Monday, September 19, 2016

Hometown Calling-Nostalgia Around

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There is something in your hometown that refuses to move ahead with time. Something which always opens a flood of memories drowning you deep down with it. Something which can only be perceived when you stop there in a familiar spot and realize that life can still be lived with an unhurried pace. Something which tells that this part of world which we left for the better part does still breathes calmly. Here the time desists to keep pace with the time we know.
May be it is the nostalgic fragrance lingering in the wind that blossoms the memories of childhood in the garden of life.
May be its the narrow alleys that want you to run down the length shouting and play hide and seek around the corners. May be its that old house that has painted in various colours your voice, your laughter, your cries on its walls. May be its only waiting you to hum a melody before it echoes back your childhood to you.
The streets, perhaps they have humbly shielded their bends and directions for the child in you so that you are not lost as you seem to be on the way of life. Your footprints are all there over it and you never long for a company while you travel far and far away.
May be its the trees which admires your new strength but happily stretches its old hand for you to hold and swing down again.
Is it the field which has secretly preserved your place like a treasure where you fought to play once. Or is it the park which is swelled up with children but becomes happier when you pass by as a grown up . As if it begs you to come and join others, come and dust off the soil from its face.
May be it is the cheerful noise of children inside the school bus that has just stopped nearby. But it is not just a noise rather a name. A name resembling yours or you think it is yours? Perhaps all your kachha and pakka dost are still inside. Perhaps you should have stepped in and hug all of them together before the bus went out of sight. Perhaps the happiness we seek now was left there inside the bus. Perhaps many years back you left the bus at the wrong point and are left back all alone in high pulsating and ever demanding life.
The crowd, carrying a wave of faces, always seems familiar here. The expectation that among the faces you come across a person who seems connected to you. A face that resembles your first crush, your first love with whom you spent the best time of your life.
May be its that old bicycle which your brother held firmly at back while you learnt how to ride. That when he advised don't ride too far all alone he actually meant so. May be he is still waiting there for you to turn around so that you two ride along.
The little girl holding a boy and hiding behind a small tent made out of a saree looks so close to you. Perhaps she knows you but is afraid to accept who you are. Perhaps she is your sister who loved your innocence. May be she is dearly protecting a part of you from you. May be she just refused to grow and separate from you. May be you too should have refused to grow.
This place reminds you of a young beautiful lady, your mother, who in her prime youth sacrificed her dreams to help you realise yours. Who hid behind her smiles trying times she never wanted you to notice. The lady whose one touch of magical fingers seem to shun off all troubles away. Suddenly every bit of this place plays a sequel story on the reels of time from the day she left you crying at the gates of school to the day you left her crying as you moved out of home. You wish that the story unfolds slowly as you admire the beauty of your mother we failed to notice then. But it has moved fast, really really fast. The wrinkles are set, time has done its job. Probably she never wanted you to move away but never said so. Probably she still yearns for the day you will come running into her lap as she would again caress the child in you.
The sight of the school and class rooms you attended freshens you like a student just admitted. The last bench must still be lying vacant for you. May be your favourite teacher still calls out your name during roll call. May be you must just go and reply promptly raising your hand above your head “Present madam”.

The noise of the dismissal bell still sends shivers down your bone. Your feet trembling to run down the corridors, launching down the steps three at a time, carrying bag full of books but never feeling heavy, rushing out of the main gate towards a tree where you know your father is faithfully waiting to carry you back to home on his motorbike, cruising happily in the wind safe and secure. May be he is still waiting there. Waiting now for his turn and you to come and carry him back to home safe and secure.
May be it is all just an imagination. May be it was all once true

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