A lasting impact

Oh al right, agreed! It isn't polite to ignore those few individuals that visit your world. I cannot ignore you.

I haven't many humorous anecdotes to share, thus if you were in search for them, flutter away. Though I'm not exactly forcing myself to blog at present, I am making an effort.

The thing is, when you live in a hostel room, all that exists between one wall and another comprises 2 beds, 2 cupboards, 2 study tables (one of which is very messy, i.e., mine) and other little bits. The centrepiece is a wi-fi enabled lappietoppie. And when there is very little of other things to do on a lappietoppie, one logs on to Blogger and writes stuff and nonsense about one's tiresome modus vivendi. It's a very small world.
At home, all the things above reduce to one in measure along with a sister who hoards the internet connection at all hours of the day, thereby incapacitating Yours Truly to write to you all.
But today I have garnered the opportunity to acquiesce to your demands and shall comply.

As mentioned before, I have no outrageously uproarious events to relate, but a few less hilarious ones nonetheless.


1. The first occurred on my first day in Delhi. Scandalised by the weather conditions that I discovered upon stepping off the airplane, I vowed to discover an institution that would admit me during the day, allow me to loll about till evening when I could return home once the heat had subsided. Of course, the institution had to be severely air-conditioned.
One such inst. was the British Council Library. I discovered it as a viable option as it lay near the Metro track. Thus, I'd move from my air-conditioned house to an air-conditioned train, into an air-conditioned library, return to the air-conditioned train and back home when the weather was less exacerbating.
So I was returning from the library, with a brochure in my hand, walking towards the train when I chanced upon an old acquaintance from school ahead of me. This individual I had worked with in an event at school, and was not particularly fond of. I wouldn't have minded saying hello to him had he not been walking like a constipated chimpanzee, flirting aggressively with his companion.
As he was moving rather slow and I couldn't overtake him without being noticed, I crossed the road and began to approach the train from the other side.
And so I was trudging along when I happened to approach 3 gentlemen (approximately my age) who stood conveniently on my path. One looked right at me and I observed on his face, an expression of joy and jubilation, the sort one bears upon discovering an old friend.
"Dhruv!?!" he cried in joy. I smiled back, said hello and we spoke for 2-3 minutes, updating each other about where exactly it was that our lives had led us.
Eventually, I bade him goodbye, almost promising to meet him again. We didn't exchange numbers so I doubt he believed me.
As I walked away, I wondered if I had ever seen him before. His face was so refreshingly unfamiliar, I was truly puzzled. But since he managed to recognize me by name, I supposed he was not a total stranger.
Oh well, I suppose I touch people's lives such that many years after I have forgotten them, they still smile upon beholding my presence.

2. The second incident occurred two days ago. Having developed an interest in theatre over the past year, I agreed to attend a play with my father staged by the National School Of Drama. Though it was in hindi, I chose to risk it, and it was worth. The play titled Kafka - Ek Adhyay (meaning Kafka - A Chapter) was based on German writers Franz Kafka. The experience was entertaining owing to the German setting, costumes, short and awkward choreography and a brilliant portrayal of the lead actor's youngest sister Otla a lady whose name I don't quite recall. Her dialogue delivery and presence was so awe-inspiring that I was enamoured.
Caught in the enthusiasm of the experience, I was talked into attending another play 2 days later, an immensely popular musical titled "Ghansiram Kotwal." I'm sure the play lived upto all expectations. But owing to the Marathi-Hindi spoken for most of it, I did not understand a word.
I would've dismissed the 2 hours as wasted had it not been for a short moment that I shared.
It was any other dull scene, as incomprehensible as any other. On the stage were countless actors, one of whom was beloved Otla, who played minuscule parts in that drama, possibly owing to her inability to speak an archaic language. Having sung her lines, she stood in position, frozen. Possibly by chance, her gaze was directed towards me. Our eyes met. Mine were locked. And she smiled. A toothy smile.
Every time she appeared on stage after that, I observed her. She did not smile again.