When all things dear in the world were lost

There was a world where tying rakhies to guys not our brothers was easy.
There was a time when friendship happened with just a shake of hands.
There were days when crying for the one you love was not a shame.
There were days when asking for help was done without much fretting over.

Calling friends, going to their place, dancing, eating chocolates, everything was just so much easier to do. There were no second thoughts about one’s intention, no doubts about anyone’s willingness to help. Hesitancies had no place in friendships. They were the best in the world, hell they were the world. 

I remember playing pakdam pakdai with them, the game of posham pa and hide and seek. The playgrounds were the world we would conquer, the collected chocolates would be the prize money. Doing each other’s home work, sharing the ghost stories, watching alladin and ginnie cartoon series together in the evening. All was done along with friends, in their company.

These are the days I remember today, when I have grown tired of losing friends. Today, when trust comes after a lot of effort, and where intentions have to be cleared at every point.

I say that the sense of sensibility that we grown ups have is very sad. A help given, which was not asked for is doubted while advice is paid for. Talking to shrinks is far easier than calling someone close by and sharing with him. Paying to talk to someone seems like just the thing we needed in life.  Saying sorry is so much more difficult than texting it/ mailing it. Neighbors are the first strangers we know. Smiley’s are the most free form of expression today. I so hate this world of grown ups.

At this point of time in night, I can count atleast 20 people I would like to call right away and talk my heart out with them, but I am not supposed to do that because I am supposed to behave like grownups.Trust me I could give away so much just to meet the people I am missing right now, clear out all the air, and gossip with them for hours, the way I remember I use to do with them.

But I guess this is why derp once told a kid not to grow up, said it’s a trap. Growing up is a trap where office is filled with politics rather than with friends, love has become synonymous to sex rather than the surprise gifts, coffee shops and evening walks. Going to nani’s is not a fav holiday destination anymore.

I so wish I could bring that world of ease and peace back. Go there, take along a few souls from this world, mend relations with them, make a healthy and happy conversations without the if’s and but’s. Let them know that I would always be there for them, without clinging to them when they would want their space. And so like hell demand the same out of them.

Maybe this post has been created out of emotional outburst, but I think its more of something that I have been wanting since last 3-4 years.

I lost the Kabulliwallah- my story teller.

“Kabulliwalleh…Arrey oh Kabulliwalleh? Where had you gone yesterday? Why didn't you come? I missed you.”

The girl shouted out as she narrated the story to her friends. The story was that of an Afghan trader of dry fruits, who use to visit a colony in India to sell dry fruits. She told them how the Kabulliwallah had made friends with a toddler, chatting with her in his free time, gifting her free cashews and nuts.  Crying, she also narrated how the time did them apart, the kabulliwallah went to the jail. The toddler grew into a beautiful girl. The Kabuliallah never forgot her, while in the lost time she never remembered him. She then narrated the day when Kabulliwallah knocked at that girl’s doorsteps, and how that girl wondered if that starnger ever belonged to her past! And if he did belong to her past, than did she miss the sweet chats that she had with him.

The story finished, the audience applauded. Some were crying, some were still lost in the world of Kabuliwala.

She, the girl narrating the Kabulliwala story, got praises, felt proud, and confidently prepared for the next round of story.  She always knew what she was…

She was a story teller. A story weaver, who along with words weaved lives of fairies and angels, of businessmen and thieves, of wonders and grieve! She touched people when she spoke, bringing them in synch with her thoughts. She spoke with drama and tears, with the voice of both brave hearts and fear!

The world was a big bad place, which she knew she would not have to live in. She was going to change it, make it as wonderful as the world of her stories. She was going to make it worth living for her and her close ones. Her daddy use to be proud. He was proud when she spoke on stage fearlessly, he was prouder when she became the monitor. He was proud when teachers praised her!

But who cared, she knew she was meant to do more. She was meant to be a story teller!

But sadness happened, she grew up. She came in high school and the standards changed. For Dad, his awesome girl became the usual, he wanted more, he wanted good marks! Along with Dad, the world which she had dejected, turned around and bared its teeth. Its High school kiddo! Its not a joke! Just this one year, and your life will all be set. 

Scared, she listened to them. The story telling had to wait. The situation was urgent, demanded immediate attention! The world was big and the time was less, a lot of it had to be conquered! Lot had to be done to prove to the world that she has it in her what it takes to become what she want to be!

10th, then 12th. They passed in a jiffy. Did she get good marks? Yeah, maybe! But you need a degree for survival, just marks don't get you to money! Dad’s of the world boasted of the luxury and life they gave us, and which she and the likes of her might have to arrange for their kids. And she became nervous. She could do as well as her dad did right? No, she would do better! And hence she set upon the task of proving it to herself that she could do better than becoming “just” a story teller!

Engineers became MBA’s, MBA’s would become fathers and mothers. In the meanwhile, there were loves to cry over and friends to fret for. In the midst of all this, the story teller got lost somewhere. It got lost, lost in that same world it once wanted to change. She still wonders if it were her own choices that made her loose that story teller, that story teller in her? Or was it a sensible grown up in her that made that choice, of consciously forgetting the story teller in her? She wondered if the story teller in her was as weird and vague as that “kabulliwallah” or the “Prince Charming” of the childhood stories. She wondered if it was right for her that that story teller had departed.

The link to the summary of 'The Kabulliwall' in case you might want to know. http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0055039/plotsummary