So here I am experiencing yet another reader's block. Boards are to start in about 3 months time and I'm listening to songs.. actually, situational songs. Very useful and crying my eyes out. A good example is November Rain.

At least something to be happy about. Ironic I know. A particularly windy day four days ago. Stormy nights three in a row. Wow. And now I'm sitting outside and unfortunately the sun's come out. And now there's a game of hide n' seek with the clouds. Pleasant. I always liked my room but now it's just some other room.. I didn't think it would be this way. Just the walls are different and the house is. The windows and the doors. It feels kind of weird acutally, to say the least.

There's not that sense of comfort I had in being on my bed, night and day. Doing something or the other. Now I get up however late but get to the bus stop on time. Just another proof on how I'm not attached to my room anymore. It's way too artificial for my taste. Old houses have that certain character, that history behind it which lends the air of mystery and me being the perpetual story-weaver think about what must've happened here before I was born.

In this house we're the first ones, which is kinda disappointing to me. The old house had its charms. This one just has clean walls and well it's functional and economical. Not much scope for repairs and paint jobs. No leakage and cracks. But if we ignore the goodness virtue, I would like to go back to the old one anyday. Even just to see the words etched onto the whitewashed walls. Destructive behaviour of mine. The letters painted on the white door with dark pink and purple. The phone numbers on another. The cupboard with french words on it and I could even gaze for hours at the time weathered floor, darker with the years, lighter when we remove the bed and the table and whatnot. The un-uniformity of it all.

Waking up in the morning to get out on the balcony, blissfully almost always mine and looking at the wilderness outside, ahead of me. Never thought I'd miss not having a neighbour out front. Just wild wild wilderness. A grey-black road with absolutely no-one on it in the mornings, stronf sunshine enducing nostalgia and the fresh breath of life if it was shadowy and cold. The garden with the white swing..

The backyard with the hot stones of the afternoon, the one which defined my summers when I was tiny and naive. The comfort and coziness of life as I knew it. The lack of something called tiles. Stone and cement everywhere and anywhere. Mud and soil.. the garden with it's swing and the many coloured roses. Now there's not much garden to speak of, though there still are roses. But now the thorns are much more obvious to the sight.

I would always remember how the gardener used to hand me a small bouquet of tiny flowers from the garden every year on my birthday. Way to logically it seems.. 'cause when afterwards I used to go out there none of the flowers seemed missing. Too much thought put into it. Hugging the trees and sitting on the backyard stairs, reflecting to memories back when we used to play.

Play we did even as late as just two years ago. Or maybe a year and a half. Lucky me always experienced beginner's luck and then the reputation led me to win half the time. And the other half of the time was helped by the team-mate who was inspired.

Morning sunshine and the dew-drenched grass. Mostly overgrown and the jasmine tree. The terrace. Where I remember learning about the three parts of the Himalays while my mother put out clothes to dry, or later where I used to read, I remember Oscar Wilde, in the shade of the tree from afternoon to the evening till when there was not enough light to go by. The shade of the blackcurrant tree..

The blackcurrant tree that showered upon us in summer and lay waste the terrace in the early days of monsoon with the purple-black overripe currants all splattered and squished onto a good part of the place. Which when cleaned left a faint purplish tinge on the ground, which remained for quite some time and a faint smell wafting through..

Now here the trees and identical copies of each other, those which are not are far away and are mostly eucalyptus. Or just plain bush. Thorny bush. And grass. No hide-outs here. No secret places and nooks and corners. No corner room library across the backyard. No smell of musty old books and warmth of a hundred pages of remembrance.

I am happy that I will be leaving this place for sometime atleast next year, coming back would be fine, that's just how much I know this is my home and would love to come back and sleep in my bed for a change. But well it's kinda fortunate that we did move or I wouldn't have had the heart to leave the city for all I know if I had to go away.

All's for good maybe. And I've gone on with too much rant and the laptop's riding low on the battery. I think I'll rant about something else later.