Counting crows

Back in hostel, we girls would sun ourselves on the rooftop terrace. Weak sunlight would filter through wispy clouds as we shivered in the chilly Shillong winter. On the pretext of studying for exams, we would sit there with our books, munching on stolen unripe pears, wiping the bittersweet juices on sweater sleeves and counting crows in the sky.
One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for letters
Four for boys.

We would determinedly look away if we see a lone crow. If two came flying, we would squeal with joy, the very sight of two crows becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy. Seeing three crows was the best deal.

The poor postman was bombarded every other day with hordes of excited girls asking, "Letter for us?" God forbid that he should come with just a bill for the wardens. Then all he would get would be a sea of glum faces, all staring at him mournfully. But on the days he would arrive with a good load, there would be masses of excited, happy faces all beaming at him, as if he were personally responsible for our happiness. And should his arrival coincide with that of the sweet-man's, then he had his face stuffed with sticky jalebis, rosagullas and gulab jamuns. Funny thing is, for such an important man, none of us knew what our postman looked like.

'Four for boys' did not have much of an impact in our lives. We could go out of the hostel only one Saturday a month. Sundays we could go to our various churches, but our warden made it a point to know how long our church services lasted, so there was no opportunity for larking around after services ended. So even if a suitable boy turned up, there was never any opportunity to meet him. Having Church crushes that we never dared to talk to anyway were the height of our romantic escapades.

If only life was as simple as we made it then.  
One for sorrow.    
Two for joy.
Three for letters.
Four for boys.
And should there be more, than we would just start all over again.