“Tear is a house build out of a storm.”
—To Build a Home, the Cinematic Orchestra
Some days aren’t as good as other days; they lay over my head like an unnecessary hand ruffling my hair so bad that I so dedicatedly cared for and gave my all morning to but sometimes, there I am looking incredibly dull like you’ve not slept for a week. Every day I offer my passion of certain things as collateral to this world so I can receive something back from it but I seem to turn up more empty than I ever was; my only consolation are my friends. But sometimes there are days when the wind in my hair is going keep me on my toes, it’s going to knock me in my head and make me feel awkwardly good and it was like that yesterday; I rode with my brother to Srinagar in our supposedly college uniform, black and white, my two dear colors.
Kashmir is getting warmer as we speak, riding on a bike without thermals is a Pulitzer achievement and also a sign we’re heading right into a harsh summer, theoretically. I had a white shirt and a purple pullover on me and when I was sitting directly under the sun on the dais of Heritage building’s little red concrete stage; I realized that I was feeling the heat profusely. Meanwhile Hondo came and caught me off guard, we had planned— which means I had— that we’ll go and climb Shankracharya as a part of getaway from our god awful routine. But I changed my mind last minute, mainly because our classes have recently fallen in a schedule and I’d really like to keep my name as occasionally-present in the list. So we now have plans on Sunday.
Hondo and I looked at each other funny when we saw Moody, black clad from top to bottom, sharply complimenting his blonde hair and freckles mildly hidden by his oiled beard. He was normal, something that had been missing in him lately, he was always eager to leave and actively distant even if you were to engage him in a conversation. On my first ever day of college, I went to look for my schedule that was half scraped off from the Heritage building because humanity is vile and potentially harmful; somehow I got it right and I found him there, wildly confused. He asked me where our literature class was, trust me our college is a wildly confused place, I asked him to follow me and like two kinder garden students we sat next to each other. It was an incidental action of something that was pre-determined and it stuck like wood glue between us. Later that day, as we were walking out of our college with Doodlebug following closely behind, we saw a guy approach her and then we saw her fiercely standing her ground and bashing him. It was hysterical; it’s one of the founding memories of our college. Regardless, we went up to her, stood close, even though she did not need us and therefore we only waited for her to finish. Hence three of us left the college together, stitched to the same side of the cloth and every day since.
I have separate classes nowadays, we only share the first one so I sat next to Moody; I wrote with a pencil, they make me feel invulnerable because there is a possibility of correction— a neat correction. Sometimes I feel compulsive for being neat, I have a couple of empty journals that I don’t fill because I fear I’ll spoil the charm that attracted me to them first thing. For some reasons it was funny to him and I couldn’t look less amused:
“Do you have so much time?” he asked sarcastically.
“Yeah. Of course” I replied.
Afterwards, he would just stare at me and I’d laugh. It was good. We bunked the next one, to be very precise he made me and Hondo went all by himself promising he’d mark my attendance, by manners of proxy. When the teacher just hands you a paper and you get to write your roll numbers, it’s a free reign. We left the college to eat something, since we really despise the canteen but due to lack of electricity we could not have our desired cup of tea so Moody did what came natural to him as a diet conscious person— he bought Real tetra packs. I just don’t know what to tell him at these times.
Once back in college, I darted to my classes and only saw him after they ended, sitting on a patch of grass with Blackbeard— he’s been sick lately and hence the absence. I can only hope. I think he has started to run errands for his father again, I hope this time he acknowledges him. Hondo and I were the last men standing, Doodlebug was in a class so we stalled around for a while until she caught up with us while I was watching Hondo’s adventurous crusade of yester night when he walked a long way from Boulevard and went so far as losing his way with a couple of friends. Bat-shit crazy.
“It’s so funny you’ll die laughing.” He said. Believe me he wasn’t wrong.
He wasn’t home until 9’oclock in the evening, so he sat outside Hattrick, ate ice-cream and called his brother to pick him up. My family would kick me out for better if I was out so late.
We’ve really been busy so much that we’ve forgotten to take long walks through the wide roads of Rajbagh, you just follow the road until you reach the foot bridge and take it to cross Jhelum. Since all of us didn’t want to go home early, we decided to walk and I looked funny and lean, Hondo was deceptively huge and Doodlebug had a black veil that covers her head to feet with a dash of pink. Hondo was exhausted from yesterdays march but his spirits never let us down, Doodlebug was fasting because 14 Rajab is a very auspicious day in Islamic calendar and I on the other hand walked quietly with an intention to make sure I remember this moment and naturally pointing to Agha Shahid Ali’s home which I accidently stumbled on one day when I was looking for Hotel Comrade Inn which was hosting a workshop on writing.
“Ubi-wan-kin’ubi.” proclaimed Hondo.
“Star Trek or Star Wars?” he asked.
“Star Trek. I like Captain Kirk. And the Half Vulcan who is afraid of his Half-Human side.” I replied.
I think these are the only thing I remember well. My memory is an ailment.
We dropped Doodlebug at Amira Kadal, I shook her hand and Hondo is a fist bump person through and through. While we were on our way to Jahangir Chowk, he asked me if I had a go to person:
“Karla.” I said immediately.
While parting at Jahangir, he made me promise that I won’t flip out on Saturday.
“I have been saving up for a Shawarma, let’s go to my brother’s Café coming Saturday.” He told me.
“I will.” I reassured him.
I called my go to person after he left and surprisingly she was eating on her own in Ground Zero, sort of treating herself to good food after doing well in an exam. I think I talked to her more than I had talked to anyone in two whole days.
When I talk to someone, it’s like shedding a skin that has been cultivating itself away from me in the light of negligence and hopelessness. I’m glad I talked. Although to be honest, we judge people from a distance and secretly giggle in our minds. Every time I meet someone, I take the bill with me, I collect bills like stamps only because it contains the exact time and date; something I cannot remember on my own. Therefore when I left, I was reminded of something I wrote last time— I’m self aware; that the descending sun shines upon me, that I am conscious and elevated in my state of bliss.
At around 5’oclock at Budshah Bridge when the sun is unforgettably in your face— I remembered coming close to the liberty of feeling alive like this. It was just me and the Sun having a full grown romance, sharing a secret entitlement of rather rarely found happiness; the one that lingers on your face and one can tell from the look in your eyes and the way you drop your feet.
Awesome. I wish I was a part of this beautiful day.