Lucky Girl

Most childhood experiences are remembered with a fond degree of vagueness, or not at all. But not mine. I was never allowed to forget this one incident. So here I am, remembering that one incident, in graphic detail, through the one medium available to me: my thoughts.

I was named a different name, but I call myself lucky as that is the only name I hear around me anyway. On why I am called lucky, is what the incident is all about. I was but a toddler then. Not an age where memories are established. So now that I try to remember I can't understand why I left my mother. Well this is no good. Let me start at the right place: the beginning.

The year was 1994. Supposedly the year was a hot one in Michigan, where I was born. This was also the year when my dad got promoted to supervisor in the Ford showroom. I think that was the trigger. My dad is a very low key person. He prefers to walk when he can, even though he was a car salesman for most of his life and a good one at that. He preferred small private dinners to parties even on special occasions. And most importantly he hated outdoor parties. Which is the one thing that surprises me. Not that he hates outdoor parties, but that he has hated them since ever, even before the incident.

The promotion, even though it was a big thing back then, was not expected to lead to a party. But nobody had taken my uncle into account. My fun loving, crazy, extrovert Uncle. He was not my dad's real brother. He was adopted. "That explains the craziness", mom used to say. So there was my father who was quietly acknowledging the congratulations all around and there was my Uncle saying the same thing again and again, "Partyyyy!!". "More like shouting", mom says.  And a party it was. No ordinary party. It was planned to be "one helluva party," in the words of my uncle. And where was it? Right next to the M-1. In the greatest open space restaurant of the area, "Marijuana".  The place still exists. In a small town like ours, the great spaces never die out.

Everybody, who was anybody to us was there. Including some who weren't. The star attraction of course was my uncle. Dad just laid back and let it roll. Mom was the busy self conscious host. And where was I? I was supposed to be with her.

One thing that I do remember about being a toddler is the enormity of the world back then. But on that day, no distance seemed great and I was soon amongst the crowd. A crowd is again a safe place for a toddler, until of course the cursed word "Dance". Now there was no longer a crowd. I was the parcel in the "Passing the parcel" game and soon there was no one to pass to.

Now the next thing I know, I was on the end of a great big sand lot and then there was no sand lot. In the revised edition of the incident (It gets revised each time the degree of luckiness changes), by this time the whole party was looking for me, which I doubt. I think I can safely say that my grandparents and dad were part of the search party. My uncle by now was supposedly being given the dressing down of his life time.

I suddenly saw that the floor was no longer smoothy rough but just rough. I was no longer next to the M-1, I was on the M-1. Things became highly interesting as I heard wooshing sounds ahead. The search got hotter and finally desperate. Of course no prizes for guessing who found me. By the time he came I was in the middle of the tarmac and the wooshing sound had been accompanied by a frighteningly loud honking. A long shadow was upon me. And suddenly I felt arms covering me and pushing me. Then a sickening crunch.

All my life I have been called lucky. I would have been better off called another name. Heard of a guilt trip? Well my life has been one long guilt trip. In the movies I see now, the same scene acts out differently. The hero always gets up smiling. But not my uncle. Lucky me....

But my story doesn't end here. My scars have become painful now. The very air I breathe heavy and sapping. The year is 2010. A whole decade has passed and more. I am on my bike going home. I am at a level crossing. Unmanned. The light is red. There I see him. The little boy would be about 2. He is sitting bang in the middle of the track. I can hear the train now. I vault the barrier. The train is too fast. I am about to jump when the thought stops me," Am I doing the right thing?" There is no boy any more. I am the boy. Do I risk my life and save his life. Or do I save his life by not risking mine?? The torture is unbearable....


I decide to save him.

Musings

* IITM Saarang at times, given you were at the right place at the right time and sometimes the wrong time, showed glimpses of paradise... 

*I happened to be so a couple of times and not only thoroughly enjoyed myself, but had an uplifting and once in a life time experience. Vox A capella was one, which for the illiterate(like me) means “A cappella (Italian or Latin "From the chapel/choir") music is vocal music or singing without instrumental accompaniment, or a piece intended to be performed in this way.” 

*Well without much ado, the event showcased some of the best college singing groups that included beauties from WCC, Mt.Carmel, Yethiraj and an all boys band which was an exception in this case performing jazz, blues, light music and songs like the lion king opening song (yes the one with the animal sounds, all intact) and “ In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the Lion sleeps tonight...” And not just performing them but doing so with the ease, accomplishment and professionalism of seasoned musicians on tour and also combining it with the reckless abandon and intense enjoyment associated with amateur singers who sing just for the heck of it. That was Saarang'09 for me. Nothing else came even close.

*I just wanted to share this with you and send out a clarion call for all those uninitiated college goers, who think the world is all they see and what they see is boring; There is a whole new world out there, just waiting to expand your horizons. Go attend Saarang'10.

           Now to my musings; On my way back from Saarang I happened to notice something I had not in all those 4 mornings and 3 nights at IITM : true beauty. Seriously, please don't think that I am saying this to join the group of IIT haters; who do so because they are jealous; I totally am not on e of them. In all those wonderfully dressed or undressed (depends on how you look at it) girls I couldn't find beauty. Anyway to come back, my object of admiration (not attraction) was at the Central, on platform three wearing a pink chudi, looking pretty, but not exactly what you'd call head turning material. Which is the whole point; she wasn't head turning material, if you didn't understand the point. Here I was standing tired, not having slept the previous night, not in a state to appreciate beauty of any start, almost drifting off to sleep while still standing when I was startled from my semi-conscious state by an almighty cry. For the life of me, I was wide awake now, only to find that nobody was paying least attention to the sound. I turned to find that it was a small kid, playing with his mom, pulling at her bag and trying to run away with it. It was like watching the churning of the milky way (by the Gods, if you don't know) and was quiet interesting. But I looked up. I thank my stars, for that epiphany: that something more interesting was just a look up. I looked up to find the girl undergoing a silent transformation. It was like the pati's of cinemas saying “ You look like Goddess Maha-Lakshmi.” The ends of the previously morose, uninspiring lips which did not merit mention, were slowly curving upwards to form a smile filled with so much warmth that India's power problems could have been solved. The fact that the smile was shared by the eyes too, made it all the more enjoyable. The eyes now were full of sparkle and so expressive that I didn't need to see the kid to know what was happening any more. The face was now literally glowing and I now understood what people meant by true beauty. I was overcome by a strange emotion that wanted that moment to be frozen for eternity and that wanted me to just stand there and keep admiring her. Stranger was the fact that nobody noticed this either, not even the person next to her who seemed to be her father. Maybe it's the law of such things. I was struck by the innocence of that smile and the abandon of the emotions those eyes portrayed. Given a paper and pen a second Da Vinci would have been born. Or maybe a Shakespeare, or rather Lord Byron (who wrote better romantic poems??).. But neither happened. The train arrived...