Where history cannot rest

Last week the announcement came. House no. 55, 1A main, Stbed, 4th Block, Koramangala is going to get vacated by the end of April 2007. Dishkans are finally leaving the house to, possibly, a younger crowd of bachelors. Its been five long years since the first set of dishkans stepped into it. But the end was not unexpected. It was being made inevitable as, one by one, we chose to take the risk of plunging into marriage and move their lives forward (or whatever direction that is).

The dust. The mosquitoes and the bed bugs (the latter calls for s separate blog!). The drain flowing behind, which Bijunu so lovingly named "Kaalindhi". The paint fall (or snow fall as it was called) from the ceiling when there's rain. The pile of clothes and books on the (supposed-to-be) dining table. The collection of footwear near the entrance. The air or rather the lack of it. Masthan's old scooter and the rats that play with it. The front door lock which taught us many a lesson. The TV that has has spent a good part of its in repair shops and now resting in peace. The stress-tested washing machine that jumps and jerks. The kitchen where many a rat has become a martyr, sometimes after surviving many a war. Well, there are a lot of things that we are leaving behind for. hopefully, the better.

And there is many a thing which is going to be missed dearly. The joy of living together and sharing the experiences. Watching each other's lives curiously as they took their turns and jumps and changed in pace, sometimes trying to influence, support, or interfere with, them. Understanding and accepting how different each of us was, and was becoming, in spite of all the commonalities. The general good-will for each other. The discussions and the debates. The jokes and the laughs. The constant vigil for the next opportunity for a friendly paara. The magnification of even the smallest incidents where the presence of a member of the opposite sex was detected. The nostalgia of our college days. The emotional moments. The occasional flare-ups and restlessness. The games played and matches watched together. The movies (of so much variety) watched and talked about, the music enjoyed, the stories shared. The birthdays celebrated. The photos clicked. Those lazy holiday mornings where the only major activity was eating a good malayalee breakfast. Cook chechi's sambar. Santhachee's midnight tea and biscuits which he made with so much passion (some of us wait till this tea to sleep, while others wake from sleep to have it). The list goes on.

The memories of stbed cannot fade. The stories, which it was never short of, cannot be lost. At the least, as long as we continue to be stbians in spirit. For as stbians we never allow our tiny personal history to take rest. Now and then it was being made and recorded. And when it was not being made its chapters were invoked and re-invoked with joy, interpreted and re-interpreted with interest, and sometimes twisted and re-twisted with malice.

Or perhaps it is the reverse. As long as we preserve these memories, we'll continue to be stbians. For when we recollect we'll smile, and in that smile there's the hint of that often-silent love we have for each other.

Well, there was one emotional proclamation
"Enikku ningalodu sneham maathrame ullu" - Prasanth A.G to roommates. Nov 2001