Gratitude for the constant upkeep of the grounds.

Quite a few weeks ago one of my team-mates spotted me out a shrub on the sidelines of our field. These otherwise thorny menaces which had caused god-knows-how-many bleeding scratches on my ankle when we were busy stomping around the field, kicking around a ball, suddenly seemed like an alien being amidst usual life.

As a child I had read about the touch-me-nots or lojjaboti (Bengali) but cared to finally notice one after all these years. Fascinating! “I didn’t expect it to be so animal-like…” was my first reaction as I watched the tiny leaves shrivel up, up and a little bit more, almost like a worm. It’s bright purplish crimson stems seemed as if blood flowed through them.

I spent a good ten minutes or so, paying the touch-me-nots the much deserved attention but spent longer —procrastinating— penning it down on pixels.

The romantic concept of playing football in the rain has quite a lot of fanfare and I absolutely don’t get the appeal.

Speaking from experience, you can count your lucky stars if match day is on a breezy overcast day — easy on the players, easy on the spectators. Add a drizzle to that and things are still under control. Your boots are wet and you start feeling the chill but it’s all fine.

However, once the heaven’s diapers start to overflow, it’s time to run. The wet ground grabs onto the ball and dribbling becomes impossible, people slip and fall all the time often injuring others, there’s water in your eyes, the wet sand on the ball bruises your skin, every shot on the ball kicks up the muddy water from the field (into your mouth), people splash each other with water and stop taking the game seriously, they jubilantly celebrate missed shots by sliding into the pool of water, the concept of opponents has long dissolved into the same muddy water, everyone’s laughing their asses off, the field quickly becomes a podium of slapstick humor, all the actors enjoying the dazzling absurd, chaotic experience under dark grey clouds. All of a sudden. A blinding bolt of lightning brings play to a halt. The deafening thunder follows. The clouds above have had the last laugh.

Every time I would step on to the Force Traveller back in college, I’d heave a sigh of relief. The satisfaction was instantly doubled when I’d manage to set my bum on a vacant seat.

The trip from NID to IJM was as short as the acronyms but somehow, felt shorter on the days I’d be exhausted from drawing straight lines all day or having toiled at the workshop sanding a piece of teak. These trips, the return journeys, would always be more memorable than the morning ones. Maybe dozing off to the shifting amber lights of the Guntur-Vijayawada expressway felt better than struggling to find a footing, clutching onto your belongings while you’re still munching on the last bit of chutney laden idly.

Towards the end of my four years at college, I had completely switched over to my trusty single-speed, a gift from Mustafa who, after finishing his Bachelor’s degree, left for Delhi and then Iraq. However, the occasional Traveller trips still gifted me a basket of memories, some warm, some steamy, some I barely remember. Now, the Bus Service group on WhatsApp stays relatively quiet, beeping once in a while, serving as a reminder that fewer days remain till it buzzes again — “Buss to IJM!”.