Summers didn't mean much to me in my growing -up years in Shimla,except a rather thick rush of tourists there.A few years later as a student in Chandigarh I enjoyed bounties of the hot-indian summer to the fullest for the first time.Mangoes,watermelons,ice-creams,evening walks,tall shakes,shorts and spaghetti tops.The minuscule room in hostel was barely a palace of dreams with the loud cooler a constant companion.
The dark but cool corridors of the AC Joshi library in the university ,thickly lined with volumes of wisdom was the oasis, other than late night chats on the lawns with my friends.
Now almost a decade later in the same city....things have changed,life has changed, for better or worse I'm yet to decide.Have a home here now,share the AC comfort with my beautiful daughter and husband.There is no worrying for water for the cooler,electricity cut in the middle of the night.Just a longing for a heart -to-heart at 2a.m with a friend,or the mad run on a scooty at 10 p.m for an ice-cream before the hostel gates close.
A strange tug for no mobile times,when waiting for his call on the hostel phone was romance.
When writing meant time alone with my faded diary.
I know it is unfair to weigh one period against the other...what are memories for...
and who knows next decade on something more technologically advanced than a blog i'll tell you about my 2011 in chandigarh.
The dark but cool corridors of the AC Joshi library in the university ,thickly lined with volumes of wisdom was the oasis, other than late night chats on the lawns with my friends.
Now almost a decade later in the same city....things have changed,life has changed, for better or worse I'm yet to decide.Have a home here now,share the AC comfort with my beautiful daughter and husband.There is no worrying for water for the cooler,electricity cut in the middle of the night.Just a longing for a heart -to-heart at 2a.m with a friend,or the mad run on a scooty at 10 p.m for an ice-cream before the hostel gates close.
A strange tug for no mobile times,when waiting for his call on the hostel phone was romance.
When writing meant time alone with my faded diary.
I know it is unfair to weigh one period against the other...what are memories for...
and who knows next decade on something more technologically advanced than a blog i'll tell you about my 2011 in chandigarh.
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