by Debleena Roy
You see the same streets again through the eyes of your child. You lug your suitcases and your child, step down from the creaking black and yellow taxi and enter the lane where you spent hours chasing cricket balls and years chasing dreams. You see the same old sights that you remembered in your sepia toned dreams – that same corner tea stall brewing milky hot tea in the small earthen cups, the same guy balancing the water cans on his frail shoulders; You see the cycle rickshaw driver ferrying the school children home, the sweet shop packing sweets for a child who couldn’t wait till he reached home for his snack, the road-side stall evoking unforgettable memories of rain-soaked phuckas and oil-drenched chicken rolls, the small book-shop where you spent hours reading and dreaming. You see them all. All that has not changed.
You scarcely notice the new houses that now dot or blot the landscape – the dust from the construction sites barely hiding the faded walls of the old homes that need another coat of paint and more than a coat of caring.
And then the gates open. You enter your old home. And you rush up the old stairs to your old room. You forget everything else and stand there, in the corridors of your childhood.
You dust the forgotten moments from the covers of your old books. A small picture falls out – you and your best friend from school, arms linked, identical grins on your faces. “Best friends forever.” You blink back tears you had cried when you parted; no Facebook to keep you digital best-friends-ever in those days. Where would she be now? Another memory lost in the busy circles of lost time.
You stand still even as loud voices and familiar smells announce that the welcome meal is ready. A meal that would have been discussed for hours, planned for days. The old, lace curtains would have fluttered in the evening breeze even as they both would have sat on the old cane sofa with its faded cushions. They would have gazed fondly at the ever-increasing photo frames on the mantelpiece and planned the menu.
You step out of your room, you run your hands over the faded cushions you had bought at a furniture fair and then, only then, you finally notice – notice all that has changed, all that you had not noticed.
Their hands, a little bit more wrinkled; their gait, a little bit more uncertain; their eyes, a little bit more weak; their smiles, a little bit more sad. Two souls in a large house full of memories – changing nothing in the house yet changing everyday themselves. Changing in small, imperceptible, unspoken ways that had escaped notice, till now.
The old fan moves at the same slow pace and you sweat; the rancid odour of pain and old-age sticks to your shirt. When was the last time you told them that you cared? When was the last time you just sat and just listened? Without hurrying to open up your laptop or read your book or just rush back to the life you had created, the life that included them only for special occasions?
Your mind blanks out. Everything seems dark; yet is it the same darkness from your childhood evenings – when power cuts were as predictable as the weekly Chitrahaar, when you used to sit around in the balcony, all of you, and sing songs and share stories. Where time halted and dreams danced in the shadows of your mingled voices. Do you remember the tunes today to sing to your child even if you couldn’t manufacture the power cut?
The strains of the piano and the smell of the hot luchi bring the light back in your eyes.
She has discovered it. Sitting on the bench, flanked on both sides by her grandparents, your child is squealing in delight and hitting all the wrong notes on your old piano. She sings the very song that was on your mind “If you miss the train I am on, you will know that I am gone. You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles.”
The silence is over. Steaming hot cups of tea merge the present and the past.
You are home. She is home.
