On an anniversary note

He was always like that. A terrific teacher. Words scented by woody cigarette smoke.

It was the day that college began. The worn corners of the old windows and the joy of balancing on narrow windowsills. Life on the edge.

Freshmen year. Most of them without a clue as to why they were there. That always happened to his class. Which I sometimes felt was a pity- he had so much to give and if you strip away the hollow of expectation, then everything becomes more than enough. Asking for more was what he always wanted. And that's why I was sent into his life.

His books which had innumerable strips of papers eagerly waiting to be pulled out and read. Scribbles of his thoughts and what he wanted say. There was so much I didn't understand. There was so much I understood.

So sitting by the windowsill, I heard the white finger of chalk squeal on the summer-dust-collected-board that had been wiped almost clean that morning. Scars always remain.

His handwriting was terrible. Achingly painful was the feeling as always, when I saw him address a crowd. As in response to his hope that this year would be different.

The words that stayed on my mind that year. And forever.

'Hitch your wagon to a star'.

And that's what he did. On a wagon that moved too fast and all that was left behind of him was a whiff of stardust.