If you listen carefully enough, you'll hear nothing.
Because growing up doesn't make too much of a noise. It just happens in its own sweet time- perhaps when two girls spend an entire afternoon listening to old hindi film songs or maybe when they sleep hugging their four pillows on a bed made of the creakiest of all wood, on cheap pink mattresses printed with yellow flowers.
even the smallest of rooms have stories to tell; ours probably has epics to narrate. or maybe not.
maybe it chooses to keep to itself the beauty of seeing those fairy lights light up and the fragility of that moment when we could see both our heads crowned with the lights reflected on the glass of the poster. the walls will still probably breathe out the words our fingers scribbled on them with blunt pencils and pens with lost caps, and whisper how loudly we laughed.
we have kept bits of us in the mess of newspapers that we left back and took back bits off the wall stuck to the duct tape behind the posters.
and our lives will continue to be this way-- a bit of us in that dust and a bit of 231 that we brought back.
this one's for ria, for 231...without whom not a day in the last two years would've made sense.
p.s: i wish this was better written but right now, words fail me and this is all i can manage.
