I got my house redone and painted in the month of March and most of the redundant things have been gotten rid of. But then, there are things which have nothing more than sentimental value and we tend to keep them for the simple reason that we cannot think of parting with them or throwing them away and many a times they are also useless to others. So, we stow these treasures away to be found again during the next spring cleaning and the cycle keeps repeating.
Today, I asked Shubham to fetch me my bag in which last year’s assignments are kept so that I could use some of them this year. Now, usually I prefer to get these things on my own for the simple reason that I get irked if my things are not in place and Shubham and my idea of system and order don’t match. A muscle pull has confined me to my bed since Friday evening and all my classes are happening from my bed. Shubham is my care taker, he’s cooking, serving and helping me in every way and this is how the responsibility of getting my bag fell on his able shoulders.
Now, Shubham and I have a problem with colours what I call green is white star for him and what he calls green is some other colour for me. Sometimes I remember the colour of the pattern, and at other times the predominant colour or the background colour in case of printed bags. And the single colour bags too vary from brown to tan to camel colour or coffee colour. In a nutshell it is a lucky day when we both agree on the same colour and get the right thing in the first attempt. So, when I asked Shubham to get the brown bag he fetched the one in the cover image because the handle and the flap are brown and that’s what he saw first. To me its a green bag or may be a brown and green bag but for him it is the brown star spangled bag. To cut the long story short what I got was the bag with my precious past bundled up. And looking through the contents I found a notebook which I would call my first book of poetry.
Nothing too great to write home about. With the turn of pages I remembered my foray into creative writing when I was just into my teens, either 14 or 15. I cringed at the gaudy colours, some of the words used do not stand for what they used to some 30 odd years ago and have entirely different connotation. Here are some pages from my past,
Turning page after page I wondered whether I was even thinking about what I was doing. I am sure I must have felt very proud of this notebook at that time but not any more. Honestly, I cringed at some pieces, and smiled at others. Some of the poems reminded me of those innocent years, the lofty ideals one holds and also of lovely friendships that can happen only at that age. I was again a teenager for a short while and am a bit overwhelmed now as I write about it. Yes, I am no more the teenaged girl I used to be, Shubham turned 20 this year and yet there is a part of me which is still proud of those words and colours that I filled the notebook with and I share it here for all to see. The me of today is because of the girl I was then! And for once I am glad that Shubham and I don’t usually agree upon the colour of things.