Rapes Are Not Going To Stop.

Its as simple as this. Rapes are not going to stop. No matter how many rapists you castrate and how many women you blame. No matter how many women start dressing 'decently' (whatever that means) and how many of them stop coming out of their homes altogether. No matter what the degree of punishment is. Rapes are not going to stop. 

I am not being cynical. This is THE truth. This is the truth because clothes, location, timings and sexual fulfillment have absolutely nothing to do with rape. This is the truth because the responsibility to protect can also turn into the freedom to oppress. This is the truth because we continue to assign roles of power differently to people of different sexes. This is the truth because justice has slowly been taken over by the idea of revenge. BECAUSE UNLESS A RAPIST'S CONSCIENCE FORGIVES HIM, TRUE JUSTICE CANNOT BE SERVED. This is the truth because sadly we raise our boys differently from our girls (or non-boys). And after all of that we go ahead and solely blame the rapist for his crimes. What about the people who turn him into a rapist?

And so rapes are not going to stop. Not unless we raise our children as children and not as boys or girls. They're not going to stop unless we teach our children to start respecting people for who they are; however different they may be from ourselves. They're not going to stop unless we tell our kids that our gender does NOT dictate our identity or our actions. They're not going stop unless we completely separate the idea of 'Power' from that of Gender'. Completely. And they are not going to start unless we start applying this into our own lives irrespective of what others say or do. It's as simple as that. And yet, it isn't.

Take my word on that.

Reflection.

When I was seven I fell into water once. The water pulled all of me in.
Literally and otherwise too.

The swimming coach managed to bring me up and back but not in entirety.
A part of me was left behind in the depth of the dark shadows of the water.

When I was seven, I was split into half.

I am terrified of water even today, especially from a height. I know what it is capable of.

When I was seven, I learnt what incomplete meant. And I did not have to look into the dictionary.
Life teaches you things that the dictionary doesn't have space for.

And then, I grew old. I trembled with fear each step of the way up.
The water seemed farther away but it was still calling unto me. OR, was it the water that was calling?

I haven't made my way down yet, I am scared of the depth. No matter how far I am, when I look down I still see the other half. I try to give it a hand and pull it up  back but I am unable to reach.
I guess I need to go down further.

But, I am very scared of slipping in. It's tricky you see.
Incomplete, is a little better than nothing.

How To Make a Dreamcatcher. :D

Sunday enthu-cutlet-ness put to use in making mini Dream-catchers. :D

(Disclaimer: I failed miserably the first few times till I finally got a hang of the weaving. Therefore, I suggest keep chocolate and your favourite music handy. Good company and occasional help from Pinterest also worked for me. Perseverance, my friend, is the key.)

So, here is a step-by-step with pictures of how you can make these gorgeous little things.

STEP ONE: Gathering materials:

I pretty much used Jugaad throughout. There are only three to four materials required:

1) Any sturdy hoop. (You can use wire to make your own. Make sure to cover it up with lace, so it looks pretty.)

2) String/ Thread (a needle may come handy)

3) Feathers and Beads to decorate.

STEP TWO: Weaving the web:

(Step two originally is making the hoop, but since I had a ready-made one, I am skipping it. You can use Step two on this webpage to create one from scratch)

1) Imagine you are a spider. I read it on YouTube and trust me, it helps. :D

2) Now, choose a point on the hoop and tie one end of the string in a knot. Stretch the string to another point and loop it around the hoop - you can refer to the picture below. It is prefered that you do this in a clock-wise direction.

Keep doing this till the entire circle ends. Make sure that the points are equidistant from each other. At the end of this step, my bangle cum dream-catcher looked like this:

3) Continue weaving the web by making loops on the the base strings. The loop needs to be in the center of the base string. You can have as many rounds of loops on your web. The tiny loops might need you to use a needle to pull the thread in and out.

4) Insert a bead into the thread and secure it by knotting it properly. I suggest double-knotting, to be on the safe side. And with that, your base is ready.

Ta-da! The spidey thing helped, didn't it?! :D

STEP THREE - Decorating the Dream-catcher:

According to folklore, feathers are used to decorate it. I picked up old feather earrings to get my job done. You need to attach the feather and one point of the base to either ends of a string and you can use multiple feathers. I used only one, and here is how mine turned out.

However, you can use ANYTHING to decorate it. Go crazy, my friend. I checked a couple of pictures on Google, and there were wacky ideas. One of them was an earring holder. I might try my hands on that one, the next time. 

I made two more and actually decorated one of them only with beads. The blue one remains my favorite, the colors just seemed to blend in! 

 I hope this was of help. Thank you for stopping by. : )

Second Thoughts

Guest post by Rekha Kamath

Introduction: This is an account of what happened when four of us (all women), decided to go to Goa on a weekend. Events during our return journey prompted this write-up. Reflecting on this trip brought to my attention a staggering number of moments when I felt anger, exasperation and sadness.

“Why do you need feminism? Why that word?”

“You have all your rights. Why do YOU need to be a feminist?”

“Women like us don’t need to call ourselves feminists.”

“You pseudo-feminist. You don’t have to face half the trouble some other women have to, and you call yourself a feminist?”

Time and again, questions like these get thrown at me. Time and again, people try to convince me that I don’t need feminism. That it’s Wrong (yes, with a capital W) to call myself a feminist. Feminism has become another f-word that shouldn’t be uttered out loud.

Today, if you were to ask me why I need feminism, I would tell you this- It is because I have a meek but compelling voice inside my head, which constantly utters second thoughts. My actions are outcomes of constant tussles with this voice. I shall elaborate.

“Let us go to Goa,” suggests one of my roommates. Long weekend, why not. We decide to bundle up our battered work-stressed selves, and start planning. Trains are booked, buses are expensive. “Let’s hitchhike or figure out as we go!”, suggests N. Sounds exciting, until the voice inside my head pipes up. No, what if we get raped/molested on the way? No way. I book the tickets.

Friends suggest we book our stay when we get there. “I have asked four people already, they all say the same thing.” Okay. Fair enough, people seem to have done this already. It is cheaper for us, and you can’t always trust online reviews of places. Wait. Maybe these people travelled with male friends. Will these places have good toilets? I might be menstruating. Let me take down phone numbers of hotels, just in case.

We get to Goa, finally. We find a hotel, close to the beach. N wants to wear a bikini top to the beach. Pretty, and comfortable. What if someone heckles? Very likely. Indian, wearing a bikini. Well, we don’t care. Screw them.

Later, at the beach, a group of 18 year olds call her Miss. Sexy and try to ram their car into her. I told you so.

Men are clicking photographs of bikini clad women on the beach. I hear comments made on us, on other women. I see cameras phone cameras turning our way too, occasionally. Turn your body. Don’t let them get your face. Warn your roommates. Someone sings a suggestive Bollywood song. Ignore them. Confrontation will lead to ugly defensive fights and eventually labeling you a slut. Attention seeking b***h, they will call you.

Rest of the trip is spent frolicking on the beach, and dodging/tuning out hecklers. She is proud of me. Tired and rejuvenated by the sunshine and sand, we forget the heckling, the “Happy Holi *wink wink*!” remarks, and make our way to the Goa-Pune bus.

Chaos. Where’s our bus? Nobody is picking up our calls. The name on the ticket and the names of buses don’t match. Finally, one enterprising ticket checker helps us. Turns out, Christopher travels possibly had a religious epiphany, and sent Mahakali travels instead. Alright. We made it just in time. The cleaner of the bus is visibly annoyed. He looks us up and down, decides he could afford to yell in disrespect. Forty pair of eyes judge us as we walk in, mumbling apologies for not turning up ahead of time. Notice those eyes darting to your legs? Where’s the wrap-on I wanted you to buy? Oops. Rest of the journey will be spent ignoring stares and remarks.

Men are staring, says A. Ignore. Let them judge. We have practiced and perfected the art of ignoring.

Bus stops at a drive-in hotel. Those eyes again. Ignore this time. Don’t react. Hunger soon shuts her up, and our tired bodies contort themselves back into the rickety bus.

Everyone soon falls into tired slumbers- a bus full of potential contortion artists. A loud bam wakes everyone up, and someone groans about a punctured tire. The painful wait for a replacement bus starts. A group of men station themselves outside our windows, speaking loudly in Tamil. They assume nobody understands their obnoxious remarks, ignorant that yours truly and N speak the language. “Can I ask them to shut up? They are too loud.” True. I cannot sleep, and I desperately want to. But they are a group of men. What if they abuse you, call you names? There are different ways they could make your journey difficult. Let us not mess with strangers.

The replacement bus arrives, and forty adults run towards it, as though the seats would vanish. Everyone is probably occupying the previously allotted seats, I think, following the same serial numbers. We walk in to see a crowded bus, with people occupying any seat they pleased. There are people occupying the seats allotted to us. A woman holding an infant is pleading with a young man for her seat, and he casually remarks, “I wasn’t the first person to change my seat.” His voice progressively gets louder and angrier, and he storms off to the back as I stare in surprise. How easily can you adopt and adapt into someone else’s mistake?

The four of us struggle to find seats, and refuse to sit. The cleaner comes in, as per our request. “This a 45 seater Ma’am, there are 48 of you.” Men push me, to make their way to the back. I voice my refusal. Why isn’t anyone else expressing their annoyance? Forty adults in the bus, and maybe seven of us calling for common sense.

“Why aren’t people in their seats? Please ask them to go back to their allotted seats.” “Ma’am, aap log hi settle karo, humein nahi pata,” the cleaner promptly replies. (Ma’am, you figure that out yourself, I don’t know) “Fine, what happens to the fourth person? We have four tickets and three seats now.” “Driver ke saath cabin mein aa jaayiye!” (You can travel in the cabin with the driver). Alright. My brain mumbles a yes, and I am ready to grab my bags, when she wakes up. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Cabin in the front with the driver and three strangers? NO. If you get groped/molested/raped/abused, you will be called a slut. Your clothes will validate it too. She wins, again. I refuse, take up a seat with another woman, and sit down. The men outside our window are now behind me, being obnoxiously loud again. They snigger at my meekness. It’s okay. Safety first. Ego can wait. A and N struggle to put their heavy rucksacks on the overhead shelves. One of the men remarks in Tamil, “Somebody ask these girls to shut up and sit down!” Giggles and sneers follow, along with loud laughter. Very funny, of course. By passing a veiled comment snidely, you have proven your machismo.

She wants to pipe up, but instead I turn and scream, “I perfectly understand Tamil. Please stop commenting. Please stop commenting.” “Huh?!” “Yeah, please just stop.” Someone repeats my remarks in Tamil, along with a mumbled “They speak Tamil.” Even she has had enough now, for second thoughts are replaced with the oh-so-familiar feelings of anguish, exasperation and disgust. Around me, the obnoxious men have gone to sleep. Am I the only person sleeplessly pondering questions of self-respect? How do you have any amount of self-respect left, after having caused anguish?

For anybody who asks me why I need feminism, this is my reply.

I need feminism because I live in a world where all my actions are governed by second thoughts. Second thoughts that have perfectly internalized sexism.

I need feminism because fear for my own safety has become second nature to me.

I need feminism because if anything happens to me, it is because of my clothes, it is because of my face, it is because of MY actions, it is because I was reckless.

I need feminism because consistently, people tell me sexism is no longer a problem-that women are equal now. That because I was an “equal woman”, I had no right to talk about sexism. That every day, I had to take disrespect flung at me, in whichever form, and shut up. That if I dared to speak up, I would be called pretentious, phony, bitchy.

I need feminism because I am tired. I am tired of fear, disrespect, being judged, being called names, of having to learn to tune out and ignore these.

I need feminism because character depends on one’s actions, not on one’s clothes.

I need feminism because I deserve to feel safe everywhere, in spite of what I am wearing.

I need feminism because everyone deserves to be respected, and sexism needs to be called out.

I need feminism because as a woman with “equal rights”, I shouldn’t have to explain why I am a feminist.

I need feminism because I shouldn’t be spending sleepless nights in anger, while perpetrators of sexism sleep peacefully elsewhere.

I need feminism because I don’t deserve being called one of “those girls”. I need feminism because I shouldn’t have to write three pages on this.

I need feminism because clearly, the society is facing a crisis, where women’s lives are unfairly fraught with disadvantages of varied nature. If you could fix that and then tell me I don’t need feminism, I would gladly agree.

Disclaimer: I don’t mean, in any way, to sound misandrist. If I have come across that way, I sincerely apologize. There is no intention of portraying any one category of people in bad light. Whenever I have used the terms people/society, I have meant both women and men. While much anger has been vented out in this piece, I also fully am grateful to all the good people I have met.

Rekha Kamath is currently a Teach For India Fellow in Pune. She teaches second graders in the PCMC Corporation School. She describes herself as a Development Studies Student and feminist.

This is the link to the original article:

https://www.facebook.com/notes/rekha-kamath/second-thoughts/10151974183846987

I Am Not My Gender.

I asked my class today, how many thought Barbie Dolls were only meant for girls. A number of them put their hands up. Except for a few of them who had neutral or no opinions, everyone cumulatively agreed that boys shouldn't be playing with them. In fact, when Om confessed to having played with them, they laughed. The class also cumulatively stated that girls can't (/shouldn't) play football. When I asked them why (I think they call me 'Why Didi' behind my back), the responses I got, disturbed me. Girls are not strong enough, Bhakti said. Therefore they can't kick the ball, Ekansh added. Krishna said he knows that girls can't run fast. About cricket, Swaroop told me, girls can't lift the bat because the bats are heavy.

A couple of days back, Aditi came crying to me. Harshada had apparently scorned her for having worn 'shorts' one day. Aditi also doesn't go out to play because there aren't any other girls in her colony and the boys won't play with her.

Rohan wants to play with Harshada but is asked to go and play with the boys instead. Om's best friend is a girl and he often complains about how the class is mocking him. Krishna won't wear leggings (a part of the annual day costume) because he thinks only girls wear it. Bhavik won't hold Meenakshi's hand because she is a girl. The class sneers each time I mention how well Pranjal Bhaiya cooks. Boys cant cook, they tell me. They approve of me hugging Veda Didi but hugging Pranjal Bhaiya results in either high-pitched 'HAWWs' or sneaky smiles.

As much as this disturbs me, I dare not judge them. My kids are 7 years old. Some maybe 8. They are unaware of the boxes they've been in and/or have built around themselves. Already. Unaware that this where it all starts - Gender Stereotype.

I don't want to answer the million questions about why I've been talking about these. I am scared. It's difficult. Very. Rather, I don't want them to build more boxes. I don't want to tell them that boys also cook. I don't want to tell them about girls playing football. I don't want to tell them that girls can do 'boy things' and boys can do 'girl things', This is not what I want them to take away.

What I DO want them to learn is that it doesn't matter. That there are no 'boy things' and no 'girl things'. That I am not my gender. That they are not theirs. And while on one hand I am determined to do this, there is a lot of my faith which is being put to test.

It bothers me so much. To anybody who asks me how rape, sexual harassment and Violence against women have anything to do with upbringing and family, this is my answer.

This is my answer as to why I don't believe in capital punishment for rapists. This is my answer as to why rape is more cause than consequence. This is my answer as to how patriarchy is as oppressive on men as it is on women. This is my answer as to why I felt pity more than anger when a fellow biker lurched at me today and broke into a song while I was on the bike with Veda. This - is my answer as to why I feel guilty each time I feel extremely fearful of men around me.

I want to teach my children to make correct choices because of their will. Not because of their gender.

My big plan now, is to just give them as many examples. And let them figure it out by themselves.

Amen.

Nakul.

Ma’am, woh toh pagal hai. Uska dimag kharab hai - the first feedback I get about him from one of the teachers in the school. Everywhere I go, any conversation I have about him, this is all I get to hear. Uska dimag kharab hai, he is an abnormal child. Maushis, Kakas, teachers, staff. EVERYONE. They sometimes make the gesture of pointing their finger towards their head and twisting it when they see me struggling with him in class. I’d like to think they are trying to help me - make a pitiful face and tell me, it’s not your fault, it is his.

The psychology student in me cringes in pain, at first. I do what I can, ask them to speak politely about a child. But that is not the point. Whether or not I try to get all these people to be polite is secondary. The real battle is yet to begin. Inside my classroom.

He enters my class, two weeks after I have started teaching. Apparently, all this while the school has been allowing me to adjust and adapt. I wonder what’s the big deal. He comes up to me and with the widest grin, says, Good Afternoon Bhaiyaa. And at once, the whole of my class is tumbling down laughing. That is when I realize – this is the big deal.

After much thought, I consider my co-fellows’ suggestions, and discuss this in class. It is tricky terrain to walk on, I don’t want them to have sympathy and end up differentiating him. I only want them to empathise. To understand that he has different needs and that it is okay. They are 7 years old, and talking to them about this means putting my faith to test. It takes a long time, for me to get this clear in my head, even longer for them to understand what I am expecting off them. To start with, they stop laughing at him. He is now sitting among his classmates, something very new for him and for others. It’s been a month, and he still calls me Bhaiyaa sometimes. Until one day, when he walks upto me after school and says, ‘didi, ghar pe didi nahi hai.’

With instructions, the rest of my class has started to help him and help themselves. He still shouts incessantly and loves to draw. Publishing is his favourite part of the Writer’s Workshop. By now, he has two best friends in class, and loves them to the core. My class doesn’t laugh at him, but with him. I’m starting to think we are getting somewhere.

One day, during prayer, he jumps out in excitement and manages to push his best friend down the bench. The next day, I am called into the office and told that there has been a fracture and he may be held responsible for it. The next day still I am told he may be asked to leave school. The parent comes and screams at me for having her son sit next to ‘that boy’. A week later I am informed that he has been excused and that he can continue school, though this maybe his last year over here. He needs a special school, they tell me.

I need to keep telling my class time and again, reminding them to help him and each other. This is taking too much time, I think.

Orals begin. I ask my class to revise QUIETLY while I am taking orals. Except for I can hear Ekansh read the poems aloud. I look up, he is sitting with Nakul. Ekansh looks at me, “Didi, I tell Nakul, he learn.”

I call him over for his orals. Good Better Best, he starts. Good Better Best. Om comes over from behind and gives him the book, “See and read, Nakul. Yes, didi? Okay no.”

I smile. 36 tiny little seven year olds have restored my faith in humanity.

Mauna Vratham

The first thing I realized that people always assume that everyone can speak. And once they know you can’t, it turns into pity.

What starts out an attempt to be more self-aware and articulate, turns into a harsh realization. Silence is deadly. To both sides, the one without a voice and the one comprehending.

Silence is beautiful. I walk into a busy market with a bunch of close friends who guide me through every step. In about an hour, they learn my signals and it gets easier for us to communicate. I am getting to self-awareness, I think, at least a point one percent of it. I am extremely conscious, I’d like to say it makes me mindful too. I speak a few syllables by mistake (2 to be precise) and one whole sentence and curse myself for the same. The others say it is okay. I think to myself it is the first time.  I will gradually get there.

People at the market smile at me after they find out, I can’t speak. I’d like to say it is out of kindness. And not pity, but I’ll never know. Some respond to me in sign language. Some don’t respond at all. But all of that, only after I have communicated with them first. If I did not, I wonder if they will know.

I falter. I trip. It takes three times the usual to make everyone understand what I am trying to explain. It takes me a lot of time to figure out, before I start to explain. At some point it gets frustrating. My friends try to be as cheerful as possible. They are always cheerful usually too. At some point, I start questioning myself as to why really am I doing this. It is so much more painful to be silent than being inarticulate ad speaking too much.

But I can speak. God forbid something happens, I can scream. I can call for help. I can sing. I can shout. This is just one evening. Or maybe there are more to come. Silence truly seems to be beautiful.

But is it? In some corner of the world, there is someone for whom this is not just one evening, or twelve hours. For whom this is the way of life. She may not have friends. He may be in deep trouble. She may be crying out loud without a voice. He maybe singing full of love without a sound. Every single day of their life.

I don not now if this has made me self-aware. Or articulate. I don not know if this has been transformational. But has this evening changed my life? Yes, I believe. Yes, it has.

I am loved. And I wish the same for everyone. Voice or no voice.

Peace.

A Lifetime Of Memories

Memories are tricky. To only think of all the memories that this place gave me; makes me so happy, that you can only imagine it must have been a joyride. But it is not easy, to reproduce meaning of how these memories matter to me, these tiny little scraps of paper coming out of everywhere at the most mundane of moments, reminding me of why they were written in the first place.

I have been packing these memories away in boxes now. Not only tiny little pieces of paper in actual light-weight cardboard boxes to save space around the room, but making up these boxes to be stored in tiny little corners of my mind too. Memories. A lifetime of them.

And then they begin to disappear. It scares you, but you were the one who started to store them away anyway, didn’t you? To make space for more. And you think they’ve disappeared until this one moment, you listen to this song, the same ol’ one that you sang again and again and again much to the annoyance of those who never understood how four people could never get bored of the same song despite singing it again and again and again. And there it is - a blast from the past - the cliché, but it hits you so real nonetheless.

You think of the old times and you decide you don’t want to add meaning but just to think of them the way they were meant to be.

The good old times, yes.

Like the very first time we ever walked into the Wine And Beer Shop and the sense of know-it-all-ness with which Ritika asked for ‘3 pint tuborg aur ek bada RS dena’ while Pragya and I waited with as much a petrified look on our faces as the ‘menfolk’ in the shop had. Haha, can you ever get over that feeling?

Or the night spent shivering at the beach, waiting as each minute went by, for the sun to rise. *Chal, aaj sunrise dekhte hain* was the plan, and what we did was sleep under those twinkling stars, some of us. While the rest of them built sand castles. Sand castles, soon to be swept away by those deep, dark waves, whose music you could hear while you slept. And the sun did rise, as we stood mesmerized with our feet digging deeper and deeper into the sand, taking the wind in, pausing life, and when we got back, we gave each other the longest smiles that ever existed in the face of the earth. We knew what meaning that moment bore, for each other and for ourselves.

Of the timeless moments spent in the lawns outside the very red brick walls, with Shubi making Freudian analogies on plucking grass, the countless slip-of-tongues Pragya made. (The multiples of which I did too) Of spending all the free time we had making practicals, cursing practicals yet making them with utmost care. Of when Group B stood by each other, personifying integrity by refusing to make entertainment of another’s life. (Remember that, Andy?) – Of learning how multiple relationships change our attachment style, and not necessarily distort it. Of bearing through the most generalized statements with a heavy heart and yet holding on to what we believed in.

One open cardboard box leads to the other and you find yourself staring at more images from the past. Images you thought had been washed away in time, but have managed to linger on in the midst of the storm.

Like that of the busiest morning, where I managed to sneak out of the most important department gathering to celebrate a birthday. It was difficult to weigh, the priorities but I knew my arrival was awaited by people to whom I meant something. Happy Birthday Kusum, we sang, cake in my mouth, my mind split into the thousand other things that were happening around me. Celebrations are the easiest to forget and the easiest to recall. Be it the numerous celebrations we had as a department or the ones Suversha Ma’am gave us an excuse to have. I am like your Grandmother, she said, and this is my gift to you - A gift I still hold on to dearly, the memory of a day well spent. And of course, then there are bit of papers about the everydays of life. The journals from Karuna ma’am’s class, we all resented back then, we all love to peek into now. How time changes the value of something for us! The support stories from Diana ma’am’s lectures. Her own stories. The breaking of archetypes. The breaking of stereotypes. The whole new world like it was supposed to be. And of course, fearing every moment that you entered late into your Political Sc. class, and still sleeping through it with your eyes open, LIKE A BOSS. Turning into countries to understand IR better, I was THE China, no, if I am not wrong? And Fatimah Russia and Jaya something else. Pragya the facilitator. Funnily enough, things you think you will remember better have faded memories you’re holding onto with both your hands dearly.

The tiny little things. The conversations you had. The unending evenings with Kranti at the Hostel. (Read: Pseudo-home). Trying to hug Shibani every chance you get, apologizing thereafter. The cooking food and cooking up stories with Pragya at HER apartment. (Read: Pseudo – conquered home) Studying for exams together but no not really, rather sleeping through most of it. Watching mundane episodes of The BBT and laughing our heads off. Our affinity to end up in the reference section despite our hate for it. Our first night stay and the conversations we need not remember because what matters is that we had them. Stalking people endlessly. (Baaaani, remember this?) The unplanned for, frivolous train travel and dirty feet at the end of it. Cribbing through PMS, cribbing after PMS. Cribbing all the time. And yet being the joyful lot. Being frontbenchers, being hated by the back ones for it. Clicking pictures ALL THE TIME. (Ishti, we made a deal!)

The difficult times. Getting through the difficult times because of sheer love from the people. Samagam. Montage. Trying yet not giving up. Falling down yet holding each other through pieces. That conversation the four of us had sitting in the lower Foyer. Remember that, the day Samagam got over – Anahita, Sandy, Tvish? The Award. The Dilemma. The Sacrifice.

The places. Café. Nescafe. The red-bricked building. The lawns. The mean cats all over the place. 900 photographs. The college Magazine and the Visitor’s Room (What a memory, ah!), The auditorium, room no. 67, the foyers, the empty corridors. The place I used to call home.

The memory of yourself. Careless. Ambitious. With big dangling earrings and a huge purple file. Surrounded by people who loved you to no end. And by people who loved them too.

The memories are too many. Too diverse. All over the place. The cardboard boxes refuse to shut, even when forced. Tiny bits of paper from everywhere, fly around, settle down on your eyelashes. Waiting to be touched again.