After I jumped, it occurred to me, life was
perfect. Full of joy, of laughter and surprises, of heartbreaks and of
moments where your heart did not know what to do. So full it was of
possibilities, of wonder and awe at the chance at happiness, happiness
it couldn’t bring itself to believe was possible to have.
That first second, you are afraid. But it passes all too quickly. And then you close your eyes.
The first smell. Nothing quite like anything you smelt since. Baby powder, cerelac and mother’s milk. No questions, no fears. Not that you knew then what that smell was. But I remember smiling faces and I knew then that whenever I could get that smell, it meant a mother’s love. And there was nothing that could possibly hurt me.
The first time I watched TV. Still remember it. Or maybe I am remembering it again now. It was Ramayana on the morning nine o’clock slot. And every time Ravan stood up from his throne, I would run back to my room and hide under the bed. I couldn’t understand why everyone was laughing so hard. Wasn’t everyone afraid of this, this man, who could make a God tremble before him?
The first time I rode a train. Rather the first time I remember travelling by it. Don’t remember the first half that much – probably was sleeping. But I remember waking up to the din of the traveling vendors, with their steaming pots of tea and coffee and a porta-chulha. Used to wonder how they kept track of what was what. I took a while to calm down after a train journey. First thing I would do once at Grandpa’s place was to collect the kettles and bang them together and cry, “Chai! Chai!”. And Grandma would always buy a cup.
The first kiss. It wasn’t you. But there was this girl. And there was a college social and there were idiot friends, even back then. And there was an awkward dance. Isn’t there one always? And there were my size nine chappals and this shuffling side-step which somehow made her moves even more graceful. And then there was the mandatory powercut, this happens a lot in Calcutta by the way, and then we were just holding hands and it seemed like a moment to do something stupid, like fall in love for the first time. So I guess I did. You would have liked Calcutta. Next time, I promise.
You don’t hear much when you are falling. You’d think that there would be people stopping and staring and pointing fingers. It’s after all, nearly seven; the sun’s been up a while. But if they are out and about, they aren’t looking up. And if they are looking up and shouting, I sure am not hearing them. Blessed quiet. Only the wind rushing through your hair, like the fastest drive you never had.
And now the images come faster. I guess the brain figures out the time left and then goes into overdrive. Flickering images, lots of them. Brother, asking me something. Dad, proud of me. Mom, smiling. Grandpa, explaining. Sunrise, somewhere. Sunsets on the drive. Sand through fingers, cool and grainy. You.
Now, it reaches the end of the reel. And I open my eyes.
That first second, you are afraid. But it passes all too quickly. And then you close your eyes.
The first smell. Nothing quite like anything you smelt since. Baby powder, cerelac and mother’s milk. No questions, no fears. Not that you knew then what that smell was. But I remember smiling faces and I knew then that whenever I could get that smell, it meant a mother’s love. And there was nothing that could possibly hurt me.
The first time I watched TV. Still remember it. Or maybe I am remembering it again now. It was Ramayana on the morning nine o’clock slot. And every time Ravan stood up from his throne, I would run back to my room and hide under the bed. I couldn’t understand why everyone was laughing so hard. Wasn’t everyone afraid of this, this man, who could make a God tremble before him?
The first time I rode a train. Rather the first time I remember travelling by it. Don’t remember the first half that much – probably was sleeping. But I remember waking up to the din of the traveling vendors, with their steaming pots of tea and coffee and a porta-chulha. Used to wonder how they kept track of what was what. I took a while to calm down after a train journey. First thing I would do once at Grandpa’s place was to collect the kettles and bang them together and cry, “Chai! Chai!”. And Grandma would always buy a cup.
The first kiss. It wasn’t you. But there was this girl. And there was a college social and there were idiot friends, even back then. And there was an awkward dance. Isn’t there one always? And there were my size nine chappals and this shuffling side-step which somehow made her moves even more graceful. And then there was the mandatory powercut, this happens a lot in Calcutta by the way, and then we were just holding hands and it seemed like a moment to do something stupid, like fall in love for the first time. So I guess I did. You would have liked Calcutta. Next time, I promise.
You don’t hear much when you are falling. You’d think that there would be people stopping and staring and pointing fingers. It’s after all, nearly seven; the sun’s been up a while. But if they are out and about, they aren’t looking up. And if they are looking up and shouting, I sure am not hearing them. Blessed quiet. Only the wind rushing through your hair, like the fastest drive you never had.
And now the images come faster. I guess the brain figures out the time left and then goes into overdrive. Flickering images, lots of them. Brother, asking me something. Dad, proud of me. Mom, smiling. Grandpa, explaining. Sunrise, somewhere. Sunsets on the drive. Sand through fingers, cool and grainy. You.
Now, it reaches the end of the reel. And I open my eyes.
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