Author – Biswadeep Ghosh Hazra

The wind kissed my face sternly for one last time as if to bid me the final farewell. I am surrounded by my friends sitting atop a platform on the roof of our beloved hostel. Four years ago, I was terrified of this insipid place and yet today, I am here, wishing if time could be slowed down to a null. Sighing, I smile on my wicked fate; four years seemed like four days now. My sighs were soon suppressed by the incessant laughter of my friends surrounding me, giving way to the occasional clinking of beer bottles and cigarette smoke. We were intoxicated, or to say in a simple colloquial term, ‘high’. Sitting at this point made us all reminisce about the way we dodged hostilities, fell into the deepest abyss called love, passed our semesters with the utmost difficulty, woke up with bad hangovers, and cooked and ate delicious food with a hunger insatiable like the devil’s. Everything led us up to this day; for come tomorrow, we will ‘pass-out’ from this college into a strange oblivion called ‘life’. Being last in almost everything was a forced habit during these years in my hostel and college life alike; going home was not going to be any different. I had seen several of my friends depart, their crying faces invoking deep sympathy within me. No amount of intoxication, or any activity for that matter could assuage the pain associated, and the handful of us remaining would have to meet the same fate someday or the other.

Our four years at Haldia Institute of Technology, Haldia, West Bengal were up. Though my friends and I belonged from different departments, we were united by our souls.  Staying in the hostel for all this time had its effect as well. We were connected by an invisible thread. All those study sessions during the examinations and practicals, the tension during campusing, the joy when one of us was lucky enough to secure a job- everything was larger than life itself.

On occasions, we even risked our lives and fled away from hostel to go out (for the sake of having an adventure and to eat!) and enjoy without a care in the world. Such is the beauty of hostel life!

The sun slowly made its way up the horizon, illuminating our faces and maybe our lives as well. This was our last sunshine in college.

“The sun is in all its glory, this is utterly beautiful. isn’t it? Looks like Surya-dev is riding his chariot with seven horses in resplendent glory,” said one of my friends staring in amazement. Alcohol turns everyone into philosophers. Nevertheless, I couldn’t agree any less with him.

“Four years! And this sight has never gotten any older. It still amazes us all,” I answered supporting him.

“Gosh, I will miss you all, very badly” another one almost cried out aloud.

Complementary hugs and handshakes were exchanged; our friends can make any journey virtually un-noticeable.

After our last huddle-up, I went back to my room; there was a lot of work still left to do. My parents were coming to receive me and relieve me from my college and hostel life; I had to clean the room to the best of my abilities. The bags, trunks and suitcases were laid open in front of me, as if they were opening themselves to me and had nothing to hide. On the dusty floor, they lay, barren and naked. I had never changed my room in these four years, though we were free to do so. The reason being my affinity towards the same. I looked around my room and memories came flooding in. I lay on my bed for a while, basking in the sunlight and reminiscence at the same time.

I had fallen asleep after the previous night’s tryst and was woken up by the familiar ringing of my phone. Flashing on the screen was my father’s number. My parents came shortly after that, with a smile on their faces. A shroud of desperation and sadness encapsulated me as I walked towards the college building for completing some formalities. Soon, I would not be a part of this college, but the college would be a part of my life.

As the car sped away, I grabbed my shades from my mother to hide my tears from my parents. I refused to see any of my beloved juniors, as I was not good with ‘farewells’ and ‘goodbyes’. However, I miss them from the bottom of my heart.

This article is submitted as a part of Nostalgic Article of the Month contest

Author – Ruchi Rai

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It’s divided into two different eras of my life- my memories in and with rain. The first are the nonchalant days from the extreme past which I refer to as “Before Growing Up” period, and the second is the “After Growing Up” period when my whole perception as a pluviophile changed for the good.

My memories during the “Before Growing Up” period are simple and colorful like every other kid’s. Rain was the excuse to mount my grandfather’s shoulder on my way back home from school. When I grew up a little, rain was the cause of my struggle for fitting into my pink raincoat with a school on the back. The most difficult problem, I tell you, was walking home in wet socks and water-filled shoes.

I, being a pluviophile since childhood, fantasized about getting drenched in the rain; however, all I did was try to navigate the paper boats that never sailed. Running in the rain across the lawn forcing my paper boat to move was so much of an adventure back then.

That little dance in the rain with my sister when we were finally allowed to get drenched and act like kids in the movies, jumping and splashing water was so much fun. And those small walks in the rain, when I did not take my umbrella out, was so much of an adult thing to do in teens.

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In those days, rain was all about the thrill, fun, entertainment, unexpected holidays, pakodas, Maggi noodles and Horlicks. But, life is all about the changes. You might stand in the same place on the same day at the same time the following year, yet everything would be changed. Some changes are so intangible that you can’t even see but only feel them, with all of your heart. I walk on the same pavement where I first got drenched, but the feel is completely different now. The buildings are the same and the people are also the same, with some signs of aging.  But I have changed, completely.

Rain is just a part of the year and is the most unexpected visitor of all the seasonal changes, yet it has managed to keep up with me during both good and bad days. It has always been kind to me, and I developed a special bond with it during the interlude between ‘Before Growing Up’ and ‘After Growing Up’ phases. The days when the void was cutting deep through my windpipe making it hard to breathe in pain, it was the sound of the rain, which became a lullaby and put me to sleep after crying silently for hours. The rain did to me what it does to fields after drought. It soothed me on the inside when I was fighting my toughest battles. Like the dust settles down after rain, my pain settled down during the last monsoon. I owe this solace to the rain.

Now, when I believe that I have grown up enough, the petrichor plucks the string of my heart that plays the memories from the past and reminds me of those old days. There’s some kind of crazy fondness for rain as I still feel the titillation when I smell and listen to the rain. Life is a little greener when it rains with all the drenched trees and hills, glistening wet roads reflecting lights from cars, and a pleasant petrichor.

That romantic walk in the drizzle with someone special.
That long drive on the highways with my favorite kind of music.
That tiny droplets sliding on the window panes of cars.
That brighter look of my city drenched completely in the rain.
Rain has unleashed the writer in me; it was my desire to express these feelings for rain that made me hold the pen. Its beauty made me an amateur photographer trying to capture how I see rain through my lenses.

Rain is what I consider to be the creative side of God. It is God’s way of sympathizing with people who are fighting a battle inside, and his way of filling colors to its creation once in a while.

I wrap up my love for rain with the hope that it will continue to be kind, as it has always been to me, and to everyone so that nobody loses their loved ones and possessions in floods. While I sleep peacefully listening to the rain, somewhere someone is awake praying for it to stop.

This article is submitted as a part of Nostalgic Article of the Month contest

Author – Neeraja Sundar

Famous Short Story Writers – Part 1

The last time, we reminisced about the most famous Short Story writers in India like Rabindranath Tagore, Ruskin Bond and R.K. Narayan, who had penned down beautiful tales that still remain in our hearts. But, there are several other great short story writers from across the world, without whom the list is incomplete. Together they present a cornucopia of wit, intelligence, dry humour and poignancy. The greatness of their writings lies the fact that they present the crux of life within a few pages and in a delightful manner. Like I mentioned, my grandfather introduced me to classics quite early. My teacher in 4th standard brought the classes to life with her charming story-telling skills. Getting into the habit of reading books should be inherited or cultivated. Fortunately, I had both.

Arthur Conan Doyle

Creator of the world’s best detective, Doyle occupies the all-time favourite writer in my list accompanied by R K Narayan. When everybody raved about the sit-com Sherlock, I was probably one among the few who couldn’t appreciate it. The characters, plots, twists and the brilliance of Doyle’s Holmes are simply inimitable. Irene Adler was also not ideally portrayed in the movie and television versions.

I have often speculated on Doyle’s intelligence. If his creation was that great, then imagine the mind of the creator. Holmes was that popular with the readers including the Queen. When Doyle, frustrated with Holmes, killed him in The Final Problem, the readers protested vociferously. Holmes was resurrected and lived for many more adventures. He is well remembered and admired for is condescending arrogance, his superior intellect, his acknowledgement of the greatness of his peers, his generosity to the poor and his long-standing friendship with Dr Watson. What we found excellent was ‘elementary’ for him.

Oscar Wilde

Another famous author in school textbooks, we would all have read the story of the Happy Prince and the Canterville Ghost. The themes of religion and melancholy recur in his works. Subtle humour is also prevalent. Wilde created a concoction of satire, horror and morals through his stories. The beautiful friendship of a royal statue and a small swallow followed by the disregard for their generosity and efforts was met with stunned silence in the 4^th standard classroom.

A victim of imperialism, Wilde was punished for his homosexuality. The father of his lover strongly opposed the relationship. This caused Wilde to create characters who were mostly orphans. Wilde believed that parents oppressed their children and stifled them by imposing their opinions on them.

O. Henry

William Sydney Porter, known by his pen name O Henry, was an American writer. He was famous for his short stories which had a surprising twist in the end. As a 20^th century writer, his works reflected that era. Focusing on the lives of simple people, he brought to life the ordinary incidents with an unexpected style.

He attempted most genres- comedy, adventure, melancholy and poignancy. He was one of my grandfather’s favourite writers. It was at his insistence that I picked up the short stories collection. But on a general poll, he seems to be an under-appreciated writer. Most people don’t like or get this twists.

The Last Leaf was a very moving story of a failed painter who creates a masterpiece which instills hope in a dying woman. Ironically his effort leads to his death. Greatness comes with a heavy price often and it’s never too late to accomplish it.

Anton Chekhov

Chekov was a Russian physician and author who stated that his wife was medicine while literature was his mistress. Russian literature was dominated by Leo Tolstoy, but Chekov made a name for himself as a satirist. Chekov was one of the early contributors to modernist literature. The most notable characteristics of modernist literature were realism and mundane existence.

R K Narayan is considered the Indian Chekov due to the similarities in their writing styles. They possessed the ability to fuse humour, simplicity and melancholy in a unique manner. The tragedy in his life in the form of his brother’s death and suicides of his friends affected him deeply. He developed the technique of zero-endings or anticlimactic endings. He adopted a slightly cynical attitude towards love and marriage and pivoted around the flaws of human nature.

The Lottery Ticket was a brilliant example of how money is a powerfully evil influence. As children, money did not take center stage in our lives as it does now. It’s a lesson in context, for all of us when we put money over people especially family and friends.

There’s a reason these authors and their works are considered classics. Though the short stories are prescribed for school children, there is an apparent significance of those in life. The subtle messages about the basic values we are thought are often reiterated in a unique and pertinent way.

Of all the joys of childhood, the only thing which has stuck in my mind is our summer holidays. Children of current generation are loaded with innumerable classes to attend during summer holidays (cricket, abacus, summer camps, swimming…phew! The list is endless), mainly because children get “bored” if they are at home. They simply cannot stay without somebody/something engaging them. Parents cannot engage them forever and hence to get them out of their way, they are sent to classes. But for us, summer holidays meant only one thing, going away to grandma’s place!  The best part was to go there and do NOTHING! The joy of nothing was enough to make us happy!

Our typical summer holidays preparation started with getting the concession forms from school so that Dad could buy our train tickets at a lesser price. We studied in Kendriya Vidyalaya and hence the process. Not sure if it still exists now. That single sheet of paper was like a ticket to joy and fun.

A few summer vacations are quite distinct in my mind due to some memories attached to it. One summer, we’d gone to Vizag as usual. My mother and father had stayed back in Chennai. On the first day of our visit, grandma always made a brinjal curry. It was one of our favourites. Nobody could make it like her. The reason being, she used lots of oil to fry them!  Our Vizag home was a typical independent house with lots of open space in the front and a backyard. The house itself was red tiled floored house styled in railway compartment style. Yes, you pictured it right. The hall, bedroom and kitchen were all in one line. The kitchen opened to the backyard and there was space all around the house to run about. My grandma was a passionate gardener. She had all sorts of trees and plants in the garden – a henna tree, a citrus fruit tree, Parijata tree etc… but the most special of them all was the Sampige tree.

The tree was small, but it flowered throughout the year. Sometimes we used to have about hundred flowers on a single day! Our house was on the ground floor with a terrace on the top. The parapet wall was low and wide enough for all of us to sit. The Sampige tree was quite close to the terrace. It was around evening that all four of us had gone up as one of our friends had visited. My sister was talking to our friend while I and my other sister started playing. Meanwhile, my brother had silently climbed onto the parapet wall and somehow got himself onto one of the branches of the tree. Anybody who knows about Sampige trees knows that its branches are quite frail and fragile. My brother was on the branch now and he cried “Hey, look where I am” with excitement. We all looked at once. Before we could even register anything, he had fallen off the branch to the ground. We went to the parapet wall and looked down; we couldn’t see him on the sunshade. We quickly ran down the open stairs.  Imagine our surprise when we saw our brother sitting on sand with his feet folded.  He had escaped the fall unhurt with just a few minor cuts, thanks to the sand. All this happened in about thirty seconds.

Now the dreaded moment had come. We had to tell our grandma. We somehow managed to tell her and she totally freaked out. From that day onwards, she told each and every guest, who had come for a visit, about the incident and how careless we sisters were. We did not inform our mom.  She was due to arrive in Vizag soon, so we decided to keep quiet.  She arrived home at midnight by taking the Coromandel express. My grandma then broke the news about my brother’s fall and she got worried too. But in the end, everything was alright.

There were other incidents like filling the entire Kool Keg (a huge can-like jug to store water) with Rasna and drinking it from the tap. The can was full of ants after a few days, but that didn’t stop us. We strained it and continued to drink.  There was one more about an ice-cream man, who used to come around one O’ clock in the afternoon and ring the bell. Those carts had that little blade hanging by a thread from the top. We used up the entire money that our grand stored under her sari in ice-creams. But she didn’t mind a bit. Another best part was that we didn’t study at all.  Although we did read books after joining a library with a lifetime membership of 25 Rs (this was 1992). We were not forced to read and yet we read.

These wonderful memories never seem to go away. But all this is missing somehow in the summer vacations of our children. Too much planning is done to spend a summer holiday. It takes away the fun.  If only, they could once experience the true joys of summer vacations as we did.

This article is submitted as a part of Nostalgic Article of the Month contest