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Audio Theme  : Ilk Opucuk |Erkensi Kus|

https://youtu.be/tWEW-kp_iqY

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07 | Dear Diary (11/05/2007)

11 May, 2007

Friday,

4:15 p.m.

Dear Diary,

As I sit here, under my hideout, hiding like a ninja from her all-seeing eyes, scribbling my genius thoughts for you to sift through, I watch her ensconce herself under the enormous deciduous tree, skimming through her schoolwork with a Nataraj pencil sharpened from both sides, faster than a cheetah on roller skates.

It's summer again.

And like they do every summer tide, the flowers in that canopy of bright emerald foliage that she at all times sits under have blossomed again—its flowers are scarlet like the blazing flames of fire, yet so soft and sublimely mellow, just like the cerise dungaree she is clothed in today.

The pint-sized monkey with pigtails has shot up like a weed and packed on some 'extra pillows' over the last four years, but to me, she's still a pocket-sized chipmunk. Her fluffy black pigtails? Still rocking those polka-dot scrunchies like a fashion icon!

I find myself watching her as she scratches her head with the intensity of a monkey in a banana factory, trying to remember where it left its banana, clearly lost in the nonsense she's scribbling in her notebook. One thing I've noticed time and again is that when she writes, her hands move across the page like a cheetah chasing its lunch. I can already assume her penmanship is a train wreck, despite never having laid eyes on it.

These days, almost half of the pages of my exercise books are practically a gallery of her doodles. On Tuesday evening, while I was once again sketching a barely recognizable fat little doodle of her in my notebook, Nirjhara waltzed into my personal space with her Complan mug dangling from her fingers like it was a trophy. As she attempted to sneak a peek at my notebook, our little Miss Lilliput managed to trip over a football that was just minding its own business by my chair leg and executed a perfect dive into my laundry bag—headfirst, of course. Not that I'm bothered about my laundry bag's dignity. 

That little brat could roll around in a tub of cow dung, and I wouldn't bat an eye. But here's the kicker: that Complan mug, just like its clumsy owner, decided to make a dramatic entrance onto my head too. Luckily, my skull survived the encounter. Medical bills are skyrocketing these days, but hey, who's counting?

Honestly, I wasn't losing sleep over my hair smelling like a dairy farm for a full day. But the tragedy of my notebook? That's where the real pain lies. My precious doodles, painstakingly created, were now marred by some blackish-brown malt stains. Forget cute sketches; my notebook now resembled a cow's art project gone horribly wrong. 

If that wasn't enough, instead of saying sorry, that clumsy little twelve-year-old rodent of a sibling dashed out of my room with my notebook in her frog-like hands like her backside was on fire. She even had the audacity to tell Dad that I was doodling some ridiculous thing called Powerpuff Girls in my notebooks.  And the next thing I see is Dad scrutinizing me as if I were a raving lunatic who had hightailed from a mental hospital.

Sometimes I think about packing up both my siblings and shipping them off to some faraway grassland in Africa via FedEx. And no, I don't feel guilty about it because that's where wild animals are meant to be, right?

Coming back to the little girl with pigtails, I peer at her as she keeps her notebook back in her Ben-Ten bag, and in place of it, she takes out what I guess is a packet of biscuits. It seems like a four-rupee pack of Parle-G. At home, fresh groceries are stocked in the pantry every morning by the head of the housekeeping staff, so how do I know the rate?

Well, I sneakily bought myself a packet of those biscuits from a local store, which is roughly a hundred meters away from the park. None of the security men came to know about my secret expedition to the grocery store, though, courtesy of Karim.

Little Miss 'Pigtails' then tries to open the biscuit packet, first with the help of her squishy pink fingers. It doesn't help her much, though. And then she uses the ultimate weapon—her teeth. Clenching the edge of the packet between her teeny-weeny incisors, she tears open the pack. Alas! The poor little Parle-G packet rips apart into two as all the rectangular-shaped cookies inside it tumble down on the ground next to her knees. The ground beneath her is covered with the fiery red blooms of the elephantine Gulmohar tree, which she always takes refuge under in the evenings.

I observe her as she advances her right hand to pick up the biscuits from the ground but then retracts it back. She proceeds to perform the same action twice but then eventually gives up, leaving the glucose crackers to the will of the ants residing on the Gulmohar tree—a contemplative expression marring her round face. And once again, I discover a new fact: Little Miss Pigtails is a cleanliness freak.

Good for her, unlike my siblings, whose rooms look like garbage dwellings from the Ghazipur landfill.

And then, in a flash, as if sensing someone's unwavering gaze on her, she averts her eyes to peek in my direction, and as if hit with an intense strike of lightning, I almost try to shove myself completely into the hollow of the old red maple tree I was sitting under.

A few hidden glances and peeps later, I find that little Miss Pigtails has diverted her attention back to her elementary school textbooks. With this, I recoil back to my initial position and then carry on with the purpose I am here for, which is intently gazing at her weird self.

It's weird that I notice so many things about her almost every alternate day, yet two things that have been constant throughout these four years are

1. I am still not aware of her name.

2. She is still not aware of my existence.

Wonderful, isn't it?

Over time, she has grown quieter. She no longer has as many friends as she had two years ago. She no longer plays at the park in the evening. Instead, she comes here and sits under that same old tree every afternoon until sunset, scribbles down her homework at the speed of light, feeds on whatever little snacks she brings along, and occasionally sips water from her gigantic Cool Captain water bottle, which dangles around her neck and is almost half the size of her body. Almost half of the time, the water spills on her face instead of spilling into her mouth.

I redirect my eyes to the sky and find that it's about time for sunset. The lush verdure above me rustles as a strong gust of wind sweeps in. Reddish-yellow and brown-hued maple leaves start falling on Earth just as I glance back in the other direction to find that little Miss Pigtails is trying to catch the Gulmohar flowers cascading down on her due to the wind. Soft giggles escape her lips as she jumps on her feet to catch a blossom. A bright rubicund maple leaf descends down on my left palm precisely when I see her grabbing one of the numerous flamboyant blooms falling from above her.

I have a leaf on my left palm, and she has a flower on her right palm—both red, as if two pieces of the same puzzle. I smile, looking at her, while she smiles, looking at the Gulmohar blossom on her palm.

Oh yeah, I guess I forgot to tell you, dear diary, but there is this thing that I discovered long ago.

Little Miss Pigtails likes Gulmohar trees.

Signing off,

Dev. D

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Target : 300

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