I did not find any particular reason to remember my childhood.Not any when sitting on a railway platform under a huge banyan tree.
Yet,my mind walked slowly towards the old blue-walled,simple moss-greenturned brown tile-roofed house.
There wasn't any proper gate as I could recollect.
I found myself struggling to open the wooden planks ,which were supposed to serve as the entrance to the compound.My tiny hands as a 4 year old pushing against the hard wood immersed in mud. I can see my grandmother behind me, my blue school bag in one hand,in a stiff orange Bengal cotton sari,her hair jet black, her skin glowing in the afternoon sun.She helps me get in by pushing the planks hard..the gold bangles jingling on her wrists.
Rushing down the slope,past my swing,past the giant mango tree,past the two year old jackfruit tree I'd planted along with my uncle,past the 2 feet high bushes my mother tends so fondly, I step into the coolness of the 'old house' as i call it.
The drawing room (as it was supposed to be) had grills on three sides, with exactly three plastic chairs and one fancy teapoy carved out of teak root by a maternal uncle.
I quickly went into one of the two bedrooms the house had. It had the T.V kept on top a wooden table to which i fancied sticking all of the free Big-Babul stickers my dad gets for me.
The upstairs had a dusty dim-lit room with an ancient double-bed coat of my grandfather's. This particular room was a magical one in my memories..with its triangular slits in walls..and glass ceiling between the roof-tile. The floor had always funny triangular patterns of sunlight on it.
To be continued..
Yet,my mind walked slowly towards the old blue-walled,simple moss-greenturned brown tile-roofed house.
There wasn't any proper gate as I could recollect.
I found myself struggling to open the wooden planks ,which were supposed to serve as the entrance to the compound.My tiny hands as a 4 year old pushing against the hard wood immersed in mud. I can see my grandmother behind me, my blue school bag in one hand,in a stiff orange Bengal cotton sari,her hair jet black, her skin glowing in the afternoon sun.She helps me get in by pushing the planks hard..the gold bangles jingling on her wrists.
Rushing down the slope,past my swing,past the giant mango tree,past the two year old jackfruit tree I'd planted along with my uncle,past the 2 feet high bushes my mother tends so fondly, I step into the coolness of the 'old house' as i call it.
The drawing room (as it was supposed to be) had grills on three sides, with exactly three plastic chairs and one fancy teapoy carved out of teak root by a maternal uncle.
I quickly went into one of the two bedrooms the house had. It had the T.V kept on top a wooden table to which i fancied sticking all of the free Big-Babul stickers my dad gets for me.
The upstairs had a dusty dim-lit room with an ancient double-bed coat of my grandfather's. This particular room was a magical one in my memories..with its triangular slits in walls..and glass ceiling between the roof-tile. The floor had always funny triangular patterns of sunlight on it.
To be continued..
