place called Mori, 2 days ago.

Suddenly, more rapids.

Crazy rapids.

My brother sticks his paddle into the river, it jams between 2 rocks and snags underwater.

My brother:

"Oh! Usne pakda!"

Nalin uncle and Dad roar with laughter at his childish fear of 'things lurking underwater'.

Screaming and bouncing, we cross the last rapid, into the calm stretch flowing into our camp.

The river diverges and I break into a song as our raft approaches meadows and I see mom waving at us from in front of our tent.

"Chalein jaise hawayein sanan sanan"

My sister joins me and we take one last jump in the river, the cool monsoon wind in our faces, hell be damned.

..........

I surface.

From my moment. It's a secret place in my head that makes me happy no matter what I do, or where I am.

Just like millions of other moments locked away in the recesses of my memory, accessible to me and only me at my own will.

Untampered, unviolated, vials of happiness.

I think I'm incapable of generating the same, of even comparable intensity, anymore. Maturity has taken its toll. I'm human after all.

I'm lucky. Extremely so.

Because mostly, as we perceive it, the world is a hostile place.

But there're still some things that are sacred.

Some instances at which you say,

"This, I keep."

And those, I kept.

Thus, I’ve lived.

No So(a)p Saga This!

I jumped onto my couch and flipped on the TV, bringing to life a bazillion liquid crystals, all whirring to display, collectively, a frame out of a further billion frames, to help me pass a lazy Sunday afternoon.

I checked my usual list of channels: Star World, AXN, Zee Cafe and the groupies of that category; HBO and Star movies (with a fleeting glance at the 'i' of some cooler sounding movies in MGM, etc), jumping thereon to the News channels with a customary stop at CNN IBN, CNN and BBC in that order, and then on to Discovery/ Nat Geo/ Fox History to check for interesting things.

Meh.

My channel scan complete, with nothing holding my attention for more than 2.3 nanoseconds, I glided over to a channel I wouldn't be caught dead watching, but can admit to having seen by 'accident'. Ha! Ohkay. Now. So... ahem... yes, I found myself watching a daily soap on 'Colors', (I won't STILL say which one, but that maybe because I ended up watching more than one :P).

Settling on a bunch of cushions, I watched for a long time, having some idea of the various storylines and plots, courtesy my grandparents and mum, without whose respective 'companies', my dinner is incomplete. But what does it matter, the story never changes drastically, and remains generally on the same page for most soaps, give or take a few twists and turns.

As I sat and was sucked into this world of heavy jewellery, complex relationships and kanjivarams, I realized how the very kernel of the daily soap feeds off the desire of the average Indian (yes honey, if you're not signing movie contracts or cricket sponsorship deals on a Sunday afternoon, then you ARE an average Indian) for a stable 'umbrella', along with all the compounded complexities that come with 'joint families' and community living.

It's quite cool, given the current trend towards 'nuclearizing' the modern family (which by the way, is a damn awesome sitcom on Star World, and totally NOT about 'hum do humaare do'), that soap-makers still gift-wrap family values and togetherness and present it to the increasingly restless Indian. It's a dreamy getaway for more than half of India, post office hours, where family values still work; and relationships stand the test of time. And it IS a very feel-good feeling. Not so much for me, because I tend to see beyond what's on the screen, but still.

I actually connect with that train of thought, because I've grown up in an umbrella family.

And thank heavens for that. I have more cousins, chachas, tayas, buas, maasis, maamis than I can count, and definitely more than I can love, but I still adore each one of them all the same. Each a character, each making my life interesting on a daily basis.

Because growing up in a large group of people is always such a tussle, one learns to be accommodating, adaptive and flexible along the way. You may have vested interests, but you have a keen sense of judgement and an eye for the 'greater good'.

Given, there may be 10 opinions where there should be none (oooh woh ladka theek nahee hai...), but you grow up a warmer, socially adept and broad minded person.

Things I and Saas-Bahu sagas agree on:

1. There is nothing like family when you're neck deep in trouble.

2. There is nothing like a marriage in a huge family. Oh my GOD, I live the years in between them just hoping and praying for the next one to come sooner.

3. There are always, always ALWAYS things you won't tell your best friends, things you won't tell your siblings, things you won't tell your parents, but WILL tell your cousins. Muhahaha!

4. You get money when they visit you. You get money on general festivals. You get money on all the brother-sister festivals. On your birthdays, exam results, and on every randomly spontaneous dance you do at a family party (if you do it well, that is. No Dadaji waves big notes around your head if you're not impressive and you didn't invite atleast one of the 3rd Gen on the Floor)

5. When one of the babies of the family takes a liking to you, there isn't a joy purer.

6. Sharing clothes, hand-me-downs, sharing jewellery, books, shot-glasses; it's ALL part of the package. And we ALL do it, no matter how well off we are.

7. Family vacations abroad!

Secret: Everyone detests a train of Indians descending upon Point A, in XYZ city in *#* country.

Bigger Secret: We don't care! We love it, and if you let go of your pretensions, you can join in the fun too! And people have. We've made an entire ship of people want to click pictures with us. :P

8. There's always someone to go to the movies with ;)

9. You ALWAYS get permission when you're with cousins.

10. Nothing is inappropriate. And you can ONLY bitch about family to cousins :P

And a bazillion other points. Three of my closest cousins actually went back to their 'home country' (bleh, Internet Security 101), 2 days ago. And I couldn't shake that sinking feeling. I hate it. I probably wont see them for another 1 or 2 years, unless someone gets married really soon.

And I do want to practice co-ordinated Bhangra moves with those guys for a wedding. So badly.

And I want to spend endless nights 'stealing from the kitchen' and talking about random things, holed up in a blanket, looking like a preposterous little golliwog (I can, mind you, with my hair, for those of you who've seen me)

Air-guitaring. Tickle-bombs. Sour-punk.

Stale jokes. Bad jokes.

And random pokes.

And pillowfights. And drunken nights.

*Self-contented Sigh*

I love my family :) . They may suck at various degenerative levels.

But they rock my world!! \m/

The Red Light Man

Sitting in that auto with my mother and sister on either side of me, I spotted him today, the red light man. He was holding this wooden board with those obnoxious little wobbly flowers that everyone seems to love to perch on their dashboards nowadays. And then he passed out of my line of vision.

I had just found my portkey to time travel. I flew back to a time some twelve years ago, when school was about silly games like ‘lock- and-key’ and ‘ghost-in-the-graveyard’, and children running out of grey metal gates towards the waiting cool of an air conditioned car. I plonked myself in the front seat and turned on the radio, 102.6 FM, the only one we had back then. At the Ashram red light, my face lit up as I saw the nice, knobbly old man selling magazines. Like always, he came right up to our window and made faces at me. I laughed, rolled down my window and shook his hand, and told him that I was going home from school. Then the lights changed and I waved my byes to him.

Dissolve. That memory and the picture dissolved.

Cut to seven years later. For whatever reasons, time, etc, I hadn’t seen the red light man in many years. A little part of me, at the odd time, fearing the worst, prayed for him, and with all my heart I wished him luck and happiness. Then one day, at the Ashram red light again, I saw him. My heart jumped, an initial yelp of joy. But by then, my mind had undergone a certain mental conditioning, as the initial yelp was muffled under observation, apprehension and hesitation.
How old he had grown, his jaw stuck out, the teeth were missing. My heart went out to him. He was selling water bottles, from car to car, in the blistering heat. I half wanted him to come to my window and half not, not knowing how I would react. It had been so long, I felt a sense of having betrayed him (and my childish innocence) and moved on.

He stopped at my window.
I looked at him, with a deadpan expression, trying to silence the little girl who wanted to scream, “it’s me! From back then! Do you remember?”
Our eyes met over my clenched jaw, he held my gaze for a fleeting moment and I thought I saw a flicker of recognition. My lips almost turned upward and I was on the verge of flashing him a beaming smile, when he turned away.

He turned and went to the next car. My heart sank.

Why in that fleeting moment, did I feel that he waited for me to meet him halfway? Why was I so reserved? Because he was a man at a red light and I was a young girl in a car? I felt a deep sense of shame, an innate repulsion for myself.

Today, I sat in the auto, and saw him again... feeble and bent with age, yet resilient, selling his wares from car to car, a life force that refused to give up. And I felt nothing except respect for this man. No desire to try to appeal to his memory, nothing. I asked my sister if she remembered him, (I don’t even know his name); she said she was surprised because she was thinking about him too.

Perhaps he was like this with all the children he met at red lights. Perhaps they’d openly recognize him till date. Not like me.

Would he remember me? Perhaps not. And why should he? I was nothing and am nothing special.

But I will remember him. Him in the sponsored T-shirt of whichever company was paying him. He who embraced the harshness of life and entertained little children.

That knobbly faced smile that knew no boundaries.

The Red Light Man who made faces at an uncorrupted me.