Tura and Me

My Dad was posted in Tura when I was six. And that is where my serious schooling started. I was admitted to my fifth school and first KV. For those of you who are wondering where Tura is, its in Meghalaya, one of the seven sisters of our North East. A snug valley at the foothills of Tura hills, right under Tura Peak, this town is one of those quieter hilly destinations that we crave sometimes. Don’t go there looking for a Shillong, or an Itanagar. And comparing it with those places would be unfair. I spent three years of my life there. And it was a beautiful place to call home for those three years.

My school there was like the place, sleepy and simple. Not bothered much with studies or discipline, we had fun most days. But I owe a big part of my life to that school. That is where I learnt to write. I had written tons in my previous school as part of handwriting practice but Tura is where I learnt the logic behind writing, the connection between words and ideas. Was there some kind of magic in those West Garo Hills? I would like to believe so.

My Dad’s office cum residence quarters was located on top of a small hill. It was a cute Assam type cottage, complete with a leaking ceiling in the many rain-storms. After a wet night, if the sun dared to venture out, you could encounter a variety of snakes basking around. You really had to look where you stepped. The path that wound from the narrow main road to our quarter was the bumpiest free ride ever. Needless to say, my Dad’s Jeep would always reach home in leaps and bounds.

Still, the entire place was so picturesque, like straight out of a movie. Mornings were fresh and dewy, afternoons were lazy and drunk, evenings had a breeze blowing with the right amount of speed to call them romantic, and nights were silent and spooky. Won’t you call that inspiring now? And that’s when I started writing. I wrote a notebook full of crappy stories, which are still lying around some place, and decided that I wanted to be a writer when I grew up.

This was also the school where I learnt Hindi, and got jeered at for my accent. And this is where I woke up to the politics that some cunning kids play. I learnt that people always side with the popular kids, that jealousy can break seemingly close ties between best friends and it could be dangerous to gossip. Apart from that, I remember that our school didn’t have a canteen, but hawkers greeted us at the exit gates, after we were let out. Ice lollies, masala tamarind pastes, dalmot, all heralded us with open arms. The ice lollies were nothing but sweetened ice in various colours and the only ice cream available in Tura. Yes, believe it or not, I have spent three years of my life without ice cream! I remember every time we went to Guwahati, which is around two hundred kms away, I would gorge on a choco bar, as our driver marveled at the eight bucks we paid for it. (Yeah, back then it was eight bucks for a Kwality choco bar.)

Another surprise for me there was girl power! The Garo society is matrilocal as well as matrilineal. That means you inherit a mother’s property not a father’s. And the groom stays with the bride’s family. How cool is that? We came to know many men there who were house-husbands, while their wives were the primary bread earners. I of course decided that no matter where I was when I was of marriageable age, I will come back to marry a Garo boy. That meant I would take him along with me to wherever I was staying, and I never had to leave my parents. (As a child, this was my second ploy to keep myself with my parents, the first being, trying to marry my Dad!!)

A place called Arhai Mile (Arhai meaning two and half) was the most happening place in an otherwise dormant town. That is where most of the shops were. People thronged it on weekends for vegetables, fruits, poultry and fish. Needless to say, everything was always fresh and sold with a warm gusto in Garo, the primary language spoken there. Apart from that, I had some Hajong and Koch friends too.

In and around Tura were many rivulets and valleys, some of which, we were fortunate to explore. I remember a picnic party that went from school. We just walked to the spot. The entire place was so untouched back then, you could just sit near the road and have a picnic! We also got to see our border with Bangladesh. I remember being surprised at it looking absolutely similar to my own country!

I never went back to Tura, looking for my groom, who would release me from the tradition of leaving my parents’ home, but searching on the internet, I find that Tura has changed a lot. Along with the rest of our country it too has grown. But in my mind’s eye I will always be sitting there on a hillock, blowing bubbles, writing stories or licking masala tamarind!

Malory towers and St. Clare’s: Dreams of Being in a Boarding

Most people who read Enid Blyton as a child read at least one of her boarding school series books, St. Clare’s or Malory Towers. Both series with six books each, follow the school lives of a few characters, as they progress from the First Form (something like sixth standard for us) to the Fifth Year (tenth standard). Both books had similar story lines and the characters were quite typical too.

St. Clare’s shows Patricia and Isabella O’Sullivans, twins, who are made to go to St. Clare’s by their parents after they have been spoilt silly in their previous school. The twins are initially determined to cause trouble but learn their lessons and end up liking the school a lot and making a whole lot of good friends too. In their last year they are made head girls too.

Darell Rivers in Malory Towers starts by being led astray by a fellow student, messing up her grades in the process. She also has temper problems which she later overcomes. After proving her prowess in sports as well as academics, she is made head girl in the fifth year. Along with her are her best friend Sally, her sister Felicity, the spoilt Gwendoline and a whole lot of other characters to spice up the books.

Both books are based in England, and give an insight of life of British girls in those times. Each book delivered several moral lessons. Blyton brings out class issues by introducing characters such as Gwendoline in Malory Towers and Prudence in St. Clare’s, who look down upon the girls with working class backgrounds, like Carlotta the ex-circus girl. They are also seen sucking up to richer girls. Common problems like thieving and cheating are also highlighted.

I could never get enough of these books as a child. I would be filled with longing to go stay in a boarding school, away from my parents, living on my own, following strict rules and learning responsibilities. In my imagination, my parents would see me off to England, where I could be friends with the likes of Pat, Isabel and Darrell. I wanted to have secret midnight feasts, play pranks on teachers and fight the unfair vamp-like girls.

I never bothered to check that these books were written some forty years before my time. Blyton wrote the first book of Malory Towers in 1946 and St. Clare’s started in 1941. The entire world had changed since then! But believe it or not, half of my wish came true. In eighth standard, a situation arose that my parents were forced to leave me in a boarding school! I was in seventh heaven, of course. Ignoring the lump that formed in my throat as I said my goodbyes, I prepared to have fun.

I was in the juniors’ dormitory and I quickly made friends with all the other dorm mates. Very soon I realized that out of the protection of our parents, we are so vulnerable. I met spiteful girls, jealous girls, mousey girls, aggressive girls; but never did I find the righteous ones. Everyone had a flaw! Including me. Slowly I learnt that no human being could be as simple as a character in a children’s book, least of all girls! So I learned to accept all these girls with their flaws. After all, we were stuck together 24-7. We had to live with each other.

Moreover, who can forget the notorious hostel food. You have to look for the dal with a submarine! There are no snacks with tea. If you are not on time, food is over. I, a finicky eater, became a glutton within two months. Once when the warden was out, we bribed the cook to prepare some chicken for us. We stole it into our dorms and ate with so much relish that a vegetarian girl decided to try some too.

It was disheartening to find out the difference between my fairy tale boarding school and the real deal. I remember straining my eyes looking for the postman, for just one letter from home (There was no e-mail back then, believe it or not). But once I settled down I did have loads of fun, very similar to Pat, Isabel and Darell. On my birthday, we had a midnight party in our dorm. Then once we tied an anklet around the hostel pet cat and let her loose on the roof. That really scared the hell out of the girls and our Warden! Like Clarissa Carter in Malory Towers, we too had a girl with a heart problem, of which we once took advantage of when we got late for class. We had our own Gwendoline too, a lazy, messy girl who would brag that her family donated four gold biscuits to the local temple every year on her birthday. We also had a dignified head girl to whom we could look up to.

I only spent a year in boarding school, and in that year I really got to see a mean slice of life. But, I also learnt to take care of my stuff, to be resourceful in a crisis and take care of my friends when they were ill. I was a whole new person when I went home for winter break. And among my friends and cousins I was a hero! I did take advantage of that one! Hey! That was one of the things I learnt in boarding school.

Getting Schooled into a Sikandar

There are always a few school songs or school movies that we grow up on. Some of them can make quite an impact on developing minds. I know some people who swear they used to walk like the T-birds in Grease, as teenagers. As I have already confessed, I have never been a great fan of school. I wasn’t a popular kid, neither was I an ace student. As a consequence I didn’t know which school movie to identify with.

Then I thought of my school, a KV (Kendriya Vidyalaya). Certainly not one of the best rated in sophistication. I remember kids from Public schools grimacing when I named my school, ticking me off instantly as a no-good loser. And I have met parents of Convent school kids who condemn all KVs because apparently the grading system is way too easy. Then I remembered, ‘Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar,’ one of the most successful Aamir Khan movies in Bollywood. The movie was a remake of the 1979 American movie, ‘Breaking Away,’ and mostly I don’t sympathize with remakes, but in this case, I haven’t seen the original and thus have no base to complain in terms of originality. ‘Sikandar’ is the name given to Alexander the Great in India. As such, the movie is quite a lesson in life.

The movie opens with Shekhar of Rajput College defeating Ratan of Model College in an inter-school marathon cycle race in Dehradun, which is the crux of the movie. The competition is between the affluent students of Rajput, Xaviers and Queens College and the local ‘have nots’ of Model College. Queens College is the girls’ college with all the boys mooning over them. We have Sanju (Aamir Khan), Ratan’s brother, an irresponsible, carefree teenager, his character most akin to Archie Andrews. He falls for the glamorous Devika (Pooja Bedi) of Queen’s College, the Veronica Lodge, who makes boys trip with her bubble gum bursts. But he has a friend, Anjali (Ayesha Jhulka), who silently loves him and always supports him, the Betty Cooper. Then we have the cocky Shekhar, the Reggie Mantle.

Sanju tricks Devika into believing that he is rich and woos her for some time, much to his brother and Anjali’s consternation. He does some pretty stupid stuff, which we found cute in our school days. Who can forget ‘Pehla nasha,’ an entire song in slow motion? I still remember the lyrics by heart. Pooja Bedi did a Marilyn Monroe too, in a short red skirt that flew around her looooong legs. After Devika finds out that Sanju runs a small canteen along with his brother, she dumps him and the story takes a turn for the worse. After a skirmish with Shekhar, Ratan ends up in a hospital. Sanju turns a new leaf and decides to take part in the race.

The reputation of my school was like Model College’s, in that we were all students of government employees. Nobody could brag of inheritance or fast cars. We all knew we had to somehow make it on our own if we wanted to make it big. Some of us thought of short cuts too. Some guys thought of manipulating the system. Some girls thought of marrying someone rich. But the song, “Jawan ho yaaro, ki tumko huwa kya,” was inspiring. We had a number of Sanjus as well as Ratans. I wasn’t like Anjali but I remember bunking classes (I once jumped off a first floor window to get rid of the rest of my classes).

The State Board in Guwahati is only up till matriculation and many parents want their children to move to CBSE after that. Consequently, in eleventh standard, a lot of new students joined our school. Most of them were from St. Mary’s and Don Bosco. As was inevitable, our boys went nuts. So many Devikas suddenly swarmed the school. They were very different from what our boys were used to. These girls had airs, they chattered away in English with a strange accent. Their Hindi was clipped which probably seemed cute to all our love lorn Sanjus.

Moreover, these Devikas were from a girls’ school. This sudden contact with boys must have been electrifying. Some of them went out of control, while others took advantage of our simple Sanjus. I remember a particular girl who captured the heart of none other than the head boy. Of course, they were famous. He was a bright boy and helped the girl with all his notes. After she got all of it, she didn’t want any of him. He was flabbergasted. I witnessed the scene of their breakup from our corridor. I couldn’t hear anything but it began with the head boy throwing down his lunch box, then tie, then belt, badge… Mercifully, the bell rang and we just guessed the rest.

The Bosconians weren’t lagging behind either. Some of them had been mooning the St. Mary’s girls since Nursery, climbing their school walls just to get a glimpse. Now that proximity wasn’t a problem at all, their hormones were hyperventilating too. As Bosconians, they also had an upper hand in being more polished and with more expendable income. So quite often we would come across an Assamese Shekhar Malhotra in the corridors. Some of our Anjalis were pretty heart broken, because they were never chosen by these spoilt peacocks.

All in all, the last two years in my school were quite a scene from ‘Jo Jeeta Wohi Sikandar.’ Some of us took part in that race against the affluent. I agree that KVites in my time had less exposure, were badly trained in English, didn’t listen to rock music etc. But we learnt how to fight a world thronged by hypocrites. We learnt to be cool, but with humility. We learnt to earn our first bike and pay for our high heels! Today so many of our Sanjus and Anjalis are engineers, doctors, pilots or are working in great places. Many of them own fast cars, or have built mansions, or dine in 5 stars daily. I know a KVite who won the Miss Universe title – Sushmita Sen. KVites win races too, it appears. And whoever wins is the ‘Sikandar.’

Passing by School Again!

School days, school days,
Stupid goofy fool days,
Science, History and Arithmetic,
Each one selected to make you sick.

- Archie’s Comics

Schooling is one of the longest periods in our lives, isn’t it? We start as toddlers, nursery babies. After mother’s milk, the next weaning is from our mother’s pallu. I have attended ten schools in my student life (I didn’t fail or anything okay, my Dad had a transferable job). I definitely learned a lot!

My son cries every day while going to school. The sight of his uniform starts the whole process, he’ll dilly dally while brushing his teeth, he’ll refuse to take his bath, he’ll mope in the taxi. And he’ll bawl when I say, ‘bye.’ And though I am an otherwise impatient mother, I kind of understand his grief. Because, boy, did I hate school? I can never relate to people who reminisce about their school days and sigh, “Those were the days, wish we could go back.” I am more like, “Am I glad those days are over!” My reasons were totally different though from my son’s. My son only hates being away from me. Within five minutes of my departure, his teacher tells me, he gets distracted, and transforms into an active class clown. He loves people, attention and learning. I didn’t like any. I was a shy person. And school was full of people, instructions and group activities. I didn’t like any.

There are so many stories of how we start going to school. I was okay for the first week. Then some kid bit me and I would cry till I puked every day. One of my cousins wrapped himself around my Uncle’s leg till he dragged himself along dramatically. And an acquaintance revealed that she used to cry till fourth standard, because she was under the notion that her mother roamed around town in her absence. But slowly we accept the harshness of being shunned away and soon start enjoying ourselves.

As we climb up to Primary school, we learn a new fear with many names – marks, pass, fail, rank, the list hasn’t ended. We also learn to make new friends, as well as fight with them, and then make up the next day. Personalities start forming, the leader, the curious one, the obedient one, the rebel, the bully. Name calling at the level of donkey and monkey become acceptable while the other adult ones are still a mystery. Words like ‘katti,’ ‘abba,’ ‘God promise,’ become part of our vocabulary. We learn a little bit of politics too, as Phoebe says about the second grade in Friends, “It’s so much better than first grade when you don’t know what’s going on and definitely better than third grade. You know with all the politics and mind games.”

The rawness and innocence of Primary school ends when we enter high school. From the most senior, we become the most junior once more. Not that we mind. I remember my high school was a whole other building across the road from our Primary school. We were so proud to be there!

In Primary school, apart from some precocious little princesses, girls and boys don’t really see themselves as different from each other. At least, I didn’t. But enter high school and hormones start raging. Body changes make us either shy or flirtatious. Personalities become even more distinct. We want to look pretty/handsome, so we choose hairstyles, clothes, school bags. Boys have a voice change and they become tall overnight. I remember so many boys who were shorter than me in eighth standard. One summer vacation later they were towering over me. With each class, girls’ skirts keep getting shorter and boys aren’t able to ignore this (not that they are trying). And this is only the beginning!

School after ninth standard is almost like a multiplex theatre. Some thirty movies are running at the same time. A loves B, but B loves C and C is confused between D and E. In our school, there was a broken classroom on the roof of our school which was named ‘Hall of fame,’ because whatever was left of the walls there were covered with various combinations of names and alphabets. To find out who was whose ‘fanto’ we just had to look for new scribbling. Ali Haider’s ‘A + R’ from his song, “Purani jeans aur guitar,” still reminds me of that wall.

For some, school ends with matriculation and a new, exciting journey begins in college. But others still have two more years. These final years are again a different stage. You get to choose your subjects, you get more respect from your teachers, and of course the entire school is in awe of you. I had my intermediate in school itself, and I think my last two years in school were actually my best. I made fast friends, whom I am still in touch with. I got to do away with maths forever. And I remember a lot of cute junior girls admiring me just for my sheer seniorness!

The day I left school was one of the best days of my life. Unfortunately, all my friends now loved their schools. They were all the Head boy- Head girl type, topping their class and what not. I don’t know how I came to fall into such company! I used to stay away from them in school! You let me know how your school was? Let me know if there is anyone out there who hated school too. I would love to have company while abusing my school life.

Knotty Knots

Friendship day slipped by. Yeah, ever since people found out I am turning thirty this year, they are giving me the slip on Friendship day. Raksha Bandhan is coming. I heard a lot about that this year. Guys can finally look me in the eye and discuss ‘rakhi’ designs, now that my third decade is beginning. Both these days stand for a lasting bond between two people. Moreover, the symbol signifying this bond is also similar, a piece of material tied around the wrist. But then, it is impossible to ignore how opposite the bonds being formed here are. While one is long lasting friendship with blurred edges, the other is a concrete pledge of protection between a brother and a sister. In fact, the latter is a lot about protecting from the blurred edges of the first.

Shahrukh Khan immortalized Friendship day in India after ‘Kuch Kuch Hota Hai.’ If you are a girl, I am sure you have been approached by a guy in your lifetime with one of the three questions: “Will you make friendship with me?” “Will you have friendship with me?” “Will you do friendship with me?” Didn’t those words in bold make you squirm back then? For those who are still grappling with these questions, take a would-be-hag’s advice (now that there is no chance that I’ll use it myself) the best answer should be, “Meet me on Raksha Bandhan, I’ll show you what I can make, have and do.” Trust me, nothing scares the average Indian boy more than the ‘rakhi.’ So next time, don’t hesitate to tear your dupatta in full Hindi movie heroine style to tie the piece on your suitor’s wrist. But hey, don’t forget to let him know which tie it is.

I don’t have any brothers. But I still bought ‘rakhis’ for my neighbours and football partners, and ruined some pretty good cases for myself. That happens a lot in India, don’t you think? Flashback hormone ridden High school. Boy meets girl, or in another version, both grow up in the same school. You can see air molecules dance to romantic Bollywood numbers whenever they meet. Wit b-boys and bounces off their tongues whenever they talk. Their eyes twinkle and shimmer when they greet each other. And lo behold, one fateful day, the girl ties a ‘rakhi’ on the boy’s wrist. Its like a bad ending to a good movie. And why would they do that? But you can only realize with jaw dropping disappointment that they don’t know that they have chemistry. And now that the ‘rakhi’ has been tied all possibilities in those directions just got strangled shut.

Not always though. Did I ever mention that I belong to Tezpur? Its a small town in Assam, but if there ever was a romance ridden place on the planet, its Tezpur. The escapades that take place there are unbelievable. Someday I’ll write a piece on that place. I owe my birth place that much. For now, just one story. This girl who was taking private tuitions from a young fellow was getting rather interested in her lessons. The tutor seemed eager too. The girl’s parents, (they were after all Tezpurians) smelled a pretty amorous rat. They promptly made the girl tie a ‘rakhi’ on her tutor’s wrist and then breathed easy. The years passed. The lessons continued. The girl finished her studies. She and her tutor sadly parted ways. But as the girl’s parents now looked for a suitable groom for her, they suddenly came to know that the young tutor now had a steady government job. Suddenly, he became a prospective bachelor with a decent income. They decided to untie the knot that broke their daughter’s heart, to tie another. Those two are a pretty happy couple even now, with beautiful kids and all.

I guess Destiny does intervene when presumptuous human beings are creating ways to stop evolution. So girls and boys, choose the knot wisely: sainya or bhaiya!!

Coorg: The House of Clouds

The rain bugged us all throughout our trip to Coorg. But hospitality reined too. A few adventures were inevitable.

On our way to Madikeri, we stopped for a quick lunch of momos and noodles at Bylakuppe, surprisingly the largest Tibetan settlement in Asia. I was smitten by the absolute brilliance of the architecture of the Golden temple.

And nothing prepared me for the beauty and the peace inside the main temple. Its a huge hall with three golden statues sitting in repose. Pin drop silence is maintained, and I could swear there was a halo around the statues. I mean, I didn’t have to use flash in my camera!

We arrived at our resort amid a drizzle, which never really stopped till we stayed there. As we waited for the formalities to end I started exploring the place. The architecture adopted by the Mahindra resort here is of course Coorgi. They have a delightful reception area, with a sky light that opens on top of a square pond. It dawned on me that I was not responsible for clothes in the wash, for breakfast, lunch or dinner, or cleaning the house for the next few days. Empty mind is a devil’s workshop. Mine became that now. But not quite. “Life me aaraam ho to ideas aate hai,” is better.

Anyway, I took a flight of steps to look around at the scenery. I was coming back towards the square pond when I suddenly thought of this entire place being owned by a rich pre-independence era family. And their daughter, brought up in a modern way, educated in Oxford, is to marry a rich man. I imagined her standing on the top of the stairs frowning into the rain, as she thought of this man – handsome, kind, gregarious. She had said yes to him, albeit a gnawing in her heart. What of that other man? Hadn’t she outright rejected him? A poor, selfless freedom fighter. The only promise he could give her is professing to love her for the rest of his life, which might be cut short if he carried on with his activities. The answer was very clear. She knew the right person to marry. Yet, she frowned into the rain.

Sorry to break your reverie, but that’s how far I got. Coz with a squeal, my son came running at me. I picked him up and said, “Ok, I choose you.” He giggled and kissed my face till I asked him to stop slobbering me.

We just relaxed around that day, discovering that food was as expensive as diamonds there. And the 55 rupees coffee tasted awful. We headed towards town in the evening for dinner. We found a cozy little restaurant called The Coorg Cuisennette. We wasted no time in ordering the famous pandy curry and bamboo shoot curry, and along with them came kodampattu - the cutest rice balls I ever dug my fangs into. So day one was pretty satisfying. Burp! Oops sorry.

Next morning we discovered that I forgot to pack my husband’s jeans. He was now stuck in his three fourths, and no jacket. Coz, he had only brought along a warm corduroy coat which would definitely not look nice without a full length trouser type. Ducking from his dark looks, I donned on my own stuff, complete with matching muffler and leather jacket. He glared at me as I preened in front of the mirror. “From next time, do your own packing,” I hissed, unfazed. Five years of marriage, you see. Honeymoon’s over sonny!

After breakfast, we headed for Abbey falls. Rains are the best time to visit a waterfall, coz they are flourishing with water. After that we reached Bhagamandala, where in stood a three hundred year old temple. Here we could also see the confluence of the three legendary rivers – Cauvery, Kannike and Sujyoti. However, I will just remember the place as the spot where my son fell into cow dung. He has a special talent for these kind of things, and can’t help showing off when an audience is present. We washed him under a tube well, string of appropriate curses ejecting from my mouth with appropriate speed. The rain mocked on.

Farther up ahead, we visited another temple called Tal Cauvery. This is where the Cauvery starts. We were kinda surprised to find no pomp and show here. Photography was banned and there were practically no tourists. Compared to Gangotri, where the Ganges starts, this was really low profile. The rain wasn’t helping either.

Rest of the day was spent splotching in the muddy streets looking at shopping options. I found the market place cute – spices, honey and kokum predominated. The funny thing was there were so many stores selling spices along with shoes. We didn’t get the logic and were too polite to ask. But we made it a point to buy from such a store. Just for kicks!

Next day we reached the Dubaare Elephant Camp after a short boat ride. That was my son’s day. Stripped down to his diaper, he gave the elephants the bath of their lives. He couldn’t stop raving about it even after we came back. We are back in Bangalore now, and the incessant rain is trying hard not to make me miss Coorg. But its never the same.

Rainy Tales

I don’t think there is anyone out there who hasn’t had an incident to remember in the rain. There will be so many stories if we all came up with even one each. I have some pretty nostalgic moments associated.

During my student days in Delhi, I once went to a movie with one of my friends. Coming out of the theatre we realized it was beginning to rain. That was no ordinary rain. It was the first rain that summer, the time being the beginning of June. Of course we danced in it and got drenched. I even broke my sandals while dancing. Its almost a ritual in Delhi to dance and celebrate the first rain, so nobody got scandalized. In fact they joined in. A photographer asked us to give him a few shots, which we being vain creatures did. And what do you know? Next morning, we were in the Hindustan Times, as jubilant pedestrians enjoying the first summer shower. I still have the newspaper. It was quite a cause for jealousy the next day in college.

Hang on. I have one more. This one is mushy too. It was my first official date with my husband. Things started out pretty normal. We met in a café and sipped on cold cappuccinos. I felt absolutely relaxed with him. Which was huge for me. You see, I am normally seen fidgeting around my purse or something with a formidable frown on my face. So I thought, “I can’t love this guy. He is like a friend.” So we kept on chatting till we decided to go to Noida on his bike. On the way it started raining and this guy wouldn’t stop his bike. Soaked to my skin, I swallowed my ego and used his body to shield myself from the cold wind. And which guy wouldn’t enjoy that. By the time we reached Noida, I was pretty mad. I had to go to office for the evening shift. I bought clothes and changed. Grinning impishly this guy kept saying sorry, but he broke my walls. I liked his guts. After we got married, I moved with him to one of the rain capitals. And we still enjoy the rain whenever we have the time to sit together and admire it.

Let me know if you ever had an adventure in the rain. I would love to know your story.