My grandmother used to amaze me with stories of her youth that seemed much more alive in her than the events happening around her. I think I am also gradually becoming more and more like her as I slowly discover that these are all those people who came into my life for a brief moment only who left me with incredible memories and who shaped me into the person I am today, and that I often miss them more than the faces of people surrounding me at every step.
It was many years back, if you like mathematical puzzles then let me tell you that it was half my age back, that I had a friend whom we used to call Guru. Guru, I and many others were classmates in that grey early post-socialist school that I told you about before. We both wore coarse long sweaters that we got from the second-hand shop, and if you would look at me closely you would notice that even today I often wear my sweaters inside out, just like I did those days.
My hair was growing back after I had cut it short as an act of rebellion against people who would only look at my body, while I always wanted them to look somewhere beyond that. I always struggled for that... Even now, though it did feel nice when you liked seeing me in that blue sari, but I would much prefer if you would lose yourself in my thoughts rather than my apparel, but none of my words ever find their way to you. Inability to communicate. And do you actually really exist, or are you just a projection of my mind? The queen of projection...
I was busying myself with reading Morrisson and listening to Nirvana in the evening. I discovered Rimbaud and savoured on all possible books of Wharton and Marquez, while Guru gave me my first introductory lessons in Hobbit, The Witcher and fantasy.
Guru had short curly hair that always seemed to be living their own life irrespective of what Guru wished them to do. Like many of the boys of his age he had pimples and was far from being a person one would call a handsome face or muscular body. I was never a beauty among my peers myself, so much of my youth was spent in feeling miserable at seeing all those perfectly beautiful girls being adored by numerable suitors, while I would sit quietly with a book somewhere in the corner.
We were staging 'Taming of the Shrew' with me as Katherine and Guru as Petruchio. (As I look at it now - dear B. you were perfect with casting as never in my life could I possibly play sweet and beautiful Bianca... although it might be a good theatre exercise for a change) The rehearsals were full on and we reached a scene where Katherine slaps Petruchio in anger. It was the first time ever in my life that I was to hit somebody... We tried our best and poor Guru had to walk around the school for 3 hours with a red mark of my palm on his cheek...
But it was not the fact that I could express all my anger towards the male race on Guru's cheek that made him special. It was for the gifts of words and images that I shall remember him till my last days. You see... Guru used to write letters to me... Not even letters but stories of various kinds, and each year as the summer would begin my mailbox would be invaded by stories written in his messy handwriting and pictures drawn with pastels on black sheets of paper. I never knew what to think of those letters, but I loved reading them during lazy summer afternoons. I think I still have most of them in a box in my old bedroom at the attic.
It was the last day of school and I was already on my way out when Guru stopped me and gave me a box. I opened it to see two silver bracelets lying inside. I went home, sat in front of my mother and began to cry... I never wanted to get expensive bracelets from anybody in my life. I know I was rather unfair to my friend but that gift made me feel as if was an object in a shopping window that somebody could try to buy with a shiny piece of metal. I never wanted that. I took the box and gave it back to him the next day. I don't think we ever met after that.
It was almost eighteen years back, and I have no idea where Guru is these days. I don't think any of our classmates knows either... but if you ever meet him somewhere at the crossroads, do tell him that it was not that expensive gift that made him a special person in my life, but all those stories, letters and pictures that I would find in my mailbox every summer. Ask him if he still writes, and if he does tell him that I would love to read a story and see a pastel drawing on a black sheet of paper...
It was many years back, if you like mathematical puzzles then let me tell you that it was half my age back, that I had a friend whom we used to call Guru. Guru, I and many others were classmates in that grey early post-socialist school that I told you about before. We both wore coarse long sweaters that we got from the second-hand shop, and if you would look at me closely you would notice that even today I often wear my sweaters inside out, just like I did those days.
My hair was growing back after I had cut it short as an act of rebellion against people who would only look at my body, while I always wanted them to look somewhere beyond that. I always struggled for that... Even now, though it did feel nice when you liked seeing me in that blue sari, but I would much prefer if you would lose yourself in my thoughts rather than my apparel, but none of my words ever find their way to you. Inability to communicate. And do you actually really exist, or are you just a projection of my mind? The queen of projection...
I was busying myself with reading Morrisson and listening to Nirvana in the evening. I discovered Rimbaud and savoured on all possible books of Wharton and Marquez, while Guru gave me my first introductory lessons in Hobbit, The Witcher and fantasy.
Guru had short curly hair that always seemed to be living their own life irrespective of what Guru wished them to do. Like many of the boys of his age he had pimples and was far from being a person one would call a handsome face or muscular body. I was never a beauty among my peers myself, so much of my youth was spent in feeling miserable at seeing all those perfectly beautiful girls being adored by numerable suitors, while I would sit quietly with a book somewhere in the corner.
We were staging 'Taming of the Shrew' with me as Katherine and Guru as Petruchio. (As I look at it now - dear B. you were perfect with casting as never in my life could I possibly play sweet and beautiful Bianca... although it might be a good theatre exercise for a change) The rehearsals were full on and we reached a scene where Katherine slaps Petruchio in anger. It was the first time ever in my life that I was to hit somebody... We tried our best and poor Guru had to walk around the school for 3 hours with a red mark of my palm on his cheek...
But it was not the fact that I could express all my anger towards the male race on Guru's cheek that made him special. It was for the gifts of words and images that I shall remember him till my last days. You see... Guru used to write letters to me... Not even letters but stories of various kinds, and each year as the summer would begin my mailbox would be invaded by stories written in his messy handwriting and pictures drawn with pastels on black sheets of paper. I never knew what to think of those letters, but I loved reading them during lazy summer afternoons. I think I still have most of them in a box in my old bedroom at the attic.
It was the last day of school and I was already on my way out when Guru stopped me and gave me a box. I opened it to see two silver bracelets lying inside. I went home, sat in front of my mother and began to cry... I never wanted to get expensive bracelets from anybody in my life. I know I was rather unfair to my friend but that gift made me feel as if was an object in a shopping window that somebody could try to buy with a shiny piece of metal. I never wanted that. I took the box and gave it back to him the next day. I don't think we ever met after that.
It was almost eighteen years back, and I have no idea where Guru is these days. I don't think any of our classmates knows either... but if you ever meet him somewhere at the crossroads, do tell him that it was not that expensive gift that made him a special person in my life, but all those stories, letters and pictures that I would find in my mailbox every summer. Ask him if he still writes, and if he does tell him that I would love to read a story and see a pastel drawing on a black sheet of paper...
