Winds of change are blowing and blowing recklessly, taking apart everything on its way. Destroying everything – everything old and orthodox that stood steadfast are now in shambles enmeshed in a cloud of dust and dirt. Screaming, Protesting –silently. It needs renovation. New thresholds of ideas are to be built on these old ruins. But the new ones are strong and blunt. There are no delicate curves or intricacies. They are just slabs of ideas or views presented by each new generation and placed on the top of the previous. It’s strong, it’s tall, it’s square- I guess times are changing. Whether times are changing for the better or for worse is the food for thought. Life has become fast, fast enough to drive one crazy. There has been a total degeneration of the human moral spectrum. There is no time to pause and reflect on bygones.
What is this world if full of care
We have no time to stand and stare ….
…. Wrote poet W.H Davies. But he had not probably realized how true his words would ring during this generation. I am a person lucky enough to have drawn the curtain and step into the “teen world”. I thank God for that. But right now looking back through this fine lace I find my entire life has changed. My life too, whether it has changed for the better or for worse I am yet to find out. As I looked I saw different scenes: myself running into the arms of my parents, singing in a muffled tone, crying as a tooth went loose, or when I made a mistake how I squirmed about figuring out the proper way of confession.
I realized that this journey through life is just like traveling through time zones. When I look back I can see the past, just as it was happening, just as I had experienced it. I saw myself holding my parents’ hands but now my hands were cold for now I was a lone traveler as is destined to be in this stage of my life. Right now this impregnable darkness bore the only glow of light coming from their eyes. It meant that even though physically absent I could still feel their presence.
Looking back I saw the great times we had- the chats, the games and every other little thing that mattered most. I laughed to see my mother and myself running on the terrace of our old home, the laughter that echoed down the time zones. Such laughs were surely not the first to emanate from my lips; there had been many other travelers before myself.
Those wonderful days were filled with simplicity. I enjoyed the frequent power cuts. During such times we would just sit together. There were no textbooks to drive me away and I could still feel, from those warm dark nights, the loving touch of my mother. Her fingers would work through my sweat-wet forehead and eventually through my head. I often had bouts of cough and so I remember the warm nights when the fan would be off. My flimsy dress would be wet and I’d start crying. In the mellow light of the oil lamp I’d wake up to see the worried eyes of my parents, which in a second would become indulging. Either of them would undress me and my father would hold me close, hold me tight in his arms and sing me to sleep. He has a wonderful voice and I like to hear his songs. Weirdly, I yawned a lot every time he sang; however successfully putting me off to sleep was a mammoth task for him. I could also remember the feel as I sat on his lap, my head resting on his chest and he would be stroking my back. Sometimes I’d be conscious of a drop of sweat trickling down my back. I’d be meticulously following the path which midway would be rubbed off accidentally by my father’s palm in one stroke. As I’d go on coughing, my mother would sit there impatiently, worrying herself to death. Often when such power failures took place on a moonlit night we would go out on the terrace. Spreading out a mattress we would either sit on it, talk and laugh, or just lie back and watch the dark night sky strewn with a million twinkling stars. Then slowly I’d drift off to sleep. I hated it when power was restored. I hated the artificial light. I still love darkness because during my childhood, I believed, darkness brought us close together physically and light meant us three drifting into three different directions to pursue our respective jobs.
My childhood, I saw it plainly through the curtain. I saw myself studying at one point of time, and as guessed by me mother asking me the spelling of “caterpillar”. I also remember the day (well, I say remember because whatever I saw through the veil of fine lace is nothing but remembrance, what I saw through the eyes of my subconscious), while watching a movie I saw a flower fall from the vase. I don’t know why I saw it so clearly among the vague memories, but I did. I don’t even remember the name of the movie though. I even distinctly saw my father cleanse our aquarium. As I stood and watched the murky waters being replaced by crystal clear fluid I felt proud thinking that this man, my father could do just about anything in this world.
Then there was another incident, the day my mother bought me a flowering plant and taught me to call it “mine”. I was proud of her as she was of me. I had lied twice to my parents-the big ones. I saw him striking my hand with a ruler and saw my face too. On it was reflected a how-could-he-do-this-when-he-loved-me-so-much look overshadowed by a bewildered why-did-I-do-this-look. My parents had been wonderful. They had punished me, and hit me but during my hard times had held me close in their arms, kissed my forehead and told me that nothing was wrong with this world.
The last two things I saw was my father making a mouse out of a white handkerchief and playing with me as my mother……. I don’t remember. And once I stood on a wire-mesh that was bought to be used as a protection for the plants against the birds. As I stood on the rolled wire trying to make it straight, I fell down face forward injuring myself badly. My parents came rushing and took me to my uncle who had sound knowledge of medicines. He put some white paste on my bruise and it stung like anything. He had, though, told me that it was toothpaste, which he was applying!!!!!!!
There are no more significant incidents that I can write about, though I know countless of them infest my life yet… It is truly surprising how memories are built around small and trivial incidents. We cared for one another, loved one another and most important of all sat together in those dark evenings, my mother holding me as I sat on her lap. I just sat there my tiny hands on hers that circled my little tummy. I guess in those times my parents were all I had. Life had just begun and my world had only those two people.
Gradually the early morning of my life gave way to the late morning. I grew up. My life took a turn into a road where school, books and friends, yes friends began to edge past and demand priority. The center of my universe took a different shape. I felt closer to my friends, sharing my joys, common problems, happiness and agony with them. Nonetheless my parents (read: mother) played a part. But that was what one would call that of a “supporting actress”. I could plainly watch myself sitting in front of her, a small body swaying with excitement as I narrated to her the events that took place at school. Overlooked by all, as I found it now, there was a little, delicate difference- The events in my life were now happening not with her but she now had to experience them second hand. She had to depend on my words to savor the taste of what was going on.
There was a time when loneliness got the better of her and she joined a teacher’s training course. She thought her little one had grown old enough to leave its protective shelter. I appreciate her devotion and commitment for me. Being there by my side as long as I needed her, but at the same time making me very self-sufficient.
I had grown up, for just in that period I felt the first blush of my first crush creep into my heart and cheeks. It was the first time I completely hid something from her. (Now I feel funny and think that I was too young for this but then what to do I was after all a Leo-child and my sun sign dictates that we are the first in line to appreciate the opposite sex. An undue advantage?????)My friends did not seem suitable to talk to about it. But eventually I yielded to the peers.
I distinctly recall the evenings, when she’d come home tired and there would not be much to talk about. However, even though I was at a loss for words at this juncture, there were lots to do. As I now look through the draperies that marked the cross road of my life, all I can say or think is
Isn’t it a wonder on the crossroads of my life…
Isn’t it a wonder that .. that I can see the change in me
And I won’t go back to what’s behind me …..
Those were the days--- I remember the games I used to play. Once I was running madly in the small terrace going round and round the flower pots, squealing in laughter. My mother ran very close, yet she was (most of the times) unable to catch me. There was another game I played alone- in fact I invented it. It was called River Aid. It was a game where two bamboo poles would be fixed with a line connecting their tops. A thick rope would be suspended from that line. By catching hold of this dangling rope I had to jump over two parallel lines drawn on the terrace, quite apart from each other. This was the river and the rope was “aiding” me to cross it. I looked or rather felt like Tarzan. I don’t know how to explain it, but to me it is quite simple to visualize it, as I had once experienced it myself.
After all these I could see no more. It became hazy and dark. Various phases passed before I finally saw myself again. But this time it was a different me. I had grown up. I looked different, felt different. I was overburdened with books and intimate with my friends. As expected I talked with them and shared every piece of detail about my personal life with them. I searched about for my parents in these scenes. They were there, but just like me, they too had changed. They had become materialistic, down to earth. There was no longer the myth of perfection, bickering marred it. Firmly keeping my reins in their hands they made sure I did not stray from the desired walk of life. I too was no longer the sweet, cuddly baby. I had learnt to voice my own demands. There were no power cuts as well. I knew times had changed. The man who had once held me close and sung me to sleep had drifted away and changed a lot. While the woman who hugged me and rubbed my tummy had assumed a totally different personality. Yet still somewhere, something in our heart, bound us close together. It is true that I cannot cite anything so touching as my childhood incidents but whatever I remember now is something I can feel as well. Now we share our affection in a different way. Sometimes when my parents want to put their arms around me I feel it is far too childlike and brush them away. But now as I am so far away from these I feel that maybe I should have made the best use of those hugs and kisses when they’d come my way. I missed them and now I cannot go back and ask for them.
Sometimes in depressing moods, when I need to be held, I wish to go back to those days when I was a kid. When I feel lonely, I shut the light ardently longing, and desperately trying to cling on to the feeling of those coveted power cuts bringing on the memories of soothing comfort. It is a desire for something unfulfilled, a feeling of guilt or wrongdoing. I can’t go to my friends now; maybe my parents could have helped. I know I’ve changed. But sometimes I want my old-self back … the old times to come back. Naturally in this journey of life, my parents have gone far ahead of me. But the sweet memories still linger.
I started my journey to the past with a laugh echoing down the ages. But I ended it with a song throbbing in my heart
It must have been love, but it’s over now
It must have been good, but I lost it somehow.
Life has become fast and to survive in this rat race there is no time to spare for old emotions. Now I wonder how I could have spared so much time to make this remarkable journey through my life and revel in the past. …But the time travel was truly worth it!!!!
