Blue Tiffin-box

That was once rushed affair. That had always been one. Just back from her college, she had rummaged through her whole wardrobe for the want of better clothes to be shoved inside her bag. A spring in every step she had; a song in her heart. She had been packing her bags to go home that day. Going home at that time of the year had always been easy. She could easily manage sufficient leaves to afford enough time to rest at home and enjoy homecoming.

With clothes half folded in her hands, she went inside the kitchen to grab a bite. She opened her fridge and her eyes set on a blue Tiffin box. A deluge of emotions engulfed her and she was swept with memories from two years back, when around this time she had been leaving for her place. Only, she hadn’t been working then. She had been a student. She had been away from her home to pursue what at that time seemed most important to her. And in this most important endeavor of hers, she had struggled to ward off all possible distractions.

Nothing had changed since then. The slight drizzle, a heavy downpour, a soft breeze and a happy heart, all felt the same, even now.

A call from home brought her back to the present. She had been asked to leave early, lest she is hindered by inundated roads and a dead traffic. It had rained cats and dogs that day, stopping only for a while. The voracity of rain had always been overwhelming for her. And to her happiness, the still overcast sky brought with it a promise of more rain. The breeze wafted through the curtains. The mellifluous music blared through the room, stirring up emotions she knew so well ; bringing back memories which have always been priceless.


Memories they were, beautiful and refreshing. Unfading memories. Memories, which mirrored her with herself; which had become an indispensable part of her existence. Memories, in the wake of which, time elapsed only to archive beautiful recollections in the landscape of mind; in the wake of which, the infinite time coyly yielded to the mind; the mind, which had beheld those memories timelessly.

“The tide recedes, yet leaves behind bright seashells son the sand,

The sun goes down, but the gentle warmth still lingers on the land,

The music stops and yet it echoes on in sweet refrains,

For every joy that passes something beautiful remains”

The song and the ambience reminded her of her days as a student living in a clumsy colony with houses colossal and old, yet houses weathered and washed, over the years, by the heavy rain. Lined by contracting lanes and thatched environs was her dwelling. It reminded her of the monsoons when she had stood  perched on the railing of her balcony watching the water drops line  and fall off the edge of the Peeple tree that shrouded her window completely. It reminded her of the water logged lanes below and paper boats that she had made and sailed in her balcony. It took her to the hustle and bustle of students in and around her institute, wading through the waist level waters to attend blue tiffintheir classes; to  the temple nearby and the ringing of the bells every evening. It brought her back the days of the gentle breeze, of the cozy nights and the lazy mornings. It made her reminiscent of her hot pursuit; of the newspapers damp with rain water every morning. It reminded her of the hot mug of coffee she had sipped from; of the hot mug of coffee she had shared with him sitting inside that coffee shop. It reminded her  of the monsoons when he had left her to move to a place where he could fulfill his dreams, leaving behind his memories and that blue Tiffin box.


stutiproffileAbout the author : Stuti Dhyani or the one who finds the world in a grain of sand. To me, she has always been one friend to who I could talk my mind out and who’d patiently listen and would never judge. We met just once, when she lost a bowling game and since the last two years she must be secretly learning to bowl before we meet again. Jokes apart she is as beautiful as her words and you must find her words on her blog - A Grain of Sand.

2 people read and said:

Saru Singhal said...

Oh, Some people can live with memories and how beautifully. There was so much life in the write-up that I was not expecting that ending. The way you used a object to write this post is brilliant and real too. We always cherish the objects left behind by someone who moved on...

A soulful piece and the writing could easily be termed as - poetry in prose!

Rahul Bhatia said...

Stuti, I agree with Saru that if someone is capable of creating a poetry from prose, you can do it! A beautiful writing and hope to see more:)