Today is not special to my brother, although twenty four years ago, when the baby form of me arrived, he was pretty excited. He robbed a tiny piece of pink cotton that nested my mother's gold earrings in a jewel box and set it out as a bed for me. He expected me to be very small. But I was not. Now he says birthdays are all fuss, as though they don't happen every year. Its just a date.
My last memory of consciously feeling like I was any age, was 14. We were on a bus, my best-est-friend-in-the-world and I, on our way back from our class picnic to Monkey Falls. We were sitting there, looking out through the window and feeling amazed that so much had happened and we were still just fourteen. It was pouring outside and our heads were dripping wet with rain and waterfall. It was one of those gift moments when time rests for a second in your palm, before it squirms irritably and escapes from between your fingers like a slippery eel.
This happy day, when the world has been so kind to me, hangs like an embarrassment in the face of such indifference it has shown to someone else. It feels vulgar to be happy. Normally, I am oblivious to the sadness of others because it feels distant and unreal, like trailing alphabets on a headlines tab. This time, it has hit home, it has hit at the heart of self centeredness. A cure, shot to the nerve.
Still, it must be lucky to be able to feel lucky. So thank you, dear world.
My last memory of consciously feeling like I was any age, was 14. We were on a bus, my best-est-friend-in-the-world and I, on our way back from our class picnic to Monkey Falls. We were sitting there, looking out through the window and feeling amazed that so much had happened and we were still just fourteen. It was pouring outside and our heads were dripping wet with rain and waterfall. It was one of those gift moments when time rests for a second in your palm, before it squirms irritably and escapes from between your fingers like a slippery eel.
This happy day, when the world has been so kind to me, hangs like an embarrassment in the face of such indifference it has shown to someone else. It feels vulgar to be happy. Normally, I am oblivious to the sadness of others because it feels distant and unreal, like trailing alphabets on a headlines tab. This time, it has hit home, it has hit at the heart of self centeredness. A cure, shot to the nerve.
Still, it must be lucky to be able to feel lucky. So thank you, dear world.
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