I had a dream....

I had a dream a couple of days back. It was not something that had to do something with ambition as I have never been ambitious. It was years back that I had struck a compromise with life that I would never seek big cars and fat salaries and in return life would just offer me a peaceful existence on my own terms while being far away from the rat race.
Coming back to my dream, I must say that it disturbed me a lot. It was something that had come much unexpected. In this dream of mine I was exported back to my schooldays and the year was 1984. Yes, I remember the year precisely because at that time I was in Class 7 and it was in that year that our Prime Minister Indira Gandhi was assassinated and this assassination was followed by a pogrom against the Sikhs. Well, my dream had nothing to do with the assassination or with the pogrom. It has something to do with a thing as simple as a paper plane.
What I saw again was a mischievous act to which I had resorted to in the social sciences class. My teacher Uma Hiteshi, a great human being who loved me a lot despite me being a naughty brat, was sitting on the teacher’s desk. I came to know that she passed away last year and it was yet another great personal loss for me. And it was perhaps my
continuing to remember her in my sub consciousness that she decided to come alive in my dream once more.
Anyhow, while she had sat correcting our notebooks towards the end of the academic session with the exams approaching, a naughty thought had struck me. Confident that I would get promoted to the next class and there was no use of revising my course in that autumn class, I decided to have some harmless fun. I took out a notebook, tore a page and made a paper plane. Making a paper plane those days, at that age, was a huge delight…..a very fulfilling experience.
With deft hands, I tore a sheet out of the notebook, gave it the required multiple folds, smoothened its wings on my palm and like any great inventor I wrote my name on it. Then came its launch from the window of my class and I was confident that it would definitely soar high on account of the strong late autumn, early winter wind. To my
childish delight it came true to my expectation and it did soar high and traveled a long distance away from the window.

But to my shock, the wind played the truant and after traveling a long distance, it
made a u turn and my sincere hopes and wishes that it does not re-enter the class were dashed. Not only did it re-enter the class, it landed right under the nose of my bespectacled teacher who was busy correcting a notebook. My name on the plane gave away my identity.

What followed was on expected lines. I was labeled a goonk, my ears were wrenched and I was promptly thrown out of the class. This was something of a routine. It was at this point that my dream broke. I woke up feeling thirsty. Saw the time on my mobile which read 5.35 am.
Then I had a longing. The craving to make a paper plane returned after all those years. I felt restless on discovering that I no longer possessed a notebook whose sheets were worthy of making a paper plane.I decided that I would borrow a sheet from the kids in the
neighborhood the first thing in the morning and I would definitely make a paper plane and once again write my name on it.

But I realized with horror once again that the notebooks along with their new form of
stapling and binding that are in vogue today are not ideal for making a paper plane. With the slopes of the hills becoming a jungle of concrete, there is no scope for the planes to soar high into the clear blue sky. The multi storeyed buildings would halt the plane’s flight and these buildings no longer allow the blowing of breeze and winds that would facilitate an ideal launch. So my agenda now is to once again put my dream into reality. I would go to the wilderness one of these days with a notebook that has sheets ideal for making a paper plane and indulge in that childhood luxury for the whole day. Perhaps this would be a befitting way of paying my respects to my lost teacher.

My love for the futeball thru a letter to a pal

Dear Aditya,
Your mail just moved me. It made me come across something which I have been missing unconsciously in my life. She is a futeball (football to be precise), but that is how I have always called her. I have written twice on her but have not retained those pieces. The first one I wrote when I was just in class four. It was an english exercise and I had actually written a good hundred and fifty words on her as an autobiographical account. I don’t remember much but it had such lines as ‘’I was manufactured in a leather factory and was sold by a fat salesman in a sports shop.’’The next time I had written about her was in a state of elation—I stage when my romance was going strong and that helped me get philosophical once in a while. But the woman (You know who I am referring to) took the piece away.Today I sit once again to write about my love for the futeball. I have looked at her in a different way. I rediscovered my relationship with her after having read that you too had possessed one, a blue one, as a kid in Solan.In my case she has always been black and white. For me she has represented the black and white patches of life. Looking at her I have always felt that these black and white patches are inseparable and have to be stitched together to make a full round ball that might as well represent our lives.The air pressure inside her often reflects our egos---inflated, deflated or ideal. My futeball has always given me company, however lonely I have ever been.Imagine me opening the door of my house or hovel and just behind is a futeball. As the door opened she greeted me with her movement. Before I could even switch the light on, her form was visible in the form of a sillhoute emerging from the light outside. Above all she had always greeted me with a thud after she touched something.She was always there to move with my toes from one corner to another. She was something which I could dribble with my feet and hit hard when I was annoyed. At the same time I could always hold her close to my chest with my both hands….even put her on my head. She never complained. Would I find any other companion that can parallel her. No.Thanks once again of having reminded me of her. I will keep my eyes open for a sports shop once again in the days to come. Maybe our eyes (mine and that of a futeball in a shop window) meet once again. The flame of our relation burns on a high scale once again and as usual my desire to possess her once more makes me stop and bring her home………
Yours,Gops

Death of a TT Table

It is after a long gap of 18 years that I rediscovered the passion of hitting a ball on the green/blue topped table. After a long time I once again had the privilege of being able to descend daily on a table and enjoy hitting the top spins, the chops and the loops---something my departure from the native place and the erratic timings of my profession had made me forget.
Having rediscovered my love, I was reminded of the table at my native place on which I had learnt the game as a kid from my father, the table that had helped me practice for hours on end, the table that had helped be win some tournaments and carve an identity for myself in a small hill town. One does get attached to lifeless things at times. I still remember playing practice matches on that
table, placing bets with the prize being samosas, omelets and at times the all time favorite masala dosa at the local coffee house.
This table had been lodged at a small club of the factory where my father worked. It was one of those luxuries that we kids had at our disposal at that time. We saw to it that it was dusted properly and covered when the game was over. Our evenings revolved around the musical sound presented by the ball tossed over at a fast pace.
I had not visited the table since I had started working myself and ever since my parents had moved out of the factory accommodation to start residing outside the premises. It was last month that I had started missing the table. It so happened that while I was at my hometown I had a visitor from the factory premises. After the initial pleasantries I could not help asking about the well being of that old table — my childhood companion.
The tale that was narrated to me was like this. With the factory having gone on the path of slump, there were not many families residing in the premises any more. Amongst those who continued to reside, their kids were more interested in watching television or playing computer games. Above all, one of the senior most officials --- the kind of dictators that are visible in all private establishments --- decided that the table was a fit gift for his servants to try their hands on. Instead of transferring the table to some hall where the servants could have made some use of it, it was instead placed in a verandah exposed to the slanting drops of rain.
The servants never played the game but the rain lashed it off and on. Ultimately, the wood gave up its resistance and the table died an unnatural, untimely death.
"Where is it lying right now? "was all that I could ask.
"With the wood having dissolved, its skeletal remains are lying at the carpenter shop," said my visitor.
Ever since then, the child in me has been visualizing the mortal remains of the table like that of a human being, something that I have been associated with for years. I know its funeral will come in the form of its remains going into a bonfire. When that happens, I can't say?