1^st April, 2006

Mumbai

Dear Diary,

Though one of my resolutions early this year was to be more regular in keeping a diary, I am afraid my daily routine spares me very little time to keep up that particular resolution. After a typical working day filled with more crises and deadlines than you can ever imagine, I am hardly left with any energy even to mumble the slightest of complimentary words to the rest of my family – so forget about writing to you.

But resolutions are resolutions, if they are not fulfilled as promised, there is always this nagging sense of incompleteness that bothers you day-in and day-out. So here I am feebly trying to fulfill a much regretted new-year resolution.  Deep down both of us know that I have a pretty dubious reputation as a man who always keeps his word, so the next time my conscience pricks me about the same, I can quote this diary-writing in the middle of the night as one of my valiant attempts in keeping my word.

The question is, I have filled out two paragraphs, but going further, what do I write about? How about a smattering of some kitchen-table philosophy? Or perhaps the etymology of some obscure word? Or may be the long pending litany of complaints that I have about my colleagues? Oh no, wait - I think I know what I should write to you about. I’ll write about something that I don’t usually write about, I’ll write about a crush that I had on someone during my days at Sunnyvale.

Sunnyvale! The very name brings to my mind fond visions of azure skies filled with fluffy clouds idly chasing one another, the gurgling stream where all of us used to go fishing during weekends, of long dormitories were many a sinister secret used to be shared, of Brother Victor and his noisy parakeets, of Sister Clara and her perennial scowl, and a lot many other colourful memories. And it also brings back memories of her.

She.

No, I am not going to take her name – in this whole write-up I intend to allude to her only as ‘she’. After all, as Shakespeare says, a rose would smell just as sweet by any other name, wouldn’t it? Let it just be said that she was a pretty girl to look at, with silky raven hair and a somewhat helpless look all around her, coupled with a sad sweet smile. The fact that she used to sit in the row adjacent to me made it convenient for both of us to exchange some seriously deep glances.

Now let’s get certain things clear here, apart from a teeny-weeny crush, I never had any major feelings for her. Nor did I even initiate any of those glances mentioned above. She was just another girl around, and as for me, well, I had my priorities clearly defined. But face it, who can ignore the sweet arrows of Cupid for long? Our glances soon progressed to smiles and smiles soon progressed to polite nods of acknowledgement.

And then came Sameer.

Sameer Jaikishen Singhania. Sammy to some, Jackie to others, and Singy to some others. But for me, he was just an obstacle with plenty of nuisance value. And obstacles are meant to be broken. But unlike the swashbuckling Mr. Singhania, I hailed from rather middle-class origins in life. So when it came to a battle between the head and the heart, no matter how much ever painful it was, I had to let the head take its own course of action.

But as Paulo Coelho says in The Alchemist, the heart is a betrayer. It betrays you in weak moments simply because it believes in certain things that the head will never comprehend. My warrior heart used to flare up occasionally and I used to go into what I call the ‘attack’ mode. Like the day when I ‘accidentally’ tripped over a bench and splattered hot coffee all over Sameer’s shirt (well, it so occurred that the very next week Sameer accidentally tripped over a bench and ruined my summer project – an exquisitely crafted water wheel for the science fair).

Our invisible battle lines were clearly drawn - I had a field day tearing Sameer apart in front of the whole school at the annual debate, also thrashing him soundly at the 800-meters sprint on sports day. But such victories were short-lived, for even after the most conclusive of losses, Sameer still held the best prize of them all– he had her to go back to. Whilst for me, the roaring winner, despite all the cheer from my merry bunch of friends, I was still alone. And that somehow just blew away all the fire from my victories. After many such empty victories, one day I got tired of it all. I ushered up the broken pieces of my ego and decided to move on.

Oh, the heart still ached but the head was the one that mattered.

The midterm exams (terminal exams were called term-Xs in Sunnyvale lingo) came and went, and with me stuck in my Devdas mode, my scores weren’t much to cheer about (if there was a flutter back home when my report card reached them, my parents kept silent about it in their letters). Friends were concerned and the selected few of them who were in the know went out of their way to make things better.

“Go speak to her!” (despite all the glances that we’d had, let it be known that both of us were yet to exchange a single word)

“Sammy’s a dud, you’re a dude!” (this was a common anthem of the loyalists)

“Sitting still and wishing// Makes no person great// the Good Lord sends the fishes// But you must dig the bait” (perhaps the first time that the rhyme was put to such ill use)

But I was someone determined not to look back. One of the ten commandments was “thou shall not covet thy neighbour’s wife”, even though the neighbour was such an imperious spoilt-rich stuck-up asshole. If she was meant to be with him, then let her be with him. I was not going to spit in someone else’s garden. Yup, there is something called a male ego.

Studies were taken up with passion. The bespectacled bookworms that rotted perennially at the library had a new challenger to match the hours. Projects were submitted well ahead of deadlines and class participation took new heights.

Oh - just remembered that I haven’t said a word about her role in all this. Well, as much as I convinced myself the otherwise, I did catch her giving me appreciative smiles at each of my victories, even though most of them were often against Sameer. Haven’t figured it out even now, but I still think that it was her clap that rang the loudest in the debating room where I trounced Sameer with my verbal volleys. And I used to catch appreciative glances from her at any witty riposte that I made in class. But apart from these ‘is-she, isn’t-she’ moments, there was nothing much for me to go on. And puppy love is a strange thing, no matter how much ever one feels convinced about such matters, there is still ample room for doubt.

Then one day, she and Sameer stopped sitting together. Was I imagining things or was there an icy coolness between them? Something was cooking. Her glances towards me increased - appreciative glances most of the times, questioning glances sometimes, and finally ending in confused glances. My betrayer heart screamed at me in full volume – now was the most opportune moment, the moment that I had been dreaming for so long, GO FOR IT – TALK TO HER! SPEAK OUT YOU FOOL!!!! But no, my head reasoned, let bygones be bygones, learn to look forward in life. It took all my will-power not to take any notice of her.

And then some startling news trickled out around Sunnyvale – Sameer had been caught taking drugs in the stadium, and the watchman reported to the principal that this had been going on for some while. Sameer was promptly expelled, the only student to be so expelled in the history of the institution.

My betrayer heart had been tugging at the chains all this while, but with this new development, it triumphantly soared to cloud nine. Friends flocked around – speak to her now, there... this is just the thing that could happen to you, don’t let opportunity pass... But the head was adamant. My parents sent me to Sunnyvale to study, not to make amorous liasions. Sing all that you want to, I was not going to speak to her.

Of course there was Rose Day and all that other tomfoolery that we used to take so seriously those days. My friends egged me on to give her a rose, but I refused. Why dig up old flames and make matters worse? I was content with the way things were.

The final term-Xs came up. There were many nights spent at the library cramming matters as diverse as the causes of World War II to nuclear fusion to King Lear to descriptions of the now extinct reptile-cum-bird archaeopteryx. As our final scores really mattered while choosing our future colleges, all thoughts of her were reluctantly banished to an empty corner of my mind.

Term-Xs went really well, I was in the top five of the school. Sunnyvale had a long-standing tradition of holding annual prom nights for its outgoing senior batch. The dress code was appropriate – tuxedos for the gentlemen, gowns for the ladies. Though each of us had eagerly awaited prom night for all that it promised (is that why it is called ‘prom’ night?), a sudden bout of flu kept me from attending it. Going through photographs later I saw that she’d come looking absolutely stunning in a pale blue gown.

And finally it was time to say good-bye to Sunnyvale. The day came when we packed our bags and walked out of the hallowed gates into the open world to apply all that we had learnt. The railway station had a special students’ train, one of those blue toy trains that wound its way lazily among the scenic mountains until depositing us at the nearest city.

Goodbyes were a grand affair. Addresses were hastily scribbled down, good wishes were warmly exchanged, promises were made to keep in touch for the rest of our lives, no matter where we were.

This was the last time we would be at Sunnyvale as students. Was there something that I had to do which I had been neglecting all along?

My betrayer heart kicked into immediate action, letting loose the floodgates of emotion that I had managed to lock up all this while. I ran around frantically at the station – if I don’t speak to her now, may be I’ll never speak to her again! Where was she, goddammit, where was she? There were smiles all around, and a few tears, but mine must’ve been the most troubled face on the platform that day.

Was she traveling first class? No, just a chattery bunch of people singing good-bye songs there! Perhaps the ladies-coupe then? Shit, the damn thing was empty. Only one way to find out – I was going to check each and every compartment until I found her. (sigh!) Twenty-four compartments of the train all checked thoroughly, and still no sign of her.

Word came in from someplace that she was taking the bus. Her parents had arranged to meet her someplace before they whisked her away to wherever her home was. Oh how I wished that I had spoken to her sooner! I would follow her to the ends of the earth – if only I could find her first? I ran all the way to the bus stop, much like a hero in a typical Bollywood film. Please God please, if only this Bollywood film would have a happy ending…

And then I saw her.

She had already boarded the bus, and it had started to move. “Hey!”, I screamed out, waving manically. “Hey!” waved half of the people on the bus. “Good-bye! Stay in touch! All the best! Yoo-hoo!”, valedictions of all kinds from the other Sunnyvalers aboard the bus flew all around. My heart crumbled helplessly. My Bollywood film was not ending the way I wanted it to.

But my run was not wasted. With the rest of the crowd on the bus, she turned around too. And she smiled at me – a sad sweet smile, a smile that seemed to convey many an unspoken thing, of lost lovely days and unforseen endings. Then the bus took a turn and disappeared from my view altogether.

That was the last I ever saw of her. The image of her sitting aboard the bus, her hair billowing in the breeze as she smiled that agonizingly sweet smile of hers as she waved goodbye – that is the memory which is forever engraved on my mind.

And perhaps my fondest memory about Sunnyvale.

But life has a habit of spring up surprises. And believe me, not all surprises need necessarily be pleasant. Years later, through the well scattered alumini of Sunnyvale, I came to know that she had once confided to her friend about her having a crush on me. Many years have passed and much water has flown under the trusty old bridge, but that delayed piece of news never fails to irk me.

And that brings us to the end of this story. Call it incomplete, call it idiotic, or call it whatever you want to, but I am standing by every word of it. My little story of unspoken words and unhappy endings.

OKAY NOW SNAP OUT OF IT! Ha ha ha! Had you there, didn’t I? Welcome to real life! Does today’s date mean anything to you, my dear diary? Okay, here’s a clue – well, it was March 31 yesterday, and the financial year just ended - ha ha ha!

On that note, I trust that I have diligently upheld my new-year resolution by writing four full pages in the dead of the night? Also I trust that I have amply silenced my pricking conscience for pointedly reminding me that I am such a bad keeper of promises? In which case, let me sign-off and catch up on some much needed sleep. Wonder what crises tomorrow shall bring… Oh these silly new-year resolutions.

Adios!

Sd/-

C.P.J.

© Cyril Paul