Susegad

"So where do you study?", inquires Aunty.

"BITS Pilani Goa Campus", I say with a hint of cringed pride.
"Goa!?", her eyebrows form the peaks of Mount Everest.
The Aunty is rushed to the nearest hospital.
Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a little.

Okay, a lot.

But studying at Goa really does have that impression on most people. This idea is not limited to only Aunties and Uncles having a more than socially acceptable level of interest in my life. My Delhi-ite friends too have painted a much too rosy picture of my life. No, our college definitely does not have a private beach; we certainly do not spend every night at 'Tito's'; no, I've never been offered drugs and no, our classes are not held at the beach with students sipping pina coladas while solving complex equations.

I swear to God, I can launch a whole series of 'Ripley's Believe It or Not' centered on life at BITS Goa.

While we do have the pleasure of visiting a beach to break the monotony of college life, my life is far from as exciting my friends make it to be. Yet we do get to witness almost everyday, a freshly painted firmament by a dexterous hand in hues of purple, pink and golden, resonating with the calm Goan mood; Did I mention the stars at night? They dot the night sky so brilliantly, scattered uniformly into the abyss. Maybe I'm succumbing to the grip of nostalgia as I write this but the swirling rings of smoke and dust in Delhi do not offer a helping hand to save me from the puddle of reminiscence I find myself so frequently thrown in.

Shaking out of my entrancing flashback, I mean to say that though a typical student in BITS Goa is not the wild party animal people imagine to be, there is a certain charming air about the laid-back, Goan way of life which soon gets absorbed into your veins. To a Delhi-ite, (or any non-Goan for that matter) this lifestyle may come across as unprofessional and inefficient; for instance, shops and general stores having a tiny window of comfortable opening and closing times; but Goans desire very simple things in life, a comfortable (not extravagant) flow of income, good food, sleep (lots of it) and just to be happy. There is no rat race here, people jostling, elbowing against each other to attain something so obscure while missing out the small beautiful things in life, which sadly how it is in Delhi. People stop and not just to stare but to share stories and memories with each other. You know what makes me so sad? Recently, Delhi experienced its first few showers. I quickly rushed to the balcony of my apartment. Not a single soul was out, not a head peeking out of the window to relish the heavy downpour. If one does not have time to appreciate the little sweet things in life, then I guess the end of compassion is not far.

Maybe Susegad- which is the relaxed and indulgent way of life is not meant for everybody and too much of it will hinder the growth of economy but it never really hurt anybody to take things just a wee bit slow, did it?

                             

The Three Words

She shuddered in the icy air as a gust of wind ruffled her hair violently. Her eardrums were beating with the incessant hollow echoes of the breeze, hindering her ability to think clearly. She felt a sudden chill run up her spine, which had utterly nothing to do with the external atmosphere.

He’d said it. Finally, those words were out in the open, uncaged, prancing in the chilly air, flowing in the space between his languid mouth and her brooding ear.

Those three words which were so loosely thrown around in today’s age, stolidly in conversations with not-even-acquaintances, held a different meaning for her altogether. For her, it was almost blasphemous to think that these three musketeers were passed over so breezily amidst air-kisses in elite parties; flung out of the blue and thrust upon in telephonic conversations; assigned in Monotype Corsiva font as a footnote to the sweet chime of ‘You’ve got mail’ accompanied by a non-committal ‘See you soon’.

They sat apart, unmoving, hesitating to say anything, perfectly motionless in the swerving air, like some sort of a pre-duel ritualistic mad dance.  

Under the shade of her thick eyelashes, she chanced a glance at his face. His face was perfectly expressionless, revealing neither regret nor any kind of expectation. His brows were relaxed and he seemed to be a little too interested in his cuticles. The stillness clung on, intermitted by the hollow shrieks of gusts of wind, imploring the two to voice their opinions.

She gave up to the nagging grandmother of a wind and broke the silence.

‘You really mean it?’ she said.

He nodded slowly in response.

A tear silently rolled down her cheek. She had waited and waited for so long, that it felt surreal when it had finally happened. Things had seemed dark for some time and she had begun to think of surrendering to her family’s orthodox whims. She felt a sense of elation flood her senses and under her breath, began humming to the tunes of ‘Love Is Here To Stay,’ the tessitura of which seemed to increase with each passing refrain.

Their eyes met, his face partially covered in the white moonlight and their eyes crinkled in unison.

She touched his hand and whispered, ‘See you tomorrow.’

She hurried back home, skipping along the gravel, a crimson color flooding her cheeks, her jaws aching with happiness and burst into the warmth of her humble cottage. Her mother looked at her expectantly and as mothers sense every emotion brewing in their child’s heart, through an untold telepathic connection, she knew something had happened.

‘He said it, Mother! Oh, he said it.’

Her mother smiled and took her in her arms, ‘I’m so so happy for you.’

‘The pay is not much,’ her voice muffled in her mother’s hair, ‘but I get to sing every Friday with the Symphony Orchestra at the Churchill Theater.’ She bubbled and sobbed with tears concocted with the two cacophonous elements of ecstasy and pure disbelief and whimpered, ‘Mummy, This is it. Finally. I am hired.’