Its afternoon and the heat is seeping in through the windows. I lie in my bed staring at the old fan that sways and creaks at the same time. I think of my summer vacation being spent in an air conditioned apartment and wonder why I could not have lived there forever. The room has taken the color of its curtains and I cannot remember if it was pink or blue. The radio plays old Hindi classics. I hope to fall in love with someone, somewhere at some point of time. I am oblivious to my legal sized notebooks full of class notes barely fluttering to the breeze from the fan. I need to read those if I want to do better than merely passing. But merely passing is fine with me and so I continue staring and listening.
Several years have gone by. Our house actually has air conditioning and the weather is cool. Yet I somehow feel I’m in that room with the fan and it’s so peaceful. The earphones plugged into my ears still play old Hindi classics. The only difference is in the notebook that has been replaced with the chapters in my life that dare not take me to oblivion.
