The Hidden Diary

My room was a mess. Believe me, that is an understatement. It was akin to a journey in time for me in reverse whenever I was forced to clean it up. Mostly by Mom. Or the risk of fresh toddlers who wanted​ to learn about the world with their tongues.

I have a habit that I share with serial killers. I tend to take souvenirs from wherever I go. Usually to remember the happy time. Pity I can't find them when I'm down, but doesn't stop me from doing it anyway. On second thoughts, I think that's what makes my room look like a tornado went over a few junkyards and dropped it all in my room.

Unfortunately, like all good times, it had to end too. The time for college came. I had to clean up my room. Put stuff in boxes and start a new chapter in a new city. I started excavating. Spent about half an hour rereading an old Tinkle with half the pages ripped out be my cat's claws. Another hour collecting all the pebbles, marbles and crystals from under the bed. And enough dust bunnies to give an Olympic athlete asthma.

A pair of ancient skates, a novel that had been so pathetic I had taken a hammer to it's cover, a few tennis balls, an envelope of stamps, a scrunched up poster, a few shells, a necklace from no idea where or when, quite a few notebooks, a single sneaker, a bunch of socks, almost none of them in pairs. They were memories. (Well, not the socks) Now wasted and completely useless.

And the I came across possibly the only  precious find. A diary. My diary.

Let's make something very clear. I don't write a diary. In fact, I can't. I've tried to, and failed repeatedly. On trips and vacations, to store all the little incidents that I'll obviously forget. But this diary had always been different. In these pages was essentially every creative thought I've had. Probably every facet of my soul was put in there. And I'd forgotten about it for almost two years. So I put it in my bag to take with me. There's no way I was leaving it in a box for someone else to find.

So, a few days later, I shift to Mumbai. A new city. New people. New routine. All history forgotten. Time flies and almost a year sneaks past me. The diary has been sitting at the very bottom of my suitcase. As the time for exams drew near, I looked for my notes and in sheer desperation mixed with some parts of thorough irritation, I emptied my suitcase. Out fell the diary. And again. I'm sitting in a mess with the diary.

I opened the diary and started flipping through the pages while sitting in a mess that would earn me a lecture or two. The first few pages had what I used to think of as sass in them. The pages where normal people usually wrote their names and addresses, I'd written snarky and frankly hilariously stupid stuff. For name I'd written," Mommy says not to tell strangers", for birthday,"Today. Where's my gift" and for phone number,"Which one?" It was all childish and extremely juvenile.

That was followed by a few ideas. Those that you'd probably see in science fiction movies. Or you should have seen in sci-fi movies. Like lightsaber knives that give you instant toast and using maglev for skateboarding. Basically all ideas that we'd love to have but can't because of all kinds of reasons. Mostly cost or science. Adult stuff.

That section was followed by perhaps the most unexpected stuff. Most people who know me are  surprised by the fact that I write poetry. Nothing fancy, just four lines at a time that rhyme. Except sometimes, the topics are weird. Now, as my luck would have it, I went through two breakups while simultaneously having the poetry phase. Now that I look back, it was pretty pathetic, but at that point I was crushed. And my poetry reflected it. Some of it was funny. Some of it lame. Some of it was truly cringe worthy.

And then, in the middle of the sappiest section turns out a photograph. Of course. It had to be her. I don't feel the same about her anymore. I still wonder why I did. But now, after all these years, the photograph has changed. Not literally of course. It's been stuck in a diary. But it's not about her anymore. It's about me when I was with her. If it could be called that anyway. I'm perplexed. Do I keep it or throw it away?

I don't have an answer, so I do the next logical thing. I turn the page with the photograph and keep reading. A few pages later the poetry just stops. I know why that happened. It's such a simple thing actually. I started my tutions for JEE preparations. I didn't realize it then, but I haven't written poetry since then. The closest I ever came was when I had just freshly shifted to Mumbai and was sitting depressed on the Marine Drive. Talk about clichés.

I keep staring at the blank pages after that. There is nothing else in the diary apart from a few attempts at cartoons and a list of novels I wanted to read and a few preserved letters that I couldn't bring myself to read.

It is only when I close the diary that I realise. I am no longer the person who wrote this diary. I have changed in a subtle but fundamental manner. I'm more sarcastic, cynical and laugh a lot less than I used to. I read less then I used to. I find fewer things fascinating and intriguing. I barely even have ideas of late. Is it just that I grew up? Or am I doing it all wrong? The notes lie there, as forgotten as they had been an hour ago. Lost in a mess once again, like the me from 3 years ago.