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 government girl’s school in the corner of thirteenth cross is idyllically romantic, especially on rain washed mornings like yesterday. This school is usually a picture of chaos on normal days, with gaggle of girls, walking in groups or standing in groups near yellow phone booths, or surrounding the array of hawkers who seem to materialize there every evening. All this seems to have completely clouded the old world charm and the simple beauty of this place. As we walked in, to cast our votes, I remembered how many summers ago, I learnt to cycle in the grounds of the very same school. I could still feel the exhilaration I felt back then, on gaining perfect balance and riding off into the road (very complan ad-ish , I know). The ground which is actually overgrown with unwanted shrubs is now enclosed with ugly green fences, which was absent. At the booth we were greeted by neighbors, with a grinning acknowledgment of my pyjama condition and P aunty to my sudden embarrassment asks amma ‘ yenri maGlige moog chuchisbitidira’ . The school seemed to have too much historyand it felt just right to vote in this cobweb filled place with dusty brown desks piled up against the wall. I spent the rest of the day watching TV, the usual election frenzy still hasn’t gripped me, and the media seems to have realized that Indian elections is a major selling point, fact I think which was almost unacknowledged till 2004, when a select few of us would secretly enjoy the hidden pleasures of it.