Dear Diary

Smridhi Vyas

I remember leaving my house in Bangalore and moving to Delhi within a month, back in 2009. In a month, all the bags got packed and my room was in 7 cartons and I was staring at the sea animals that Maasi had painted on my wall. I didn’t want to leave. Everything was happening so fast. It felt like I had been woken up from a beautiful dream, and the blankets had been thrown off of me. I remember thinking Delhi is going to be cold. I hated changing schools and leaving my friends. I wouldn’t be able to go cycle with my friends. Or go play at the swings. I wouldn’t be able to meet dada or my dogs- Kobe and Kylie. Spending the days in blossoms bookhouse while mom gave her presentations in the office and then lunch at Kanti sweets. I grew up there, and it felt like things would never change.

Since then, I have never felt like I have been “home.” Growing up with a community of people who nurtured me the way I needed and helped me grow felt like a safety blanket. I grew up, and I’m sure everyone else did as well. I went through a lot in life and hated it in Delhi. I got bullied a lot but somehow always felt that everything would be okay if I went back to Bangalore, my hometown. It would go back to how it was. Commercial Street, blossoms book house, and The Bangalore club. Tumba chana idiya! (It’s very nice)

I never understood how inanimate objects made people feel safe, how they hugged soft toys and slept. The whole concept felt very alien to me. Even when I was in Delhi, something felt missing, but it felt weird to hug toys. But it was when I moved back to Bangalore for college that I understood how it felt. I got used to depending on myself all this while. It’s when I believe I became my own home. During the two years in college, the blanket that my mom gave was the only thing that made me feel safe.

Bangalore will always feel like home, but something had changed this time around. It had a coldness to it. My blanket kept me warm. I couldn’t sleep without hugging it tightly, and my hometown felt different. Is it supposed to be like that?

Nubivagant

Trina Dutt

C’est les nuages.

[It’s the clouds]

Rivers, seas, volcanic eruptions, little children reading books, dragons playing games, dolphins skipping waves, raindrops, sundew, rainbows and limitless hues.

Where am I from?

Not a place, not a person, not a town, not a reason.

I’m from the heart, mind and soul of a little girl who’s simply trying her best to get through each day.

A girl of dreams, of thoughts, of memories, of plots (good, not the villainous kind, of course).

I’m from the smile that lingered past the sunshine’s play; the deepness of my breath that basked in the storm’s warm embrace.

I’m from the whispered conversations and raucous laughter between friends, foes and everyone in between.

I’m from the tears and teeth that tear through the meals of cities and continents; looking past reminiscence, relishing in the presents, forgoing the far future for feasts of nearer blessings.

I’m from my mother’s womb, my father’s gregarious nature, my family’s eternal pillars of support - as well as the perennial gushing stream of drama borne from them. From acquaintances, acquittals, lovers and rivals; from the transience of life and the ubiquitous truth of ever-changing time.

I’m from the stage, the spotlight, the benches, the long nights; the songs, the dances, the theatre and collective heights - walking with people, places, perspectives and phases.

I’m from a culture I rarely visit, yet it comes knocking on my door like a good Samaritan - grounding my roots though my branches sway in the symphony of cosmopolitan compositions.

I’m from a culture I live in and unknowingly has benignly come to live in me - seems that I’m a welcoming abode, an evolving ode.

I’m from cultures I imbibe - languages and letters and laddoos and layouts.

Where am I from?

I’m from the clouds that rain a little love, life and petrichor every now and then.

They simmer in mauves with silver linings, and roar in reds with pink-laced petals. They swim in the blues of days long past years, and soar in yellows that yearn to be golden.

I’m from the clouds that rage with power, mirth, renewal and rebirth

They roll over one another, confused in ambivalence - leaving patterns of dynamics that keep eyes wide awake.

Where am I from?

Well,

I’m from the heart, mind and soul of a little girl who’s simply trying her best to get through each day.

To Calcutta, With Love

Anushka Dasgupta

I don't remember the first time I met you.

But I heard it had rained red with rallies.

The second time I met you, you had changed your name. You insisted on

being called by it. But no one did. Most still don't. The third time I met

you, I decided to stay and you took me in. And at a leisurely pace, far

away from the usual rat race, time passed. You grew, you rose, you turned

a new leaf over.

From pulpy celluloid to polished thrillers,

Frequent load sheddings to fervent generators,

From sprawling courtyards to sleek skyscrapers

From hammer, sickle, and stars to grass and flowers

But you always seemed hesitant to move forward

Struggling amidst modernity and nostalgia

Oscillating between Quest Mall and Victoria

Traversing through tram depots and metro lines

Shifting between the keys of harmonium and bars of a rhyme It's time to

leave again and your colours seem to shine Bridges lit in blue and

rainbows in your stride

The yellow of the cab is still brighter than the uber white Maybe it's my

rose-tinted glasses

Maybe I'm afraid to say goodbye

Until we meet again, I hope you remember me

In hectic book fairs and hazy Oly Pub memories

In Park Street, literary meets, tea stalls, and cigarettes In the loudspeaker

during Pujas and the Rabindrasangeet cassettes.