Grandpa’s Bench
I’m on my way to
my native village. It’s an overdue journey; my last was two decades ago. This
time I’m alone. It’s not just another trip, but a journey into my childhood. As
I leave the city, I hit the metalled road, where a dirt track existed earlier. My
conscious accuses me of behaving like a gapeseed. On
either side, the paddy fields interspersed with a few sugarcane ones pass by
in quick succession. Now the paddy has replaced the sugarcane, which within a
decade has become an uneconomical crop. The sight of the old mango orchard with
bletted fruits delight my heart, and lessen my unease. For the first time in an hour, I feel welcome in my own land.
Thereafter, my drive up to the village
reminds me of the hot afternoons when I, with my friends, rode bicycles and
raced with one another. Needless to say, I didn’t always win the race. If I had
ever won even once, I can’t recollect. I don’t want to and lose the joy of
those carefree childhood memories. In joyous mood, I drive on and enter the
village. The mud houses have been bricked, and dirt tracks have been paved with
bricks. The sound of a motor vehicle drew out several villagers on the street.
It did when I was a child. Some things, I guess, in a village life never
change.
(for complete story, please go to short story section)...............
