By Vaidya Shankar
I took a slow memory train of thought
To my favourite destination-
My childhood,
Covering a distance of about 58 years.
There, in my native village, I met
my dear old friends, a handful of them.
We played cricket with wooden sticks for stumps, and a worn out tennis ball,
Played marbles, spinning top, and football with a crushed, discarded ball,
Got wet in the monsoon rains,
Fought tooth and claw in the mud
for no particular reason,
Drove our parents crazy.
We saw classic Hindi and English movies,
In a thatched hut theatre, for one rupee seat on a bench, munching 10 paise groundnuts.
While playing cricket in the middle of the village, one of us 'netted' the battered tennis ball into the vegetable vendor, Lakshmi's head basket with a sixer shot,
And heard the choicest epithets from the harassed lady who demanded one rupee for returning the emaciated ball.
I met labourer Chuppan, the man- Friday of our village,
who would march every evening regally down the village road,
full of strange monologues and cheap liquor,
And where the black top ended in our village which had partially tarred roads, he would turn and march right back.
"Chuppan will walk only on tarred roads,"
shrieked one of my friends, laughing.
Then there was Kichamani mama who would wave at any passing car,
as though he knew the occupants,
and beam at us foolishly in snobbish pride.
I met Bombay Raghu, whose traffic discipline was so deeply ingrained that he would show hand signals even while walking on our village road.
I met Stamp vendor Venkatraman whose jalopy of a bicycle would allow only him to sit, it was said.
On his occupying the loyal cycle's seat, it would automatically propel him to his work place.
I met my best friend whose dad was so tall,
my jovial friend would quip his dad could pedal only with his knees.
Lastly, I met Venkitta, an old miser who once spilt a Dettol bottle by mistake,
and then deliberately cut his finger to 'use' the spill.
Later, after my heart's fill, I took the train back to the aged present me.