Life Scripts

                I walked alone in the long corridors of my college, my Alma Mater where I learnt many things beyond the meaningful lectures and heavy text books that gave us sleepless nights before the examination. It was here I learnt lessons from the syllabus of life. For a girl like me, studying in a government college was a wholesome experience. It was in this corridor that I learnt that there was no harm in shaking hands with guys, girls and boys could be good friends, love does not mean marriage always, laughing means join the group even when you are being laughed at, style means mis-matches, doing something means doing in forty five different ways, politics means not just government, and still many more things. A breeze swept past my face and I felt fresh like never before. The air was pregnant with the smell of ripe mangoes and dusty passages. The silent reminiscence of echoes of strikes and cheers suffused into the warm summer afternoon. Dry leaves came in and went out as they pleased. I tried chasing some of them like a wild cat. Little pleasures of life never die. It is just that you hide them from people around. I confirmed no one was around and chuckled to myself.

                I opened the old tap in the corner of the corridor. A rush of air. Two drops of water. Some strange sounds and then in slow intermittent style, drop after drop, water filled the cusp of my palms. Water that smelt of rust. I closed the tap and walked towards the grills that separated the main block from the Arts department. I placed my hand bag on the floor and stepped near the grill. I placed my hands on the grill and shook it slowly. I squeezed my hands through the iron gaps and extended them to the other side. Was I expecting someone to come and hold me? “Is anyone there?” I raised my voice to the empty corridor and classrooms.

                I walked back. Took my bag and hung it on my shoulders and walked. I listened to the voices within. Voices from a distant past. I could hear someone quoting Shakespeare, someone teaching Indian National Movement, someone reading from Shakuntalam and someone scolding someone for some reason. I sat on the steps leading to the first floor. From a half opened window of a class room on the ground floor, I could see rows of benches and desks. I remembered how Arathi, Sujatha, Savitha, Roja and myself would accommodate ourselves in the third row. Being tall, I would sit at the end of the row with my legs stretched outside the desk. Smell of Sujatha’s sambar would drown our taste buds. How we would yearn for the bells that never sounded when we wanted them to. I still remember Rajitha madam’s sarees that were topic of our endless discussions. The dark green saree, the golden saree, the pink one. Ravi Shankar sir’s two hour classes always had a movie effect. He dared us to think beyond the ordinary and I dared to adore him secretly with all my heart.  Jeera’s jokes, Kiran’s songs, and everything about Arjun. I felt lost in the flood of flashing memories. I took out my mobile and dialed a number. No response. I got up and continued climbing the stairs. Madhavikutty’s lines still adorned the walls and I laughed at myself remembering Athira’s comments when I had once read them loud, “Hey girl, what is this. Read it romantically. Not as if you are asking for vegetables from the grocer.” The grills were locked at the top of the stairs as well.

Through the locked grills, I could see the grand old library smiling at me. I thanked him with all my heart from behind the bars. The library was like a grandfather to me. He taught me to smell books, feel their pages, run my fingers through the dusty binds, sleep peacefully while sitting in a chair, get myself lost in innumerable stories, squeeze silverfishes with pens, maintain silence, scribble wild thoughts, pass chits, laugh within, exchange glances, to search for the I within me and above all to be what I am today. They call me a writer. I don’t accept that tag. I do what I love the most. I write. I borrow from my life, your life and their life. I want to be known as Surabhi. Who is she? A dreamer? A borrower? I don’t know. The prizes I have won are worth my characters and the lives they have lived. What if I could be one of my characters? I could steer myself and know where I am heading to. Be the author of my own life-script. I don’t know what was stopping me. Not memories in these old corridors. Not the bespectacled lanky guy who ran into me years back in this stairs and shouted into my face, “Can’t you just give way and walk, sister?”

I pulled out the sheets of paper from my hand bag. I did not feel like yelling at my parents who found me a gentleman from the west. I felt like telling them a sorry. I felt like apologizing to my husband. I looked at my mobile. No return calls. I took out my pen and sat down on the stairs. I spread the paper on my lap. There was no need to read through the entire document. As it said, it was by mutual consent. I looked through the side glass on the walls. The hot sky in its entire expanse stared at me. A bird was flying low as if searching for something. I listened to the voice within me. “Are you sure you are going to be fine?” I recollected the lost expression in those eyes as he asked me this question seven years back in this corridor. But then, I gave him my wedding card and walked without replying. I did not have an answer at that time. Only questions. But now I had an answer, “Yes, I am.” I signed Surabhi at three different spots in the documents. I had signed the bond of freedom from fragmented dreams and suffocating conversations, from sindhoor and helpless identities, from locked rooms and air conditioned bedrooms, from crusts of bread and pressed linen, from cocktails and Jacuzzis, from Manhattan and perfumes.

I hopped down the stairs and ran through the deserted corridor. I shrieked, hooted and screamed. As Gopalan chettan, the good old guard came searching for me, I pushed a few notes into his hands and shouted, “I’ll be back.” I was panting when I reached my car. I unlocked the car and sat in the driver’s seat. I tried to compose myself. But I was crying like a child.