It was so familiar a sight, something I had been seeing for years, something a part of my routine, something so customary that it had ceased to be acknowledged, so much there it was that it wasn't there any longer, I never even noticed when it evanesced from my life. I was yet again about to pass by it acknowledging it unknowingly, unconsciously when I stopped dead in my tracks. I stood there transfixed looking down at the white orange flowers strewn on the ground. Harsingaar. It took me a moment to realize that here was a sight hailing back from oblivion. An oblivion I don't recall having entered into. So poignant were the memories it evoked, so intense the recollections that I had an immediate urge to stoop down and collect them. Of all the exotic forms in which harsingaar is quoted, mine is perhaps the most mundane, the most plain. These were just the flowers I used to find sprinkled on the ground forming an orangish white amorphous mesh, inviting us to feast on them. I was too young to fully appreciate the aesthetic aspect of it. For me, they were just pretty, sweet smelling flowers. In fact, even as I picture it now I am left paralyzed when I try to describe it in words. I fail desperately in trying to explain the contrast it presented against the otherwise brown earth. The peace of the sight against the hustle bustle of the kids around. I can just appreciate, revel in a beautiful view but can never recreate it through words to the same effect, much to my chagrin!
Not that the patch was left alone for silent contemplation! It was exploited fully, completely, much to our delight and satisfaction. Not for the sake of the destructive sense of mind kids are generally assumed to possess, but to be put to more gratifying uses! We stringed them together on longest possible sticks( I have no other way of describing what we did!) and gift them to our teachers. I remember the hurry to reach the school compound from the bus stand, the disappointment at finding the best flowers gone and the rest trampled upon. It was lame, stupid, dumb, and innocent, the happiness at being the first one to gift it to our teacher was genuine. There was a feeling of victory against rest of the classmates without a malice. There was no jealousy on a defeat. So innocent a quest, a battle and so pure were the happiness and disappointment likewise! Those were the only times I remember being glad about my relatively short height in the class as that put me near to the teacher, near to my target!
As I forced myself to move on, whole of my school life ran through my mind in an extremely quick flashback…with faces just flitting in and out of my thoughts. So rapid were these recollections that before I could concentrate on one face…it dissolved into another! Among these, the most prominent were those of my teachers. How glad I was of their attentions, of support, of hidden favoritism and of obvious love! I wonder how would I have turned out if not for the teachers I am lucky to have had! I remembered my sheer glee when I was told about my teachers arguing, each claiming me to be her student! Self obsession, narcissism, self importance and words with meaning in the same strain did not exist then. It was just a token of appreciation which spurred me to do better, excel myself and rise up to the expectations harboured by my teachers from me( and teach the ones who did not a lesson!). These fond reminiscences are what still keep me going in the most trying of times.
Coming to college has been good for most of the part but lack of good teachers is what I lament the most of all the grievances I have from this place. After passing out, if I ever get down to discussing the professors, I sincerely doubt if the discussion will encompass anything more than their eccentricities!
Apart from this, I wonder if my college life will gift me with memories so powerful and so moving as the ones by my school life…I wonder if my life here is actually moulding me into a better person? I wonder how has this place contributed to my life, in a good way, leaving aside the friends I have made…have I done anything worthwhile so far!?
On an optimistic note, I wish, pray that this place goes down in my memory as a treasured part of my life! I hope, yet again, that I will be able to retain in my memory all the best times I have had here and am hopefully yet to have!
On my way back I stopped and performed the old ritual again. I was happy, in a way I have not known for a long time now! I wished that this would permanently imprint it on my mind, with no danger of it getting lost irrevocably into the realms of forgetfulness ever again. Yet again, in an desperate attempt to hold on to all the memories…I pray that I am able to remember them all forever!
But I wonder, how many priceless ones have I lost so far….
P.S. I don't think its exactly a comeback…just consider it as a faint sign of life from someone just recovering from a near death experience! This explains the title of the post I guess....