12 Julys- Over the Years

I was born on the 12th of July. Yesterday, i.e. on the 13th of July, an old, dear friend, now overseas asked me impatiently: "Tell me how you spent your 12th July."
Getting ready for work, I told her lightheartedly: "Have patience and I'll give you a poem."

So, here it is. Only, if you are finicky about what constitutes a poem or does not, treat it for all the world, like prose. It doesn't really matter, as long as you like my words.You see, my poems are 'like this only": akin to a walk in these hills: up, down, right, left.....driftingwith no defined agenda, over no trodden path...

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“Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing,
Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness;
So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another,
Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.”
- HW Longfellow

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12th July: Over the Years

I

12 July and there's a birthday party for me. Kite paper streamers, thin, red balloons and a home-made cake without icing. The guests arrive: colony kids and their mothers. Everyone sings 'happi bdday', eats ghugni, payesh, the cake without icing and leave. It's time to open the presents: lower-middle class families of the eighties with nil disposable income- a pencil here, a "scent" rubber there, a set of crayons ( such a luxury) and two exercise copies bought from the ration shop near by. But the paper of these copies is smooth and sepia and absorbs ink beautifully. I practice my favourite subject, English language in them.

Sometimes now, I write with ink on paper, like in those childhood days, just for the nostalgia: find I cannot remember the faces of the kids who gave me the sepia ruled exercise copies as birthday gifts.

We are but ships that pass in the night..


II
12 of July, an empty day, the monsoons have just arrived.
I ask Adit: "Want to take a walk, upto the olive green bridge?" Nodding he clasps my fingers and we stroll downhill to the river, chatting; we are good friends.
A man passing by stops to ask: " Your son?"
'Son?' Startled I correct him, "No no. I'm not married." "Accha." Says the busybody and carries on.
Adit is a four year old boy and I am only the young woman from next door.
The birthday ends with a cold glass of tingly Coke on lots of ice cubes.
Adit must be a young man now. Must be, though I have no idea.

We are but ships that pass in the night..

III

12th July eve, an occasional shower and a knock on my door at midnight. Sleep sits heavily on my eyes as I open the door: two friends with a cake and a present, at the stroke of midnight; just like the birthday eves from hostel time.
They are my friends and they are husband and wife. I am grateful for their kindness but they dismiss it: "Arrey baba, how could we let you pass your birthday alone.....?"

Is love a fickle bird or is it just a colour, a natural dye that fades fast under a strong sun? My friends have since parted ways, with each other.
And as for us, them and me- we have parted ways too,.......we talk rarely
Or not at all...

We are but ships that pass in the night...

IV

12 July and the trees drip incessant raindrops. A young woman brings two flaky veg pastries, loads of effusive good wishes and bares her soul to me.
As I listen to her, my phone screen blips- a message in monsoon green!
My heart leaps.
(Can you drown in a warm sea of words?)
I can't breathe but I'm all contentment.
The girl is gone now, she was claimed by Life. And you no longer send me words in monsoon green.

We are but ships that pass in the night...

V

12 July and another wet, grey day. The office boys gather at my door: before they can wish me, I say ,'Thank you thank you!" and laugh. Samosa, veg plum cake, cookies as treat, they are happy.
In the evening, me in my crumpled pajama, the old faithful comes with bread pakora and slices of strawberry cake. A colleague brings a surprise Tweety cake.
The cake is full of cream and possibilities: could turn a colleague into a friend.
The old faithful and I drown in Marula on masses of ice, she in happy expectations, I in my old what-could-have-beens.
I know soon Life will claim her too and there will be no more such drownings in this Marula milkshake....

We are but ships that pass in the night...