What shall I tell the author?

There are rough days, there are smooth days, there are rainy days and there are sunny days. And there are just days. And it is during these ‘just’ days that many things happen which we fail to remember. We might have remembered the events if it was a rainy day or a sunny day or a bread-for-breakfast day or something along those lines.

The whole of my school days, mostly, have been these kind of ‘just’ days. I do not remember feeling happy or sad, good or bad, excited or bored. In fact I do not remember feeling anything. Maybe things did happen. Important things which get etched in the fresh minds of the ever-enthusiastic kids. Maybe I did smile at a few of the happenings, laughed at a few jokes and secretly cried at some, secretly cried for other reasons as well – getting 14 on 25 in Maths and fearing the worst of treatments at home, not being able to talk as fluently as the next kid when we fought – but I do not remember any of these happening. Call it bad memory or discretion (I sincerely hope this is not the reason) here I am today liking where I am (‘where’ referring to the stage I am in now, number of years I stand on and also the people I find myself cracking jokes with and getting laughed at).

As often happens in the industry I find myself in, there are patches of time when you are on what is very glibly called ‘the bench.’ I have used this time to ponder about life and its close cousin death. On those days I used to ask my fellow bench-mate ‘Do you wish to go back to school?’ more as a means of trying to make the old onion nestled somewhere deep inside recall my days when the calendar showed less crowded days. If there is one question for which the whole world gives the same answer, I realized it was this one. Well obvi….. he said with a drawl that elicited enough of BP that my ear started turning red. Why is it everyone wants to go back to school? What is it that they had which I did not when going to that old institution? It is definitely not the institution, I am sure of that. This I say with the greatest of assurance because kids who studied with me at school are all members of the club which goes ‘Well obvi…’ or ‘Naturallllllllyyyyyy……’ or something to that effect every time they are confronted with the question. It is me then. Will I remember the days I am living now? Will I also forget these days of glory by the time the sun grows a bit more older? What would I tell the enthusiastic young writer when he/she comes to me begging to be the author of my biography? I do not want to be an imaginative story teller then. The author will then refer to my blog.