What A Heart Wants ?

Those thoughts keep coming back every day now and then. Maybe those thoughts have never left me. May be it's deeply rooted in my DNA that keep surfacing with every this n that way.

Years back in around 1990 while I was roaming in Sangla valley of Kinnaur in Himachal along few friends, amid the small village of Sangla I came across a two roomed vocational training centre of Vanvasi Kalyan Ashram, an organization dedicated for upliftment of people of tribal areas in India. That centre was providing vocational training to big girls and basic education to small children of near by villages. Only a duo of husband-wife in their late thirties was running the whole show. They both belonged from Bangalore in Karnataka thousands of miles away from that small village of Kinnaur. They both were well educated and had their respective jobs back there and had decided to give six months for the welfare of their country and were deputed here as part of their non-paying duty. Those two rooms were their part of world for those six months.

Those few hours spent with that couple were engraved on my mind forever. With the divine surroundings of Himalayas, flowing of Baspa river, always smiling innocent people, mystic temples and Deities within, yellow harvest dancing in the fields, small houses made of stone and wood are still afresh in my heart. Sitting alone on the bank of Baspa that time I dreamt of settling there forever. I didn't know even after many years that if it was a serious thought or was a temporary attraction of young immature teen aged mind.

But one thing is for sure true, that all of my life till now, mountains fascinates me. It was not only that couple who showed me the way but as above I wrote it is in my blood which is very easily provoked when ever I see mountains. A small house in the hills is what I dream of for my retirement. The hassle basal of daily life, unnecessary competition in business and social life, rat race of earning more and more only to maintain your metro status, watching other people's possession of 'brands' and watching other people watching your possession of 'brands' sicken me. When will this blind circle end ? When I am gonna to be at my place? The place I have always dream of, the place where only peace of mind prevails.

But there is one hidden fear also. The way I wail about this routine life, who can be sure of that I won't get sick of that life too? May be it's only my mind, a confused mind. They say you can not get the depth of some one's mind but here it seem true with my own mind. Or may be it's just only one colour among the millions others contained in my mind. Who knows? But no doubt this colour is what my heart is made of.

Punjabi Jutti

Earlier days among my other passions, one was Punjabi Jutti (footwear). Whenever I visited my father’s native village in Punjab, buying atleast one pair of this traditional footwear used to be a compulsory ritual. I was really passionate about these hand made beaded shoes.

Whenever I could not visit the village, I used to send a drawing of my foot for size as this footwear didn’t carry any size numberings. All the work was done manually in the family of these shoemakers. Surprisingly this footwear have no left-right sides, these shoes adopt their positions themselves with the passage of time of usage. Initially, if the wearer is not used to these kinds of shoes, he/she have to bear a little biting too. I too have proudly bore many blisters caused by these jutties. Wearing jutties always produced a sense of proud in me. My cousins in village used to wonder why I gave so much importance to these shoes as they always wanted to wear modern sports shoes. But for me this traditional wear was a reason of ecstasy and a feeling of importance.

I spent a handsome amount of my savings on collection of these shoes. Available in different colors and styles, each pair had a unique statement to present. These shoes have one another great specialty, specialty of producing very dramatic cracking sound while walking. No doubt the wearer feels a sense of style when heads turn around to watch such possessions. Not only for myself, I can’t forget a gorgeous pair of feet wearing such beautiful jutties presented by me.

In these days of globalisation, where everything is available everywhere, such possessions have lost their sparkles. You can’t have that joy nowadays, what I had in those days, while visiting village of such shopping or waiting impatiently for someone to bring those craftsmanship for me.

'Watch' It !

In early 90’s, in my college days, I used to get my shining black Royal Enfield serviced from a particular mechanic on much disciplined schedule. He used to regard me a lot and money for his services was never an issue among us. Many times he would refuse charging me anything, many times he would ask me to keep his fee with me safe only for his emergency time and many times he would ask me (and usually would get) for some money for his ‘half’ of whisky without any account. But story I am telling today is not of that mechanic but about something else.

The ‘workshop’ of that mechanic was so small that it consists only two hand held tool kits and one stool for himself and he used to sat outside a spare parts shop. While every service I had to buy some spares from that shop and the shopkeeper was very shrewd and used to charge too much for even cheep spare taking advantage of his only shop in that area. Being an experienced bike owner, at every purchase I used to insist him for genuine prices as I was very much aware of the prices and brands of the spares but he would simply not listen to me. I never liked his attitude and always advised my mechanic to shift his place to somewhere else.

One day there was some extra repair had to be done to my bike and some parts to be replaced. In the evening, when I went to collect my bike after repairs, while settling the account of spares I noticed some prices charged unnecessarily and other too high than actual rates. Though I filed with irritation but I had decided not to say a word. While checking his hand written bill, I saw that the shopkeeper had made mistake while calculating the amount and had wrongly written lesser total than actual. The difference was of around Two hundred fifty Rupees which may sound tiny amount today but it was a decent figure in 90’s and that too for a college student like me. The wrong calculations of that shopkeeper brought a smile on my face and I thought, “Here comes the judgement day”. For a minute a sense of honesty came to my mind and impelled me to correct his mistake but my disliking for his attitude stopped me immediately and ordered me to take advantage of his mistake. I paid his lesser calculated amount to him and inside my ego was bit satisfied by giving a slap of two hundred fifty rupees to that cunning shopkeeper.

Few days later, I had to visit a marriage function of a friend in a remote village. I along some other friends drove in my car to the nearest road around 60 Km from my town and then we had to walk uphill around two kilometers above the road to reach that village. Though we reached the village easily and enjoyed the marriage party, we faced great difficulty returning back downward on that trek. Trek was too narrow and was turned very slippery cause of the fallen needles like leaves of deodar trees. Some of us slipped and fell very dangerously including me. Luckily no one was hurt badly.

Next day while getting ready for college I saw my wrist watch was missing. “I surely have dropped that watch when I fell on that trek”, I thought while rubbing a small bruise on my left wrist and after uselessly searching entire home for my watch. Damn, it was Titan Fast track and I really loved my watch. I felt too bad for the loss. All the day in the college, I remained engulfed in bad mood and kept thinking of my watch. “You tried to be very smart buddy by saving two hundred and fifty bucks, now enjoy the party, your seven hundred rupees worth watch is gone”, my conscience started bothering me now. I felt like a defeated soldier with injured body and crushed ego. I had no answer.

On the way back home from college, I stopped at the same spare parts shop and went to shopkeeper. I handed him two hundred fifty rupees and told him that I checked the total at home and found his mistake. While handing over the money to him I expected a genuine thank-you gesture from him filled with greatness towards me but that creeper showed no such sign, put the money in chest and got busy in his business. I stand there for a second and then left his counter filled with rage for him once again.

“What was the use of this stupidity”, it was now my hurt ego’s turn to drill me. “You already had lost your watch and now you have thrown more money into waste, and that too for such a thankless person. Be shrewd, man! Who gives a shit to sincerity and honesty these days? Stop acting foolish anymore now”, my ego preached me. I spent a restless night that evening.

Is the story over? For me, yes it was. I was left with a bitter lesson and an expensive one, no doubt. But still the lesson was not a clear mandate for me. Even then I was not sure who won that battle of ego and conscience. My conscience kept assuring me that I should have return his money unaffected by his attitude or thanklessness and on the other hand my brain kept suggesting me that when he never gave a fair deal to you how come he deserve a fair deal from you? Loosing the watch was just a coincident.

It was the day, when my friend visited my home back from his village after his marriage. He brought sweets for my family members and for me, he had something special. My fast track. One of the guests in their function spotted the watch and asked everyone present there. My friend recognized that it was mine and brought it back.

I smiled from the depth of my heart. And someone else was smiling too, 'my conscience'.

Against The Storm !

He was lying on the woolen carpet in his tiny bedroom with his head in her lap while she was sitting on the carpet with her back against the wall. Bright and warm sun rays were flooding the room from large window pan and turning the chilled air of January of the snow covered mountains into a cozy atmosphere.

It was their one of the very eagerly awaited weekly meeting day and both of them were deeply indulged in the serious task of sketching their future plans. Telling her parents about ‘them’, getting their approval for marriage or getting married without their approval, his setting up a visible carrier, selecting a new town for setting and starting their new lives, all these issues were very serious and heart pumping.

All of sudden he turned his head and asked her amusingly, “hey fruit & nut, tell me, how come you are always smiling at me? That day when you were along your dad, you were continuously smiling?” Hearing this, she burst into laughter gracefully expending her rosy lips towards her pink cheeks and revealing her perfect row of white teeth, “Hmmm”, she thought for a minute and then replied while setting his hairs on his forehead, “I will give you that answer on appropriate time.” The tensed air of their hot discussion was quickly transformed back into their usual and precious warmth of love.

Days went on and their situation was not at all improving. Her parents had rejected him and were brutally pressuring her to get married to one of the boys of their own choice. Their loving and soothing relation was turning into the mouth drying act of walking on a tight rope thousands of feet high in air from solid earth. Their futures were uncertain. Weekly meetings were turning into fortnightly or sometimes monthly cause of the strict vigil of her parents and no longer were providing relax and comfort to them as used to be in earlier days but rather turning into hopeless empty arguments. Looks among them were getting confused and filled with lacking of confidence. He was having sleepless nights fearing of receiving some heart tearing news from her side any day. Any human heart could have broken under such emotional pressure and she is only a soft hearted girl, his mind kept hammering him every moment. Can she stand against the storm?

And one day, during such meeting, she pulled out an envelop from her bag, handed over to him and said, “Here is your answer”. Caught unaware, surprised and confused of her sudden act he was wondering what she was referring about? It was a greeting card. They used to exchange greeting cards a lot, piling endlessly in their respective cupboards. Those mute cards had expressed countless of their feelings among them. But for the first time he was afraid of opening that envelop. “Could it be a “Sorry” card or a “Goodbye for ever”, his hands were freezing, he tried to read her face but it was rock hard. Exhaling his sigh out, he pulled the card with a paled face. It was a very simple card, the front page had a smiling duck saying, “You would be smiling too…………..” unable to understand, he opened the card further and read inside, “……………..if you were in love like me”.

“You asked me a question sometime back and here in your answer stupid”. Hugging each other, they both had wet eyes.

What is Life ?

He was a nationalist, had given almost all of his life for the upliftment of this country. A part time writer, who had written around half a dozen books mostly containing issues belonging to our nation. An intellectual who could speak, read and write at least five languages. But even then very far from name and fame.

In 1995, he was on Himachal tour for a week and I had to perform as his driver. I was college student then and a very good driver (which I think still I am). On the way to interior Himachal, in one town our night arrangement was made at a local house. The owners of that house were joint family members who had a boy of my age doing his CA that time in their family. The room of this boy was arranged for the writer. The room was an ordinary room with very little furniture. There was a notepad hanging just above a study table in that room. The facing page of that notepad was blank when the room was occupied by that writer.

The next morning after breakfast, when we were ready for the journey of that day to another place, I had to enter that room to get something from the study table. I again looked at the notepad hanging above there. The facing blank page was no more blank. There was some scribbling in Hindi on it which could be translated as, “Life is a bridge, we have to cross it and not to sit on it.” No name was mentioned who wrote this but I knew.

Question is, do we take our life as a bridge or we keep dying everyday to live forever on that bridge?

'Russian Folk Tales'

While shuffling my small personal library at home, a very old thick book caught my eye. ‘Russi Lok Kathayen’ (Russian Folk Tales), I think I received this book as prize from my school around 22 years back in 1985 when I was in 6th standard. Since then I must have read this book not less than 100 times. I never get tired of books, movies or music I like, and can read, watch or listen over and over again for countless times.

First published in 1960, this 373 pages book has got collection of 33 short and long Russian folk tales translated in Hindi. These stories are part of Russian culture since generations and carry the same world of magic, devils, angles, beautiful princess and poor peasants as our Indian folk tales do as our mom or grandma used to tell us in our childhood. Some of the stories are one page long and some are 10-15 pages long as one keep flipping the pages.

I still remember the fantasies I used to get dragged in while reading this book in my childhood. That was amazing world, when there was no tension or worries or targets to be achieved. Entering those worlds of imagination was not at all difficult as like today. Few pages a day, kept mind of a reader like me engaged for weeks and floating with the little prince who is struggling hard to get his kingdom back from the clutches of lusty cruel Czar.

That amazing world had every color hidden inside. There were always some godly magic powered people or animal to help grief stricken hero or heroin of the story. It could be Beautiful girl Yelna or Wise Vasilisa, the princesses or brown wolf or brown horse or Feniest the Falcon or sometimes even a kind witch named Baba Yaga. Peasants like everywhere were innocent and being exploited by local rich landlords. There was beautiful princess cursed to be frog, retired army soldier who outsmarted and trapped ‘Death’ and is believed to be ‘still alive’, merchants with magical objects like flying ships, kings with extra ordinary beasts like singing cat, or golden falcon or flying horse, poor Ivan (almost always the hero of every tale) who had to walk and cross unlimited jungle or snow covered fields to fight anacondas, six headed fire throwing dragon named Zamai Gorinich or envious czar to achieve his destinations. Hateful cruel stepmothers, helpless fathers, wise and gorgeous daughters and brave sons are part of almost every story. Three iron caps, three pairs of iron shoes and three iron sticks were to break off to achieve every difficult mission.

There are some very interesting and funny stories which bring smile at the face of reader of any age. Gladly every story has a happy ending and brings relief for soft hearted innocent readers.

Reading these stories once again as a mature reader, I found that the feelings, emotions, dreams, desires, values, affections, lust, beauty, kindness, hate, responsibilities, duties or anything which touches a human heart are same all over this planet, no matter it is an Indian or Russian, no matter it is 16th century or 21st. We all are same.

Let's Play !

Almost daily work out in early morning is my routine since my childhood. This workout includes jogging, sprint, yog and of course my favourite one, playing the games. My day won't sound a day if I am not drenched in my sweat any morning. I remember in my school days when we used to play like maniacs in the summer evenings and when we sat after the game for a breath, we actually could see the white smoke of vaporizing sweat from our hot burning backs.

I still have the memories just like yesterday, when in the rain we used to play the worst game of struggle in the muddy grounds. It was really fun. Never in the life my mom ever scolded me for a torn t-shirt filled with mud or my elbows or knees to be sanded off to the white layer of fresh skin with sparkles of very slowly growing tiny red dots of blood.

It was real fun. I would say without any doubt that I am a lucky guy to still have the almost same fun even now. (Though now days some friend hesitate to bother wives for their dirty clothes or not having that much of enthusiasm as I used to see among my team mates in those good old days) I still have the fun of working out and playing games with my fullest strength. By the grace of god, I have been able to maintain the my image of any match winner. One thing I wanna clear here is that I am not talking about the game of Cricket where two or three persons are active and rest are chewing nails in wait for their turns to move their muscles. We mostly play desi Indian games.

Having a stretched muscle, bad sprain, muscle or nerve strain, twisted ankle, jammed neck, pain of punches on the back or biceps or thighs are very common and friendly problems to me. And these oh-ah-ouch's never could stop me to be at the ground again the very next day. I feel pretty lucky to never have any broken bone till date even with my wild playing. I never had any fracture, touch wood. Though three of my friends had ligament fracture in this May withing a span of only 20 days.

The last muscle strain I had was just around the last week of April. And it was pretty bad. Surprisingly it stayed very long, I could not run at all for almost all the May. I got frustrated as I was not able to have the usual fun I am habitual of and physiologically I felt I was gaining weight cause of not having exercises.

This Sunday morning, I decided to kick off that strain and found myself standing in the court of Kabbadi match refusing to be a referee as per schedule. My friends were happy to see me standing next to them and the friends in the other team were little anxious. The game started well off. Though I was not feeling 100% fit, we managed to gain the lead of 18 to 6 in the first half.

Though many friends sitting outside were feeling it was an unequal match, an experienced and strong player was added in the opponent team to balance the match. As I started the raid in the second half, my strain decided to kick me off. The moment I tried to touch the same player with me left leg, my right one refused to follow with the same pace. A cool wave of pain started from my left groin and knocked the door of my brains while changing expressions on my face. I could not realise when my leg was blocked and held and pulled by the opponent. And I had to fall and I did and I did it very beautifully. Just like as they write, 'he fell like a tree'. In attempt to save myself I tried to support my right hand at the ground but angle went wrong. I landed on my elbow pinning my right chest. Ah! What a fun it was. It felt like some one nailed my elbow in my ribs. As I was just enjoying the pain, five of the other mates jumped on me in fear of I might try to touch the center line. Damn it was good.

I was out and as my team did not want to leave me sitting alone outside the court holding my shoulder, they followed too one by one. A friend who was not playing and was the main person to shout about the unequal match ran to me and spoke while bursting in laugh, " Arre, aaj to untth ko kutte ne kaat liya'. I laughed aloud too but the pain forced me to halt immediately. No need to mention, we lost this friendly match by 26 to 27.

But the pain could not stop me to play a small football match with local kids in the ground for another 15 minutes after we conclude the meet. Do I need to mention, we lost that friendly match too, by 0 to 2 :)

Later at home as the body was cooling down, I started realising the real flavour of these burns & bruises. I was just unable to move with a month old muscle strain in left thigh, a nailed down right rib, strongly twisted right shoulder, jammed neck and puffed right index finger. (what happened to finger? I can't remember). As I was harmless and arms less enemy at the battle field, Vande did not leave any chance to tease me all the day long, making fun of my oh-ah-ouch's.

But as I said before, these injuries cannot dampen my spirits to be at the grounds very next morning (at least I try) shouting to my friends, "Hey, Let's Play".

.

Missing You My Room

I got my separate room when I was in 5th standard and that luxury remained till I got married in 99.

Being a younger son of a bank officer, we had to pack our belongings almost every three years (some times even after one year) and head for an unknown city, unknown house, unknown school and unknown friends. Six different schools till tenth standard, what to say? Though initially it sounded fun but as I started growing up I started loosing the so called charm. Now I envy those guys who complete their entire school education in a single institution. Among many other reasons I think bachpan ki dosti remains forever. Anyway not to get away from my today's feelings, last evening while talking to Peggy, I bumped in the old memories of the royal days of my own room.

Obviously six different schools means six different cities and six different private rooms. All those different rooms are still loving, important and memorable to me in different ways and have different kinda memories warped in them. In a room I started writing my first diary (that's another thing that I never could maintain this hobby), In one room I got my first table lamp and I remember my vow of study hard under that table lamp (but I never could be very serious in my studies :) through out my life) I remember in the same room one day dad taught me how to write numbers in a row, I remember I hanged my dad's bullworker in my room though I was never able to press it. There was an air rifle on the other wall which I got from dad on my 10th birthday. I must have blown off thousands of bottles with that gun. In another room of Amritsar I started collecting stamps. This room was very beautiful at first floor with a view of main entrance. A teacher was arranged for my tuition and instead of learning mathematics from him I learnt to drive moped at his Luna. I must have read thousands of comics in that room as dad had arranged rented comics for me on monthly paying basis there. I remember decorating the walls of this rooms with the sketches of Chacha Choudhary, Saboo, Micky Mouse and Pluto drawn by me. And also tearing off some of them in a fight with elder brother. There are countess big and small memories tagged with these rooms.

But I actually realised the value of my room in my last days of high school and by the time I entered college I was almost in love with my room. 10' X 12' in size my room in Shimla had my whole world in it. With a big windows frame on one wall where one could view half of the city, other walls were covered with different posters and pictures of the persons I was inspired of. Arnold Schwarzenegger in standing pose of Commando and another of Predator, Bruce Willi's Die Hard poster, Black and white poster of Titan Fast track gal with curly hairstyle (I shamelessly begged that poster pasted in a shop of Titan dealer at The Mall,) a b/w poster of Madhubala (the only actress on my wall), a BMW Z1 two seater, BMW E32 convertible, a red Ferrari, two BMW motorcycles, a Harley, Dunlop tyre ad poster of knight rider bike, a MRF ad of a bike, Colour pencil sketches of Chattarpatti Shiva ji and Maharana Pratap drawn by me, another my drawing of a boy with an umbrella in rain with wordings "Rainy days doesn't matter as long as you are with me", a collage of family photographs, a kathakali mask I bought from Rameshwaram, a coffee coloured study table with straight back chair, on the wall facing that chair was diamond shaped dangles of Swami Vivekanand, Swami Ramkrishana Paramhans and Ma Sharda, a picture cutting of Indian Army commandos in action taken out of an edition of India Today, a wrapper of Cadbury's chocolate being edited "You are my sweet Fruit & Nuts" by her, books shelves filled with my all the books I could manage to save since my childhood, from 'Russi Lok Kathyen' to Fundamentals of Advance Accounting . A pair of dumbbells in a corner near my bhoomi aasan, a moderately large aquarium filled with pairs of Goldfish, Catfish, Silver Shark, Guppy, Angelfish, Barb and a all time sleeping snail. I think I had wasted too much money maintaining that aquarium. My room also had a cord nunchakus, a sword and a wooden stick for practising silambam. Apart from all above I can't forget my expensive Vega helmet, my Walkman, VHS collection of my favorite action movies, hundreds of my audio cassettes, my posters and sketches which I could not paste on the wall because there was no space left for them, jeans and shoes I loved so much, my lost watches and digital diary all affiliated with my room.

What were those days! I was very particular for my room and its cleanliness, I never had to buy that famous poster saying "cleanliness is next to impossible'. Every thing was at its perfect position. I even used to clean the posters on the walls and not even a single unwanted object was there in my room. But those are good old days. And now none of above thing exists in my today's room. Did I say 'My room'? Do I have my room any more? NO !

I miss you my room, really miss you so much!

Valentine ? Ha !

This was and is my favorite since I came to know about the Valentines Day. Valentine was used to be an exciting event those days, but now it seem a show off and stupid thing. May be we have grown older or the definition of love has changed for guys like me. Sorry Lovers :)


Anyway I still love the love songs. And especially the whistle of that number. So enjoy this.

Kati Patang !

Basant is here again.

I read that some schools and collages are celebrating this festival by declaring ‘Basant Princess’ and ‘Basant Queen’ among the students. Great! The ‘Bazarisum’ has not spared anyone. This is purely an exercise of doing something different than other competing schools and not a true celebration. I don’t think students even aware that this is day of Ma Saraswati and people are supposed to wear yellow on this auspicious day. Thanks to globalization these festivals sooner or later are going to be member of museums and parts of the books of ancient history and ‘festivals’ like Valentine’s day and Thanksgiving would take place of them.

Thinking of golden past, (past is always golden even if one had less money to spend on very few options in those days) this sounds weird but even after spending seven years of school age at a place where kite flying runs in the blood of people I never got chance to fly a kite. I was always busy in other activities. Basant is synonymous with Kite Flying. This game was a passion in Punjab especially the border town of Batala, the place I am talking about. Boys would spend all the day on the rooftop during this day. And Basant Panchmi was never less than today’s final match of any cricket world cup for those guys.

They would leave their beds at four in chilling morning and run for roof with their kites and spool of string. Not to mention kites were procured weeks before and threads were specially designed and seasoned. I remember my young friends narrating me the contents of the solution for strengthening string which includes gum, glass powder and ‘mythologically’ pigeon dropping.

Kite flying was never an easy sport and the players of this sport considered them as warriors and would proudly show their injured index fingers with multiple cuts caused by sharp thread while contesting their kites with opponents, trying to cut the other kite loose. Kites and thread spools were like armours and weapons for these warriors. Loudspeakers were installed at the rooftops and challenges were thrown to neighboring warriors. The players would include from age six to sixty. I remember the scene of sky filled with thousands of kites looking like those colored patches holding the sky high and if those kites are withdrawn the sky would fell down.

Down in the street groups of small children with hawk eyes would stay alert like rapid action forces to launch attack for grabbing loose kites and thread. The event would go on for all the day till dark. The warriors would have their breakfast and lunch only at the roof with spools in hand and eyes at sky just like famous Rajput yodha Durga Dass Rathore not getting off his horse for many days in the war field.

But those were good old days. Scene is totally changed now. Kite flying is considered very ‘lower middle class’ these days. Kite shops are gone and kite makers have adopted other ways to earn bread. Very few people are familiar with this festival.

The only community which celebrate all the festivals are traders. They will not loose a chance to put on sale and take advantage of such festivals. These days we came to know about festivals only by the sale ads in the papers. Thanks to them all the festivals look like same. The same stuff is being sold in the markets. There is no difference in Diwali and Republic day. While everything seems stereotype you can’t have the true happiness.

As I wrote earlier I never flew a kite but still I wanted this sport to remain live and Basant (and all our festivals) to be celebrated in true spirit. Don’t know why. May be I am orthodox.

Nice to say Hi !

Hi’, rang the sweet melodious chimes. I was polishing my Royal Enfield sitting by its side on the road outside my house as usual. It was sunny bright winter noon and polishing my 350cc black bike was my favorite job everyday I return from college. I was so deeply involved in the polishing that I didn’t notice her standing beside me until she said hi to me. I was surprised and never had imagined that she would walk all across from her house on the other side of road to greet me without caring of so many people (including her dad and relatives) staring at her and then at us. ‘She is damn daring’ I thought and here mine heart was pounding so loudly that I could hear it.

I knew her very well, she was sister of my not so (girl) friend. But we never had shared any words till then. She handed me a greeting card, I hold it while watching the people on the road from the corner of my eye. I thanked her wondering what else to say. She kept standing for a moment and then walked away giving a cute smile. I don’t know what the color of my face was that moment but I realized only after few seconds that I was standing on the road with a card in one hand and rubbing cloth in the other just like fools. (Don’t surprise, I am talking of year 90, when such scenes were not at all common in India.)

Later in my room I read the card, “Sometimes it’s nice to say ‘Hi’, to someone very special”.

I was so pumped up for the entire remaining day and many other days to come. This was my first greeting card in my life from any girl and she was such a beauty. Moreover, the venue made the day very special too. How would you feel if someone like her tells you that you are very special for her? Butterflies in stomach, head over heels, walking the sky, whatever you call it, I spent another seven good years of my life in this intoxication.