A busy road on a regular rainy afternoon. 

The car stops at the traffic signal. 

Different people approach the halted vehicles to sell their articles - showpieces for the dashboard,  chips and munchies, flowers, strawberries and balloons. 

And then, there's this girl. An adolescent. Shabby. Unkempt. She moves from car to car with a bunch of balloons in her left hand, across habitual apathy. Suddenly, she stops by the dewy window pane of a car. Thinks who-knows-what for a fraction of a second. And then with utmost care, draws a heart on the glass. Completely ignoring the curious glances of a bemused spectator. 

Another girl - a younger friend perhaps, joins her soon. And once she's done drawing, both exchange a glance. The younger one steps forward and just below her drawing, slowly writes 'l-o-e-v'. 

By then, I have this perfectly stupid smile on my face. 

Love misspelt is also love. 

Do you wake up to old forgotten names? Those that were part of your identity at some point of time? Those that were You, at some nondescript hour of finite existence? 

Those names that you do not hear anymore. People that you were, but are not anymore. 

Or perhaps, you are, somewhere deep within...those old selves. 

Selves that sublimated because the sun was too much to stand. Or selves that melted away like mercury dripping down the soul in calculated precise droplets, scarring every bit of You that it touched. Or may be selves which decided to unite with your shadow...those that visit your form each day with a tangential inclination - touching and yet apart - those projections of You that merge into your being as darkness sets in...the silhouettes you know so well and yet do not endow with recognition.

Old selves are, sometimes, like old rooms. Air them out, when you can. Those rooms You have lived in. They are still fragrant with the reminiscences of half-forgotten details. Air them out, with utmost care, every now and then - before dampness invades. 

 

 

I do not know why but I am never able to look at the tricolour for long without getting tearful. 

No, it's not "plucky patriotism". Medals, trophies and victories do not make me swell with pride, if you see what I mean. 

Neither does the Muse of History constantly work on my memory with ancient narratives and sagas. 

Also, the calendar does not inspire me into rehearsed routine demonstrations.

To add, there are few things which touch me and fewer that evoke emotions. 

And yet, this mystery of the tricolour... the symbol which is so vast..so enchantingly beautiful.

A symbol so expansive that it contains silently embedded within its being, so many stories...so many histories...the symbol that flutters in the breeze - just the same in the hands of a shabby child on the street as it would do on the most prestigious poles - easeful fluttering as stories continue to be told... the symbol which accommodates all claims, covers all follies, forgives all manipulations, conceals all insecurities and stands upright, perhaps, to awaken the drugged conscience of a collective. 

I do not understand my dazed mind which imagines the tricolour to be woven out of so many individual narratives that are lost. Forever. Like, lost lives, broken promises, betrayed faith, slaughtered hopes.

I do not know, but I sometimes wonder whether it is just coincidental that independence and integrity - both, begin with an I - the I which (and it must be coincidental) happens to refer to one's Self... 

 So what exactly happens when you are listening to that old number again?

The song which had faded down the subconscious...the melody you would hum as the happy little feet tapped and made the prettiest gestures with the little arms gleefully... the song which would add new words to your vocab - enriched by the lisping attempts of the little one...the rhythm which would bring a twinkle to the eyes of the little darling and would set him off in motion, circling around the length and breadth of the room with ecstatic steps...the song which had all the power in the world to light up the sulky face of a little greedy soul denied an ice cream in the immediate past...the song which in the laziest hours of the day ensured that he sprang back into action - that busy little body in red toddler boots...the song you played almost strategically each time you knew nothing else would work...the song that was magical then..and yet could not re-instill life into the cold wrinkled body drawn out of the lake.. 

What exactly happens, I wonder...when you are listening to that old number again which was so loved by the child that left so abruptly...