Tuesday, 17 April 2012


(A short story)

My childhood wasn’t crowded. The mountains, the horses, the cool summers and the chilly winters were the climatic and physical paraphernalia that surrounded my little home. I didn’t go to school because school was far away but my parents had the walls left unpainted but coloured by different textures of paper. Books covered every cement patch hiding it behind themselves. The books gave me the sense of loss of the city life I had never experienced. They gave me a sense of achievement of oneness with nature all around me. The books gave me a sense of nostalgia of my soulful existence, with their spiritual words. In fact they almost created a haunted like nostalgia with my real self within, in contrast to my outward mortal human body. I didn’t have any friends, I mean like the mortals around most people but I did have the trees and the horses and the stray dogs that roamed round our place.
On one of my birthdays then the amount which the city children spend on parties was utilized instead for a camera. It was the loveliest gift I could ever have got. I began capturing moments into that square box. The photographs I gathered inside it became a constant reminder of the absentia of friends of the common man. These photographs became a terrific memory support as I kept growing in age. I had built an album by now and every time I turned its pages, a small town record gazed back at me. a record of a virgin ground where nothing grew, a record of lush greenery at another end, a record of life existing at far ends in silence. Underneath these visuals, past thoughts and moments spoke to my heart.
When I grew up my bags were packed and I was set off to the city to an uncle’s house. The crowded streets, blaring noises of the people there, the electronic gadgets and vehicles all together tore harshly at the silence I had gathered till now making holes in my habitual peaceful mental fabric. I had to shut the doors and windows of the physical externals to allow my internal peace breathe. My album came to my rescue. The images captured on paper played a memorable orchestra to my soul. The city here spoke so much while meaning nothing but my home images spoke nothing but meant everything to me. The city here had no sense of living in its rush but my home reminded me of the snail’s pace of joy in a leisurely walk. I decided that this place here was not for me; for long at least. My simple home attracted me more than the attractive call of success here.

1 comment:

  1. is this a a story?
    or a short retreat to your past??