Every Teardrop is a waterfall...

I miss home a lot these days. More than evident from my blogs. But I reason myself and calm my nerves. At times I am so unbelievably practical that I surprise myself. Always a voice inside my head kept telling me,

Sar phool woh chadha jo chaman se nikla ,

Kamyabi usse mili jo watan se nikla.

My uncle told me this when I first told him that I will have to move to Bangalore for my job. We, in my family, take immense pride in being practical and independent. And those words just were oil to an ambitious pyre burning inside me. Yesterday night, for some reason, as I cooked my dinner. I again heard those words ring in my head. I smiled softly to myself and went on.

Today as I sat in office, I called my father. Generally I call to discuss if the market is down or if we are playing some real good cricket or some investment plan . But his voice was disturbing composed today.

"Your uncle is no more"

"Why dint you inform me?"

"I thought I will break it to you slowly"

"Ok will call you back later"

One moment of complete void. As if everything around me just froze. Couldn't feel nothing. Lost every sense of expression. I walked to my seat so disturbed that before I knew I was out of office again.

Dint know which way to walk. Dint know whom to call. Dint know what to say . Dint know how to say. As if I were shot in the head by a mind numbing bullet.

I closed my eyes. He is right there. His thick silvery white hair falling over those dark rimmed, big glasses. Him flashing the patent dimpled smile. Sitting on the easy chair in our hall, one hand raised in air quoting his Shaayari, occasionally peeping into the small pocket diary in which he had noted it . His voice as crisp and as cheerful as ever. Those eyes look straight at me. "Show me your Marathi notebook" The most dreaded part of all his visits. Him going through our pathetic Marathi essays. Marathi was always a school-time nightmare. Telling me all the corrections. "Next time when I come, it should be better"

Suddenly, the tears push open my eyelids. And they just keep flowing with no end. I haven't cried so much for years. I wore my specs whole day just to avoid everyone's gazes as I walked the passage. Tried to listen to some romantic , funny , pop numbers . But nothing could lift my spirits up. Absolutely nothing. I have always believed I am emotionally very strong , to an extent of being cold. But it was as if some part of me just died.

I wish he could come back on his old Bajaj just like old times. Sit with all this brothers, chatting over tea, discussing his philosophy of life. Singing aarti with all of us for Ganpati like Chanda kaka. One last chance to tell him, how much I love P.G. Wodehouse just like him. A chance to say my final goodbye.

As for my essays , they will always wait for him ...