Long Weekend Musings

Maundy Thursday night. I should be in church now, and I had actually showered and washed my hair this evening after I got home from another hectic day at work. Eventually though I was too tired to go.

It's been another brutal week at work. Last week was the same. Being HOD may sound like a grand designation to throw around but in reality it's nothing more than being glorified clerks. The amount of clerical work we do is staggering. Mounds and mounds of paperwork. And crunching numbers. There's still some of it waiting on my table right now. I have to have it all ready on Monday but it's a long weekend ahead so I'm treating myself to putting it on hold tonight.

Good Friday and Easter week. Over the last three/four days or so, I've been hearing people continuously read Biblical passages over a PA system somewhere down the valley below. Young voices so probably a KTP project. I've been engrossed in my work (yes, been bringing it home, as well as slogging over it at work by day) so I haven't really been listening with any real attention. But it did pass through my mind how reading out loud can be both so banal and a treat. Most of us tend to just go through the words in a flat monotone. A to B to C. Boring, b-o-r-i-n-g. It sounds so much better when someone puts a little effort into it. Variations in speed, pitch and volume. A little drama, a little theatrics, and the page comes to life.

Excusa moi, I think I'll go practise a bit. Nothing like practising what you preach immediately.

We Are Nostalgia

We are nostalgia

old friends who go back a long, long way,

raw-boned and scrawny,

barely out of our teens,
a motley bunch

in pursuit of a master's degree

in that cold, pine-needled land across the state

because ours didn't have

a postgraduate setup then.

Coping with study stress, cultural divides
and bouts of homesickness,

we sealed strong bonds at Mayurbhanj, Long View, and Bijni,

over guitar sing-alongs, dinners, socials, and picnics

out in the wilds where the boys would disappear
into the bushes (for Dutch courage)

before asking the girls for a dance,

and complain when the girls wouldn't oblige
but declare it time to get back to the hostel!

Vacation time, homeward bound,
early morning risings to catch the hired bus,
long hours on winding mountain roads,
stopping for meals at little shacks,
rewinding cassette reels with a ball pen,

nodding off on one another's shoulders,

promises to stay in touch.

Thirty odd years down the line,

in varying positions of power at work

we never dreamt to attain,

old friends meet and greet again

at funerals and at weddings.
So much history forged together,

yes, my friend, we are nostalgia.