Ritu Kamra Kumar
Rearranging books in my study, I stumbled upon some rough notebooks from my school and college days which remain with me as keepsakes of a bygone era. These rough books are very dear to me. Each subject had a different, spic-and-span notebook, but rough note’s creation had its own story. As the new session began, we got new books, notebooks and stationery, but rough notebook was made by pulling out leftover pages of all subjects’ notebooks. They were put together, stitched and bound by my mother with a thick thread, and its cover was made of chart paper, on which I used to write my name with a sketch pen. Now, I have not seen such rough notes for years.
These messy notebooks had details about all subjects, random reflections, spontaneous scribblings, a game of tic-tac, with scores written in the margin, lines drawn and cut one by one to find out love/hate, pass/fail etc. As youngsters, our true emotions were stored in these notebooks. It captured and crystallised our sagacious sensibilities and silly secrets.
Once during the social science period, I got bored of reading about a callous king, and instinctively drew his picture in the rough notebook, depicting his ruthless facial expression. That picture turned out to be quite impressive. So engrossed was I in my drawing that I did not notice the teacher standing behind me, and watching intently. As I looked up, I sought an apology, but she took the notebook, appreciated the sketch and showed the picture to the students, telling them that this was how the king looked! She encouraged me to take up drawing as a hobby. During postgraduation, I drew cartoons of my classmates at the farewell party. I owe my sketching skills to my notebook.
These notebooks are precious, filled up to the brim with my impressions, dreams and aspirations. They are a record of my growing years, how my scribblings changed, how I evolved as a person. They remind me of my fights and frights, gay and grey moods, made or marred relationships, travails and triumphs. How on those torn, folded, smudged pages, I played funny games, wrote half-solved sums, the equations and formulas, the secret conversations with friends, poems with pictorial illustrations, quotable quotes from Reader’s Digest and anecdotes. These notebooks reflect how I liked different etymologies, slangs, dialects, and styles from cursive to capital.
They have been my constant companion, because I still have the habit of using a pen and pad. Typing on computer, I run out of thoughts, and then I sit and look at the words on the screen. Somehow, they slip and skip. While in my rough notebook, I just keep plodding along, slowly accumulating sentences, words coming easily. Reading them is rediscovering myself: how I had written with exuberance, from passionate poems to stirring stories to erudite essays. In short, from infancy to adolescence and adulthood!
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