One Stop Destination

            At precisely nine in the morning, Komol came knocking.       "Madam ji, Mallu saab ji is calling you for breakfast."       Breakfast as in eating or high speed emotional torture I wanted to ask but then, I kept it to myself. Singer was already seated when I entered room No. 20. High Highness was sitting on a beanbag with a look of disapproval and disgust on his face (it was probably normal expressions or maybe he was born with it!!!).         As soon as breakfast was over Mallu told singer to report to some new person called Chow in Room no 16. I was about to ask why is the mein missing from chow, it should be chowmein right??? Thankfully better sense prevailed and I checked my tongue in time. I must tell you all that I have this idiotic sense of humour which pops up in my head with real bad timing. At times, my instant tongue in cheek retorts have landed me in soups when I was in school. Blame it on the Pepsodent "Dhishum dhishum" ads t

              For me it was from the fire into the frying pan. Dinner was a torturous affair. Imagine accompanying a sour face whose running commentary was filled with expletives only. The only saving grace was that Athlete kept interfering in between by pulling up the cook for the awful food. Frankly speaking, looking back I don't even remember whether the food was bad or worse. The only thing etched in my mind is the image of two girls with fear writ large on their faces and two giant-sized men towering over them with scowls on their faces. I remember hating each moment of my humiliating existence there.          Seeing us nibble our food and barely eating, the twosome decided to let us go. We were let off with a warning from Athlete.      "Don't dare to talk to each other, don't enter into each other's room and....better report to Mallu in front of his room tomorrow morning at 0300 hours."         The journey, foul language usage and an un

 _________________________________________________________________________________              'All girls are the same. They cry at the drop of a hat.'      These lines kept echoing in my mind as I unpacked my trunk for the required stationery. I was not the kind to eavesdrop or strain my ears to hear what others talk, but while rushing towards my room I couldn't help but overhear Mallu's loud remark on the female gender. Hold your horses. I am no feminist out to fight gender biases, yet, it was absolutely inappropriate to generalize.        "Hey young lady, are you planning to stay in your room for eternity?" said a new voice.       "Sir I am just coming with the papers."      "In that case you better change your rig and come. This will teach you never to be late again."       Everybody was out to 'teach' something or the other. Grumbling to myself, I quickly changed into whatever dress I presumed was th

      It is a season of colours for Indians. With festivities around the corner, this year let us think of playing with a different kind of colour. No gulal or dry colour, no water balloons, just colourful threads.....colourful threads that entwine to make our memory cloak.        Some say memories are the mental scrapbook that our mind designs and maintains. Some say, it is a patchwork of various events. There is also a theory that memory is responsible for the way one behaves and I am not referring to the process of remembering and forgetting here. I simply believe that memory is a cloak that we weave with colourful threads. Each event is a yarn - the happy days resembling bright colours and the not-so happy ones becoming the dull or darker shades. We weave our cloak with these yarns that are (lovingly or maybe otherwise!!!) produced at the end of each moment in our life.       One thing that can't be denied is the fact that memories, good or bad, stay with us for ever