We lived in a two storey house in a leafy neighborhood, my room there overlooked the busy road below, its beauty unmatched on rainy evenings. My sister and I would sit on my bed admiring it on such evenings, the dark rain washed road, sheltered by trees all of them ,almost of the same height, a sudden calm would descend on us, we acknowledged this only in the last few months there, my room of course of course was dusty and the bars on windows always blemished in spite of my maid's constant efforts at keeping them clean and the red oxide floor cracked, whose contours i can still remember. It was a place which had felt my presence for twenty odd years.
As i write this I'm in a room with beautifully painted walls, the bars in its windows a clean off white ,but they seem distant, to my thoughts and tears as i lie down and hence i resort to writing, in a place which seems faintly like home.

the story behind a sari

shopping for saris can make three women so happy, Amma dragged me off to Girija's day before, to buy a sari for the college farewell ( i cannot seem to clearly define my emotions about leaving college, sometimes it is good this way, its over even before you start weeping or crying with joy ).Girija's of course is legendary and my aunt has piles of old green Girija boxes and she has a story for each one of them. Amma is right, saris are boring without their stories. Anyway, what would i tell people if they asked me the story behind this one- that it was an end of an other even semester? it was the last and we had projects to document, write exams,pictures to take, drinks to try, and was wondering how to wear my hair on the day which was supposed to be my last in college, and these were the only good things to sort out. At this point though, I'm at my lowest ebb, with all that unshaken belief i had, of being different, and knowing what i wanted completely gone. Would i tell them that?
I could have made this post humorous in that silly way of mine, i just did not want to.