I had gone for a short trip back home… just me and my dreams. It was like bygone days. Alone, carefree, without any strings appended… A week away from the reproaches and peevishness. Just one week... I was back before my folks realised they could live without me. A realisation that should never cross the threshold of your foyer.
I had the whole 24 hours per diem just for myself. It had been eons since I had this privilege. I could unwind in silence, I could lose myself in my fantasies... I miss my swing cot. It was on this cot I used to lie down and muse over the big and bigger things in life… muse on the days that are to be… It was on this cot that I waited for the smooching raindrops. A five year old used to lie down on it, shoving the wall with her small legs, making the cot swing, listening to her dad’s stories which took her to a fairyland, slowly drifting away to sleep. It was only for her and her dad. They both used to make her mother sleep in the other cot. But when she woke up, her dad was always sleeping with her mother. “That cot likes only you, darling”, he used to say. “It said only you can lie there”, he would say, putting up a sad expression on his face. And I believed him. And thus the passion began… I believed that it was solely meant for me. None in my house liked it either. So it was mine. Mine and mine alone.. Now did you hear a tinge of possessiveness? Someone who is very special to me always says I am one. But I had never thought in that sense. When you truly love something or someone, how can you confine it or him to a cage? Why should you keep a beautiful butterfly in your fist against its will?
Coming back to my swing cot, it was hung in the corner of the room, having windows on both sides. So I could feast my eyes on the east and north. Swinging to and fro, I used to wait for the trains to pass and envy the travellers. People stuck in traffic when the railway gates are closed used to look up to my window and get the fright of their life when they see a shadow flowing up and down… Especially on the night of Thrissur Pooram, when me and my friend.. both clad in white nightgowns, flaunting our long tresses, slithering from one window to the other… the apparition-effect was tremendous. The shrill from those supposedly valiant heroes are still fresh in mind.
It was on this cot that I used to do my combined studies along with my friend.. she was doing her MBBS and I was doing my graduation in Literature. But we studied together. One will sit near the northern window and one near the east. Even now everyone wonders what we studied together. But we really did. This olden witnessed many a things.. secrets exchanged, friendships concreted, problems solved, decisions made.. it was a silent witness to every important moments in my life. Our laughter and tears were always in concurrence. It quivered in ecstasy and showered me with promises of life when I was deflowered.
But now, my folks don’t want it to be there. And it lies down in the terrace, exposed to the natural wrath…threatening to end its decades old vigil.. A solitary creature abandoned by all. When I am there, I dust it, pat it, and lie on it.. It is like a homecoming.. pining to be clasped in the protective hands of my god father. How I wish I could get it back inside the room. But I have to live in ‘today’. Yesterday never was... Tomorrow might never come.
I had the whole 24 hours per diem just for myself. It had been eons since I had this privilege. I could unwind in silence, I could lose myself in my fantasies... I miss my swing cot. It was on this cot I used to lie down and muse over the big and bigger things in life… muse on the days that are to be… It was on this cot that I waited for the smooching raindrops. A five year old used to lie down on it, shoving the wall with her small legs, making the cot swing, listening to her dad’s stories which took her to a fairyland, slowly drifting away to sleep. It was only for her and her dad. They both used to make her mother sleep in the other cot. But when she woke up, her dad was always sleeping with her mother. “That cot likes only you, darling”, he used to say. “It said only you can lie there”, he would say, putting up a sad expression on his face. And I believed him. And thus the passion began… I believed that it was solely meant for me. None in my house liked it either. So it was mine. Mine and mine alone.. Now did you hear a tinge of possessiveness? Someone who is very special to me always says I am one. But I had never thought in that sense. When you truly love something or someone, how can you confine it or him to a cage? Why should you keep a beautiful butterfly in your fist against its will?
Coming back to my swing cot, it was hung in the corner of the room, having windows on both sides. So I could feast my eyes on the east and north. Swinging to and fro, I used to wait for the trains to pass and envy the travellers. People stuck in traffic when the railway gates are closed used to look up to my window and get the fright of their life when they see a shadow flowing up and down… Especially on the night of Thrissur Pooram, when me and my friend.. both clad in white nightgowns, flaunting our long tresses, slithering from one window to the other… the apparition-effect was tremendous. The shrill from those supposedly valiant heroes are still fresh in mind.
It was on this cot that I used to do my combined studies along with my friend.. she was doing her MBBS and I was doing my graduation in Literature. But we studied together. One will sit near the northern window and one near the east. Even now everyone wonders what we studied together. But we really did. This olden witnessed many a things.. secrets exchanged, friendships concreted, problems solved, decisions made.. it was a silent witness to every important moments in my life. Our laughter and tears were always in concurrence. It quivered in ecstasy and showered me with promises of life when I was deflowered.
But now, my folks don’t want it to be there. And it lies down in the terrace, exposed to the natural wrath…threatening to end its decades old vigil.. A solitary creature abandoned by all. When I am there, I dust it, pat it, and lie on it.. It is like a homecoming.. pining to be clasped in the protective hands of my god father. How I wish I could get it back inside the room. But I have to live in ‘today’. Yesterday never was... Tomorrow might never come.
7 comments:
Your fist is tangible.It's perceptible by the senses.But the fence you create to possess your loved ones in intangible.It's hard to pin down.That's where love blooms and fruits too, sometimes!
Beautiful reminiscences. You're possessive in your writing lest we all should be able to read it in well circulated periodicals. Keep up good work.
you have an excellent flow of language as well expressing the emotions and feelings in a clear and thought provoking way....but this particular piece i feel is not as smoothflowing or the flow of thoughts as striking as your previous blogs...
Lovely piece Saritha. I can understand your feelings. I will be very happy if that cot is given to me. I will restore it and give it back to you when you are ready to take it back. I too love antique furnitures.
The swing seems to link your present to the pleasnt past ... brings to you the cherished childhood memories, memories of your dad and his love for you , memories of the laughter and tears you shared with a good friend . Whether it finds it's place in the room or not it definitely has a special place in your heart.
Suddenly, the father stopped the SON on his tracks.. "Take a good look at that" he said.
In the darkness, the SON could hardly see the details.
He could just make out a beggar mother, continuously combing her fingers through the "kanji" in a mud pot. There was a little boy sitting by her side, looking at her expectantly.
Occasionally, she's get hold of a few grains of rice, squeeze the liquid out, and shove the few grains into the boy's mouth. Once in a while, she's take a hasty, greedy swig of the bare liquid in the pot.
The SON grew up. And as a corollary, his mother died. He celebrated his grief for several weeks and months, until one day, wisdom dawned upon him.
IT'S NOT JUST THE OTHERS' MOTHERS THAT DIE!
And his mother always stayed with him, disguised sometimes as a little lump in his throat, and sometimes as tears in his eyes.
Open the windows of your heart, therefore, O Great Whisperer! and behold! the little girl's there in her swing-cot, shoving the wall with her li'l pink feet.
tht was beautiful! u write so well!
lucky tht i visited this blog!
keep posting!
Made me damn nostalgic :(
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