Summer is upon us. We have been building up to this hot and humid phase since some time now. Starting form December last, it has been a dry and dusty three months. And now the real fun starts in terms of summer. Water scarcity is supposed to hit us all in the state this season. This might mean we have to be prepared for power-cuts. For now it is nice and pleasant outside a couple of hours after sunset. But concrete houses take time to cool down. So inside the house, especially on the first floor, it is rather unpleasant, like inside an oven, especially when walking in after a walk on the terrace.
With many of the trees gone I have a better view of the distant mountains. At night the lights shining here and there on the nearest one (which is still quite far from me) gives the impression of a veil with shiny sequins stitched on, covering it from top to bottom. In the middle distance, to the left are two block of flats rising high in a sea of green. In the darkness they are represented by two long strips of light running from the top to the bottom. But in the evenings, the same glass windows are lit up by the reds and oranges of the setting sun and it seems like the building, a floor, is on fire.
Some of the trees have shed their leaves, to conserve water perhaps? The Gulmohur seems reluctant to put out its red flowers. Only a single branch high up has a cluster of them. Gulmohurs remind me of the story I wrote. I won’t call it my first story (though it is technically the first since the time I started blogging) because I wrote some in school too. But they were exclusively for the eyes of friends. And my sis. She remembers more of what I wrote those days than I do. The same is the case with friends. One of them reminded me of the one about okras and eggplants, or may be potatoes, and what they said to each other as they walked down the street. Unfortunately I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. Perhaps they all ended in a pot to be turned into a mixed vegetable curry? Haha. Your guess is as good as mine.
There was the time I wrote a short one, and this was after I had begun blogging, about a certain ‘I’ (my stories are mostly in the first person in the present unlike my unknown/forgotten past) going for a walk and finding a mask. It had all sorts of profound thoughts and significance attached to it. And it was lost. Lost in a very foolish way, the foolishness being on my part. The hard disk needed to be formatted, the First Born was helping me out. He asked me more than once and yet again before the deed was to be done: Are you sure? Of course I was sure. I am always sure. I had saved everything I wanted. I told him to go ahead.
And then one day I started looking for the story, wanting to share it on my blog page, the one about the ‘I’ finding a mask and trying it on, and what came of it eventually (No, it’s nothing like Jim Carrey’s mask or anyone else’s for that matter!). But I couldn’t find it ANYWHERE, the story I mean, not the mask. I was so sure I had saved it to gmail docs. But gmail docs snootily denied any such story had been entrusted to its care. I bet if it could speak it would have said, “You are speaking through your bally hat, woman!”. Sigh.
I had probably dreamed up the whole thing of saving the story to gmail docs. How else could it have happened so? I was terribly disappointed, though none would have said so looking at me. You see, I have this terrible habit of grinning in situations that do not actually call for grinning. You can write it down again, a friend consoled me. I haven’t in all these years (its been 8 years). May be, just may be, I should try my hand now.
This is what happens when one tries to ramble. You start with summer and end with the story you lost, but which you now think you can try your hand at rewriting from memory. But then isn’t this the true spirit of February’s ramblings?
©Shail Mohan 2017