Diary

When I was small the only personal possession I ever had was a diary.I used to scribble drawings in it,occasionally poems that made no sense.But it was very dear to me,like my books,my toys.

This diary then became my companion,with whom I shared my anguishes,my love affairs and heartbreaks.I used to hide it in my cupboard behind my books lest my mother found about my little excursions.Unlike Anne Frank's diary it was much less resourceful,but it still had a name.I called it Frankie after the bossy girl from my favourite tv show,Sleepover Club.

It was where I could let my feelings find words;my secrets found shelter.

When I passed my class 10 board exams,I was desperately trying to convince my father to buy me a cellphone.most of my friends had it and I kind of felt very isolated without one.But,most importantly, I needed it to message someone I was in love with and there was no way I could talk to him using my parents' cellphone.

My cellphone never replaced my diary,but it did consume most of my attention.I was always on the lookout for a new text from my crush and my diary became the shoulder to cry on.I wrote small letters to him with an unrealistic dream that when I am gone,someday,he will search for me and then bam!this diary.Frankie will tell him how crazy I was about him and then he will fall in love with me.

Well,nothing like that ever happened.But then I purchased my own laptop and typing seemed a less tedious than writing.My first love certainly injected some sense in my deluded mind,and I stopped writing silly stuff in my diary.

I still have it though,I never sold it or left it in the store room along with old copies.Sometimes,when I find nice poems and beautiful words,I write them down.My handwriting has degraded a lot,but my diary is a relic indeed of love lost and found,of hopes and dreams,and a silent observer of my transformation from an immature lover to a rational one.

And I certainly intend to keep it with me,because however modern our technology might become,our heart feels more connected with those pages that smell of nostalgia and romantic desires,if you really want to know what is there behind the face of that stubborn engineer,you just need to dig a little deeper.There you will find stories of untold passion and hopes that lost their voice with time.There you will find dreams that have died young.There you will find poets and visionaries who still keep their lights on at night,to script their masterpieces,there you will find lovers who cannot speak but can write.

And then one day,this diary will fall in the hands of someone who will make a book out of it,well,you never know.