Sunday, bloody Sunday.

It was a lazy Sunday, just like many others when you sit down and think of life in slow motion. I received a text message from an unknown number:

Life meant: A cold evening, four friends, a slow drizzle and four pegs of rum.

Life meant: 100 rupees for petrol, two rusty old bikes and an open road.

Life meant: Maggi® noodles, a hostel room and the clock showing 3.25 AM.

Life meant: The last exam paper, one night, one book and eight duffers.

Life meant: One girl, one number, four friends and a fight.

Now, life means: Old friends, many cities, different lives and a longing.

The number was an unknown one because I had left the old contacts’ lists on my previous phone, and moved on to a new one without caring to transfer all the contacts. The brutal honesty of our singular lives does not as much shake us up to rekindle long lost friendships, still.

So these days, even though there are evenings with slow drizzles and pouring rains there is usually only one peg of rum. These days, it is not the question of 100 rupees for petrol or collecting 6,000 rupees and then borrowing 2,000 more to put together enough money to buy an old rusty bike. While the stereo blurted out “Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!” I fished for reasons.

When social networking sites came into being some five years ago, I had a bit of a euphoric feeling about the ability to get back in touch with almost everyone I knew sometime in the past.

Over time, the realisation dawned upon me how different our lives have grown. Those friends with whom you shared a close camaraderie some years ago suddenly seem to be strangers: as if you knew a person who was someone entirely different from the one you are talking to now.

That perhaps was the reason why I chose to keep my past life past, and did not bring much of it further into the present. Strangely enough, the longing still remains even if the choice was a conscious one. On the other hand, I think it is part of the process of growing up and growing out of the world that you used to once live in.

Or perhaps, it’s written.

Maqtoob!