Looking back with squinted eyes

I used to collect thoughts and drivel, written on paper napkins, and sheets of notebook paper. I dont collect them anymore since I dont write on paper napkins, and I dont have a class notebook anymore. This collection was in the safe custody of the S.O. till about a month back. Now its back in my hands. I read the whole pile yesterday, sometimes blushing at the ridiculous senselessness of some verses written in childhood. The desire to rhyme and thus conform to standards was so strong when I was a child!

Anyways, the S.O. was saying that we should save even those pathetic poems for the future. I would like to save some of the more recent ones, for purely personal reasons. There are some poems which were written in less that five minutes, the words tumbling out of my mind in a deluge. Not surprisingly, these were written when I was falling in love. And then there are the fallen-out-of-love poems. I want to save them, but I am uncomfortable with the thought of typing it all out and saving it thus. Because the napkins are now faded, the ink had spread a little, and some of the pages happen to be mid-term exam papers from REC Warangal. There is a whole poem on the other side of a Power Systems – II question paper, and I remember how it was that day. I was bored. It was raining heavily outside, and I was sitting in the exam hall, looking out the window. The questions were easy, but there was no desire to answer them. This was an optional examination. I already had done well in the first mid-term. There I was, bored, looking at the posteriors of the girls ahead of me, looking around to catch expressions of surprise, disgust, constipation and fear in the faces of the others taking the exam. I remember it was the rhythm of the rain that got me writing that poem.

Yes, so I dont want to lose the question papers, the class notes, on the edges of which I used to write my poems. I dont want to lose the bits of paper. They seem to be more valuable than the verse they carry.

Did I tell you the ceiling in my room is not smooth? It is puckered, if you know what I mean. There are these nodes and these uneven projections, and they are like the clouds, revealing new shapes and forms if you look sincerely enough.

And this poem reminded me of my friend Chippu, but it is quite incomplete when not accompanied by a sketch I had made.

Take me to the world
that knows no love or joy –
For then I shall not yearn
I shall not be sad.

The paper I had sketched and written on used to decorate the wall in Chippu’s room. I wonder where it is now.

Chippu, I miss you da…

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