Nearing eighty, as I look back, a collage of scenes, glad as well as sad, dull as well as colourful, rush in, the pleasant ones outshining the unpleasant. My childhood days spelt deprivation, worries and wants which one normally resents revisiting. But still, the mind lingers over them, inexplicably reluctant to withdraw.
I remember chilly mornings getting warmed by the sun rays filtering through palm fronds on the banks of the village river, jumping into ponds in the sprawling joint family property to splash about and stand neck-deep in water for hours together, singing songs rhythmless and tuneless, taking cross-country walks in the afternoon along the narrow mud ridges dividing acres and acres of paddy fields, finally, looking heavenward, trying to count the droplets of light scattered around the bright creamy moon.
Festivals in the family temple would come with mystifying rituals in the dim light from the fluttering, wavy cloth wicks soaked in cheap vegetable oil in small stone and brass lamps—an idyllic scene never to return—with sophisticated electronic gadgetry destroying old world charms.
Mosquitoes had not built their empire. For children like us hitting the road was no mad race. It glided along—a placid river, its waters limpid. The clock did not run your life. You could walk along the roads in gay abandon, coolly assured that no vehicle at a frenzied pace would knock you down.
Despondency was absent; hopes lurked. Of course, you enjoyed few luxuries, even daily needs posed problems, but drowning all, there was optimism—a Micawberian streak saying something would finally turn up. You saw light at the end of the tunnel.
And to work for the goal, you had a long time span, in fact, practically the whole of your life ahead, unlike today when you see just yards away the dark wall saying thus far and no further. Today, my childhood assets have been washed away. The peacock feathers I treasured, the broken multi-hued bangles I fondled—all have evaporated.
To recreate such assets is to try weaving a rope of sand. I strive to make the best out of the bad situation by dipping into the tills of my past and scooping up the rusted coins of memories—ones with their value drained off. But even their patina has a palpable warmth and if you keep your ear to the ground, you can hear them sing!
C Divakaran
Email: cdmenon@asianetindia.com