Opportunity, the scribe

My last piece was titled 'Fourth year blues' and true to expectations, the semester has flown by in a haze of coursework and academics. Here I am at the fag end of the term, putting together another piece. With holidays approaching, I still dare to dream of regularity and inspiration.

This piece was driven by the time I spent volunteering this weekend at TiECON Chennai 2014, the state's largest entrepreneurship conference. Wonderful experience, beautiful people inspiring some halfway-decent writing :)

Any incoherence and/or typos to be excused under the large ambit of midnight syndrome :)

-

The massive stone steps of the hall greeted her as she walked in, hassled from a week of classes and hours of running errands. Bag in hand, eyes popping, she struggled to maintain a facade of nonchalance. I must act like I belong, she thought, striding with what she believed as confidence towards the escalators. Things didn’t get easier from there. Chandeliers spreading dim light, a wave of black suits and ties, the quiet murmur of professional conversation. Suddenly, her phone was her alibi, the blank screen a perfect excuse to regain composure. As the rest of them discussed ways to change the world, she sat down, alone amongst the crowd, getting her bearings.
Yet, in every desert, there is hope of an oasis. Within this phenomenon, she found her niche, using the mike and the camera as her armour, protecting her against imagined eyes. She had a reason to stay. She belonged.

Bright lights, brighter eyes

What do I say and who to?
What do I do and why am I here?
Neither branded student nor volunteer, no less.
Alien. Child.
Alien child?
Yet, connections run deep.
Blood is thick.
Aren’t you her daughter, they asked.
Turned out she belonged.
After-all.
Gratitude.

Yes, Uncle

Sorry, Uncle?
How are you, Aunty?
It has been so long!
The stairs were forgotten
Amongst the flurry of
Assumed relations.
Turned out she belonged.
To it all.
Gratitude.

There had been many people asking why she did what she did. Why walk three kilometres every day? Why volunteer with something she isn’t a “part of”? Many days later, in the many lines of midnight conversation with one who many consider ‘celebrity’, between the giggles and chuckles and gentle banter, the answer seemed clear enough.

Yet another line had been scripted on her “Tabula Rasa”, a stroke contributed by each of the Uncles and Auntys, by each of the interviewees, by each letter of the tweets and each word of the phone calls, peppered by the humility and modesty that surrounded her every conversation.

I do what I do to have a say in what gets etched on my blank slate. I script my own story.