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Wisp of memory, friendship and a mark sheet

A lifetime may not be sufficient to add zing to existence as we revisit old papers, certificates, and postcards spanning over more than a decade. The memories carved and wreathed in our soul makes it feel like a dream that never happened and burst like a colorful balloon the moment we are up in the morning. Friendships, silly pranks and silent wishes or wisp of happiness, fun, and bonding billowed like smoke disappearing in the sky and dust.

One often wonder where have all those years smacking of goodness or jelly moments disappeared in the flit of seconds. It feels so unreal when one harks back to the past that empowers and continue to define our present. Maybe our future, too. I just feel like blowing colorful balloons with tiny messages in paper chits and let them flow and soar higher in the sky. I never thought that after 11 years or more, I will laminate mark sheet, revisiting the first dash of Mumbai Monsoon in 2007.  It was in those days when I received the TYBA results and landed in Mumbai just after the train blast to speed up procedures for past grads. I just graduated in Pune. I remember calling friends to tell that I am fine and not to worry post the terror attack. It started raining in the morning when I woke up and crossed the road towards the Xerox shop that was opposite the hotel to get the fresh mark sheet laminated in Mumbai Central.

But, this time it was the best friend’s FYBA’s mark sheet that I laminated and sent to him by post two weeks back. It’s intriguing how his first year mark sheet staying with me for more than a decade. In the earlier posts, I told you that he got married in Mumbai but yours truly missed it. So, I decided to send him a wedding card. Yeah! I still prefer hand-made cards to this whole online wishes in the form of a card. I am old-fashioned that way for I doggedly believe that a proper card with ink poured over paper and writing a postal address brings so much warmth. The surprise gift was the mark sheet and last week, he whatsapped and so happy that he got the same. We tried to remember how his first year result stayed with me. There are two possibilities, one when he travelled with his ex and gave me some documents since I was the one who collected his results and secondly post our final, I had to get him some paper from college. But, I ain’t sure how the document conspired to land in my personal file. In the hum-drum, I hastily moved to Mumbai since our results came late and one year later, he hopped to the Kangaroo land, Australia.

The man was happy to get back his mark sheet which is intriguing to both of us since he told me that he always keeps handy first year Xerox.  It’s what you call friendship and the deep bond we shared that always binds us.  The past can do wonder to hearts and souls where a simple thing as a document can weave the strings of hearts strummed like the sound of music to touch us in places. Of course, I did make a Xerox as a reminder of those carefree days of friendship, leg pulling, smoking in the pot and alcohol flowing in the veins.

Time flits so easily that it knocks us in such a way that we don’t stop for a while to think about the moments that elapsed in front of us. I really wonder, where have all those days gone when we made the most of life and it was calling living, unlike now. We were not much into social media during that time and warm conversation plus laughter were shared over a cup of chai or coffee. Time is karmic. The worse with Karma is that it doesn’t give you the time to take a breath and hold the memories like pearls flowing inside the palm of your hands. Collecting memories can boost our mind. The dream of the impossible to thrust time backwards to relive those moments is the delusional thing that we humans may not be willing to do. Will time let itself not to flicker with speed? Often, I am plagued with such questions in skeltering with time.

The month of June was also Dad’s birthday where he would have turned 75 years old. It been 11 from now that he suddenly sunk into a coma before passing away. I was in Mumbai and had to rush home in no less than two days. Luckily, I saw him still alive on the hospital bed and one week later he breathed his last at home in front of me. The childhood moments that play in the mind and Dad’s voice whispering in the ear during my sleep is a sign of presence. I shall leave before this whole post becomes emotional and be back in a brand new post next week, speaking about Dad and the signs our loved ones send from heaven.





Work-in-progress, seeker and bundle of contradictions. Stubborn and Refusal to grow up and constantly in search of myself, I blurt it out on my space. Drop in and share some love. Indian by choice.

29 thoughts on “Wisp of memory, friendship and a mark sheet

  1. Wow.. These little pieces of memories which we may seem silly to others are truly a treasure to hold on to. They have a story of their own and has the power to transport you back in time. A lovely read V..

    1. Sometimes I am amazed how a document can weave strings and craft a story to make memory alive. The invisible hand of destiny has a purpose. Thanks for dropping😀

  2. In remembrance of the friendships in college and those carefree days! You have poured out your heart in this post, reliving those flitting moments, Vishal. Loved how you ended the post with the note about your Dad.

    1. Thanks Somali. It feels like yesterday only and so many things happened. How a document can bond you with friends! I vividly remember the day I got a call in hostel about Dad and can’t believe its been 10 years now!

    1. haha, thanks, Kalpana and we roamed around for the whole year. Studies were kept for last minute and we even skipped an exam to give properly in October to score good marks. True, beautiful memory can be painful when we miss on those amazing days:)

  3. Enjoyed the reading and try to relate with my experience. Here it is:
    A gleam of the past is in the present. And in that present sometimes it is a blissful walk down the memory lane.
    I was 10-year-old when one day I severely broke my right arm. A local pehlwan, as the practice or custom was in those days, was called to fix the arm. His oil massage and turning and twisting the arm to align the broken bones was an extremely painful manoeuvre. After few days the rugged treatment did not produce any improved result. Perhaps, it was more damaging.
    Next, I was in an Amritsar hospital where a known surgeon specialising in fixing broken bones finally put the bones close to and in front of each other. This was followed by lying on my back all the time for a week or so. The operated arm was kept lifted up, tied with a string which after going thru a pulley was tied at the other end with a solid brick. The heavy weight was meant to bring the two bones together and slowly become one solid elbow joint. It worked.
    I don’t exactly remember how did I pass the time during this period on the hospital bed. But I do remember the early morning hours of each and every day. These were the waiting moments. Waiting for my mother’s arrival to take over the night shift from my father at the bedside.
    The sound of her chappal, while walking from the entrance door to the long recovery ward and up to my bed, is a revered and treasured memory which is as blissful now as instinctively felt then. For a child a few minutes or hours of separation from mother is really a long wait. The reunion is a sheer elation.

    1. Thanks so much Sir for dropping comments and sharing the memory. It must be painful for a 10-year-old to stay in hospital and Maa coming to soothe the child staying in the hospital. The sight of Maa always soothes one’s heart and bring happiness that makes us forget the pain. It’s the soul’s balm. You have described the reunion in such a beautiful way that I could see it visually. I would love to read a blog post on the same. Do share, Sir.

  4. What an amazing tribute to memories, Vishal. Very sorry about your Dad, it must have been a difficult time. Is it not strange that even the best healer, time, does not dull the memory of that painful memory. I also noticed that you used the word ‘Xerox’, a word that is often used in India. Reminds me of a time when I came to the UAE and in my first work place, asked for a ‘Xerox’ to the Arab photocopy man and he simply stared, but he did the only job that he was entitled to do. It was then that I learnt that ‘Xerox’, synonymous with the company that made photocopy machines, is a word ‘made in India’ for photocopy.
    It was nice to take a walk down and reminisce some of your tasteful memories, Vishal.

    1. True xerox is an Indian thing becoming alive in its etho. I prefer the word Xerox and relate to your Arab experience. It’s same with me and do that here. They also call Gulab Jamun rasgullah that irks me. Dad sunk in the coma when I was in Mumbai and lost my passport. I travelled with some documents. The marksheet became the string of friendship like umbilical cord. True time heals but memory remain alive. I believe in the eternal soul.

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