Good old days....
Good Old days
Today for some strange reason it reminded me of the day I was in first standard. It was my first day. I remember my baba coming to drop me at the school…holding my, then little hands in his…seating me among the other howling crank-heads, smiling and waving me a good bye. I smiled back with a bye. The moment he was out of sight I realized why other kids must be crying...and the very next moment I was one of the crank-head howlers, trumpeting the rhythm of pain and anger for being left alone in the crying crowd.
Today for some strange reason it reminded me of the day I was in first standard. It was my first day. I remember my baba coming to drop me at the school…holding my, then little hands in his…seating me among the other howling crank-heads, smiling and waving me a good bye. I smiled back with a bye. The moment he was out of sight I realized why other kids must be crying...and the very next moment I was one of the crank-head howlers, trumpeting the rhythm of pain and anger for being left alone in the crying crowd.
But after a minute or so I went quite… The anger thawed…and
there was a sense of calm. I don’t know what sense prevailed then. Must have
been a tacit faith I had in my baba…an unspoken rule ‘jean’ed in blood which I
didn’t understand then…a code cracked to the fact that my baba won’t leave me in a place where I will be harmed…
The crying musical went on for months...23 years since; it
still plays along when I have to get back to Mumbai from my home town.
I long the days when he knowingly never solved my problems
but cut them down to the size I can tackle…the days when he yelled at me and
felt worse than I did…the days when I used to ‘fit’ on the tank of the bike my
dad rode, sitting behind me like a solid rock…I long those days when I was
short.
Comments
Post a Comment