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Word Count : 1000

Song : Her eyes, her curls, her smile  | Hridayam |

https://youtu.be/iCvqHB-gBm4

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32 | Dear Diary (13/05/2013)

May 13, 2013

Monday,

4:00 p.m.

Dear Diary,

Breaking my decade-old chain of visiting the maple tree grove only on Sundays, Fridays, and Tuesdays, here I am, on a regular Monday, hiding cautiously under the familiar old canopy of vivid reddish-orange maple leaves, hoping to finally invoke some happiness in my eyes with a glimpse of her-after four long years.

The hollow of the old red maple tree doesn't exactly welcome me into its tiny-looking, humble cabin with open arms, courtesy of my extremely 'tiny' body structure. But then, I shamelessly squeeze my generous twenty-two-year-old derriere inside its compact embrace, while the other parts of my body, along with my head, spread outside the hollow like the tentacles of a half-dead octopus.

To someone erect on their feet far away from the maple grove, it will more or less appear as if I am defecating the remains of overly 'tasty' and dehydrated kidney beans my mother cooked yesterday night inside the poor little maple tree hollow.

Anyway, now that I am quite 'comfortable' in my hiding place with my diary and a pen in my hands, my specs-enhanced gaze falls on the bright emerald foliage of the Gulmohar tree around seventy to eighty meters away from me.

But I don't see her under those Gulmohar blossoms.

She must have grown up a lot in these four years. I am myself done with my four-year tenure in that mental asylum and will head for another loony bin meant for nutcases interested in business management in a few weeks for another two years. So, little Miss Pigtails must be no different either-she too must have grown up.

Coming out of the memories of the mental asylum I have recently graduated from, I hear loud giggles from a certain distance away from the Gulmohar tree.

And, so, like the goddamn idiot it is, my heart suddenly decides to run a marathon out of nowhere-Bravo!

I re-adjust my specs, scratch my warm and tickly cheeks, and diligently focus my eyes on the site under the Gulmohar tree once again.

But what I see there sets the gray matter inside my skull on a running spree-three young feminine figures of almost the same height and same build, with the same-looking pigtail hairstyle, rushing towards the Gulmohar tree from a maple tree nearby on the other side.

I instantly recognize the figure in between. A black dungaree and a white shirt are what she is dressed in. Along with my cheeks, my cold and sweaty hands and my chest are both abruptly engulfed in an unknown warmth.

What's with the damned temperature these days!?

Somehow, with great difficulty, I glance at the other two girls. The one on her left side is dressed in a brand new flowy red dress, while the one on her right side is clothed in an ancient-looking and linted frock.

Little Miss Pigtails has finally got some friends?! Great.

But what is with this Ctrl C + Ctrl V shit?!

Why do all of them have the same hairstyle and somehow almost the same build too? But not the faces, though-thankfully, they are different.

I watch on as all three of them ensconce themselves under the cool shade of the Gulmohar tree and start their talk about some gibberish that my poor ears are not able to hear at all.

In between their little play session, the little ladies group commences with its little tea party, consisting of three packets of what looks like blue lays, some brand of cookies, and a huge bottle of water-all of which were stored inside the bag that Miss Pigtails was carrying along on her shoulders all along.

I go through this sudden urge to hit the girl in red dress right on her coconut head when she snatches a piece of cookie from Miss Pigtails while she looks on with a funny-looking pout.

That was not funny at all, young lady.

It was Miss Pigtails, and that is why Miss Red Dress survived. Had it been me from whom she would have snatched that cookie, I would have straight away carted her to the doors of Satan's playroom.

Come on, I am very particular about my food.

Amidst all this, my gaze falls on the girl in the yellow dress. She guffaws loudly enough to summon a few hyenas and a few ghosts from a graveyard ten kilometers away from here, while munching on the potato chips in her hand.

Very unladylike.

All at once, I feel a certain kind of piercing coldness on my head and shoulders. I look up-it has started raining. The winds blow vigorously, prompting me to shift my gaze to the little tea party in progress under the Gulmohar tree. And, not much to my surprise, the Gulmohar blossoms have begun falling on the ground again.

I see Miss Pigtails laughing and dancing under the tree along with her friends, and I instantly feel my lips faintly turning up.

Back in ninth grade, while preparing for an essay competition, I came across a word called 'halcyon'. Eight years down the line, here I am, realizing the fact that this scene unfolding in front of me-this very scene, where her serene giggles are the only thing that are falling on my ears and vibrating through the warmth of my chest-is the true definition of 'halcyon'. Come and go may how many struggles in the time ahead, this scene shall remind me of what peace feels like.

It also suddenly appears to me that their friendship has made little Miss Pigtails a lot less lonely and a lot more happy. I hope nothing or no one jinxes their friendship-ever.

Signing off,

Dev D.

P.S.: Of all the recent events that make me happy, one is getting a glimpse of her after four years, and the second is the fact that my Gulmohar tree back in the grove at the backside of the manor has finally blossomed for the first time.

x x x x x End Of Part I x x x x x




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"And, it begins from here."

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