It started with six people and a house. They wanted a future and the house probably was waiting for the last call. It tied up their destinies before it collapsed. It did a job of supremacy before it was busted to grounds. After that, it found a place to stay in their memories! The story of 1212 Jasper and its Jasparians would always make me thoughtful and nostalgic. But the word ‘story,’ in this world of meanings, is always encased by two other meaningful words. A start and an end! A start is always a friendly part, flexible to start at any point. But, as a writer then, what always bothers me is an end. What could be a perfect ending to my story of 1212 Jasper?
I always think of different stories. If the story of Mahabharata is to be rewritten, one would put the pen down after Duryodhana gets defeated by Bhima. Someone else may wait to take a long breathe until nirvana of Bhishm Pitamah. Someone may even find satisfaction only after five Pandavas reach the doors of the heaven. Well, however short or long it may be, any story, which stays so effusive and conversable with the writer, becomes introvert and pensive at the end. It simply refuses to communicate. I did not wonder when the story of 1212 Jasper created the same question in my mind. What could it be, the end, I pondered. Could it be when we packed our memories with our stuff and left 1212 after a year? Or could it be the night when 1212 collapsed silently? It could be invariably different for each Jasparian. That’s for certain.
I had stored this question, unanswered, for so long in an innermost compartment of my mind until appeared the graduation week, first of May 07. They gathered for the last time. The days came back. Memories winged long way. Happiness swirled and resonated in everybody’s heart. Hopes sprouted. Dreams awoke. The feeling of success and joy culminated at the occasion when the graduating friends cut the cake to share the delight. I was happy to the bottom of my heart. They looked marvelous together. Together was the most important part of it.
When I was on my way back, after dropping the last man to the airport, nervousness surrounded me. The air devoid of my people grew thick. Loneliness maximized. The old question popped up fresh in my mind. I related my feelings, unknowingly, to the character in the story of Mahabharata. I, for instance, felt like wounded Ashwatthama, staying back, lingering lonely after the great war. Wandering helplessly, asking for oil for his wounds. The thought was dreadful.
I stopped the car down the big tree on the campus. The tree of Ashwattha, we call it affectionately. The tree stood quiet, trying to embrace the topmost point of the skies. The symbol of change! Change, the only thing that never changed! I looked at it and looked at it again. The sun set to my left. It vanished behind horizon and Ashwattha looked darker. Things look more clear even in that darkness. I stayed there for quite some time.
I drove home complacent with mind at peace and thoughts ceased. I invariably sang to the tune of a song, my song of the day. When I entered home, I saw a magazine lying on the table.
Suddenly, it came to my notice. The last page of the magazine was open.
Clear and uncurled!
