A little girl's dream

I am in a daze. 

I've woken up thrice today from a deep sleep as if I slept through three midnights in a day.

Once on the bus, when it reached Bangalore a few minutes after sunrise.

Once to get ready and go to a friend's place for a ritual, a Hindu occasion.

Once, right now. As the day discusses dusk with the moon, over coffee.

Woke up to a dark room with some sounds of children playing on the floor above. And it was a defined repetitive sound that could make anyone morph annoyance into an expression, plastered to their face.

And all this while, through the sleeping and waking up and sleeping again, my brain has been trying to find the perfect beginning of the piece you are reading right now.

And I haven't found any.

I just have a stack of postcards in my mind, as if it is scattered out of a memory box on a lazy Sunday, at a cleaning hour.

And each one feels like a little girl's dream, a girl who dreamt it in foreign ways.

Postcard 1

The sea shore

Three friends sitting on a slope made of sand. The friend to the right is capturing a video of all that they're feeling and talking about; in grainy frames that will make them smile later.

The friend in between is talking continuously, in sync with the sound of waves. Laughing. Words gurgling. Captivating. Storying. This friend is me.

The friend to the left is gifting the ocean, a sea of silence. A silence that's listening to the sounds around, reading the happiness beside and holding space, like she always does.

As we walked to the shore, it felt like a dragging episode.

Feet heavy with sand inside shoes,  and the light brown sand sinking you in with every step. 

It was effort after effort as we made our way through the carnival-like crowd.

The whole place was lined up with multiple stores selling twistatoes with a different name, burnt corn with green chutney applied generously, bright-colored cotton candy, ice creams, and a stinging fish smell from the seafood shacks, lingering around unveiled.

We reached the shore and I looked for the horizon.

It was missing, like a friend who had evolved over time. Like a friend who you wouldn't recognize because of how much she'd changed.

And that wasn't necessarily a bad thing because when you looked close, you could see that pale blue line still stretching out like a thread parting the ocean and the sky.

But in honesty, they'd merged.

It felt like one cohesive painting of blue ombre, the sky dipping its feet into the sea. And getting immersed completely.

Like an artist poured blue paint on water, and stirred it with a thick paint brush that had aged over years. Stirred mindlessly, to be left with a painting that felt like the infinite end, the edge of the world. As if you were standing on a heart's crevice, at the curved surface of the earth at a sea's distance.

The waves had an unchoreographed dance.

It was a day of high tides and the waves were fearlessly beautiful.

With every rise and sudden dip gushing towards us, I just held my breath tight and prayed for the seawater to take away my fears.

Every time it barged in and sneaked out, I prayed and wished it had taken a part of my worry when it left. And it had.

For a brief time before we started talking, we just stared at the waves doing their dance. The most beautiful dance of nature.

It was like white fire, sprawling up and crashing at your feet in ferocity. 

As if there were mystical dragons living in the middle of the ocean, sending white fire out of their mouths to heal you.

All this must be a little hard to imagine in a way that you makes you feel moved innately, not because I'm not a good writer, but because it needs to be witnessed.

You need to watch the waves playing trampoline and catch me if you can, simultaneously.

It was breathtaking.

I wanted to be the wave. I felt like that big wave in many ways.

I wanted to take charge. Make my own path. Be my own guide. Just barge in and be mindful of my own life.

And the waves whispered as it crashed at the feet of all those lined across the shore, that through this incessant dance of rises and falls in life, you will touch many lives.

After a few deep breaths and staring at the fading horizon, we sat down, philosophy and stories gushing in.

I talked my heart out, was my truest version with these two. Always am. And as I finished completing a story, I love how Praapti phrased it as she held her phone capturing the sea with my voice in the background.

She said

" I love how there are three stories unfolding in this frame.

The waves.

The family in front of us who stood barefoot, feeling the sand beneath.

And you."

It was an epiphany that bought joy.

Postcard two

My relationship with architecture

There is a little bit of context to this, a few days back; Me Ashwin and Chaitra had a deep conversation where we asked each other questions

And I asked them, what is your relationship with architecture ?

Both their answers left me thinking because mine was contrary.

I've always had a love-hate relationship with architecture. Still do.

But that day made me contemplate, especially something Chaitra said," I have never had hate for architecture. I love it despite the suffering. I respect it, it respects me."

And I was taken aback.

I realized that they love architecture just the way I love my words. The way I am in love with writing, It's only love.

And yesterday, as I sat there feeling the salt in the breeze, I realized how much I've travelled because of this course. It has let me do what I love the most in a way no other course would.

And looking back at the first time I visited a beach from college during the first semester and yesterday, there was a huge character growth.

I am a different person now. Architecture has built me in ways I couldn't have sketched out.

In dimensions that can't be drafted.

And my love for it was more intense than the dislike yesterday, and I found myself saying; I wouldn't want to be in any other course.

And that itself was a revelation, something I knew all this while, since 9th grade, I mean that's exactly how I made such a single leaned choice, I always knew I loved it many ways but hadn't acknowledged out loud that I wouldn't want it any other way. 

I wouldn't want it any other way.

Postcard 3

The Bollywood cafe.

We parted ways from the whole group that was walking towards seafood and bars.

I walked with my two friends, in search of a cute vegetarian place.

I took my phone out and searched "Good vegetarian cafes near me"

The first one was appealing. Good ratings and reviews. I handed the phone to Praapti for navigation and followed like a whistle in the air.

We climbed up a flight of stairs painted Black, with a tiny door on the right.

We had stepped into a Bollywood-themed cafe.

This place felt like something out of Ani's portfolio.

There were coloured tables around and a 16 seater high table in the center of the place.

Posters of Sholay, Kooli, Andaz Apna Apna plastered on the exposed concrete. Islands of exposed brick walls here and there. And a quaint roof of wooden logs stacked parallelly like lines taught in a kindergarten.

Red kettles and tea cups stacked up with fairy lights hung above.

Each table had a cute kettle with Bollywood characters plastered on it.

Ours had Dangal, with Amir Khan and his two daughters smiling at us.

Reminded me of my own sister and dad and how I come from a family of dreamers.

How beautiful it is that her dreams are being carried by both Mom and Dad.

It's not a joke to pursue a sport professionally, full-time; especially in a country like India.

She is working so hard to become a grand master, and undoubtedly; someday soon. 

This cafe reflected our personalities.

Real. Rooted. Dramatic. Loving and loved. 

Unlike the cafe diagonally opposite to this, plastered and pretentious like most people we meet.

And it felt beautiful, having our favorite food with the favourite people with a continuous mellow playing of Bollywood music.

It was a surreal Bollywood world within, especially surprising, how it was so settled in such a language-oriented city, lip locked with Nandri- Vanakkam.

Postcard 4

Living the dream

There is something about being a stranger in a city and having conversations with the streets, smiles and stars above; studded in a different sky than the one you've known.

I absolutely love night walks. And I've always dreamt of walking around a new city at night. In an hour when most are asleep and the sea, awake.

Exploring, having long walks in a city that isn't mine, cafe-hopping even after dinner has been had.

And I lived that dream. That dream of wandering towards joy. Surpassing with delight.

Walked on the street with the moonlight painting my nails, the sea towards my left, and an array of cuisines being served in little restaurants to my right.

Most of them quaint and tiny, but so well designed. Utilized.

There is something about breathing another city's air, I think it's the sense of freedom.

The realization that you own this freedom of being able to travel.

And night walks only make it more beautiful with the cold frosting and icing your thoughts, pushing you to write. To twirl around, to own my sentences.

We happened to tumble into this tender coconut store, everything on the menu was made of tender coconut. White brick walls, and extremely cushiony chairs with an artifact of a coconut tree on every table.

I had the best tender coconut ice cream there, melting in our mouths as we savored every bite.

This cafe made me feel happiness. 

Calm and Settled. At peace, like a dolphin smiling.

And as always, I left them a note.

Watching that cafe owner break into an unassuming smile, I knew I had conveyed.

There is a makeshift postcard in Chennai, one I made out of their tissue stack, and it feels like a little girl's dream, a girl who dreamt it in foreign ways.

~Vajj©

Picture courtesy- Pinterest