When Wednesdays Rocked.

I don’t believe in rituals as such, but for two years, I followed one religiously. Without fail, I made it to the blue walled, smoke filled, surreal underground quarters of Turquoise Cottage with a few dear friends.

I refuse to call the five hours spent at TC every Wednesday, a memory. Perhaps because I don’t want to give this chapter a closure (Bennet, you used this word very generously in your post titled ‘Me’, I borrow it for mine) by shoving it away in my stock of memories. It just might be one of my denial trips, but what the heck, denial has held my hand many a times and helped me deal with life.
It’s natural to ask why I would attach so much importance to a place loosely referred to as a hangout for the advertising types on a media night.
I strongly differ with that opinion, and so will my friend Vikrant (a crucial link of my support system), because for us, TC was not just time well spent, it was a place where lifetime friendships were born, many a heartbroken evenings were spent, many undercurrents flew, many loves were lost, many drunken promises were made, most of them were meant, many songs were sung in pain and joy, many glasses were intentionally broken, many drinks were shared, many embraces exchanged, many slurry conversations with no head no tale but straight from the heart were made, many eyes met, many strangers were befriended, many dreams were woven.

The narrow lane leading up to the stairs already made you bump into twelve people you knew. There was something strangely warm about this place; you’d end up embracing people you would not even acknowledge outside. They may not even fall into your purview otherwise; here they were part of your universe. Maybe that’s what they referred to as the Turquoise Cottage culture.

Completely opposite to the thrill of the unknown I am going through today, there I felt a comfort that comes only with years of knowing something. Two deeply contrasting experiences, both equally special. The feeling of familiarity was just as intoxicating as the pints we guzzled down like water. Guess it was the ‘personal space’ in a crowd that I will never find anywhere again. Confirming one of my previous posts, I must admit that I had an equation with Turquoise Cottage and I shared my own unique relationship with it.

The place was quite a crowd puller, especially on Wednesdays. Happy hours all night was the obvious reason, each of us had our other unobvious reasons to drop in. For the four of us, and specially for Vikrant (his girlfriend hated the place, he loved it) and me, TC held some sort of a mystical attraction. Probably because he and I as people are the obsessive-compulsive sorts who fall hopelessly for anything, it could well be a nightclub. We’d lie, beg, borrow, emotionally blackmail, bear traffic jams, and do much more to get there. And walk in chest bloated.

Kingfishers, Floyd and best friends for company made for a heady concoction. Fools from diverse backgrounds, similar issues and hit by the same universal emotions would sing together atop their throats, holding their hearts and letting go off their walls. Occasionally as you sang ‘Numb’, your eyes would run into someone else across the alley singing the same words, and you’d wonder if that person shared the same pain as you, his intensity because seemed similar.

We’ve stood on tables, we’ve sat on the floor, we’ve walked around with our eyes moist and we’ve sung out throats soar.
The hunger for the place still remains alive in our hearts.
The fire still burns.