Childhood

I remember the Sundays of my childhood, the only day I used to be home with mom and dad.
I remember that I used to wake up by 9 to watch one of my favourite kiddie series on doordarshan...the one in which the good always won over the bad by the end. I used to savour the breakfast my mom made, whose taste hasn’t changed till date!
I remember the lazy afternoons in the zoo with my dad, where I used to love to look at the lone Bengal tiger, to run to a swing as soon as one got free, my dad pushing me high up in the sky and me wanting to go even further up.
I remember squirming in my bed in the afternoon, waiting for mom and dad to wake up, shaking them awake every time I got too impatient. I used to however, hate watching the black and white marathi movies that my parents never missed on a Sunday evening on TV. I guess all the neighbourhood parents were alike since we kids got out to play at that time.
I remember the huge empty space around our small house, the amla and the almond trees where we used to gather the sour fruits and almonds that had betrayed the huge trees.
I remember the circular road in front of our house, where I learnt to ride my bicycle…without any fear, because I knew my dad was behind me.
Later, our house changed, neighbours changed, the trees around changed, the Sunday routine changed. But I still have my childhood in front of my eyes like it was yesterday…at least some part of it. I visit those surroundings once in a while…the centre of the circular road has become a park, people ambling around there now are unknown to me, the house we used to live in today has a stranger’s car parked in front of it. But through it all, I can see the faces I used to know. I can see my dad’s white fiat and my uncle’s red kinetic parked in front of the house. I can see myself playing in the yard, without a worry, without a thought about tomorrow, without questioning the reason of my existence.

It was a bright Sunday afternoon.
They were walking down the narrow street in a little town in Bretagne.
They had walked down this street many times before: in winter, spring, summer, autumn.
She talked about little nothings, he listened; with admiration, with love.
The cane he held had become a part of his life. He had become a part of hers.
He took each step slowly, cautiously, breathing heavily. She held his free hand tightly and continued singing poetry to him.
Very few people passed by at this time of the day but those who did tilted their hats when they saw him.
He was thinking how much he loved her; she was picturing the chocolate cake lying in the fridge.
And then he stopped.
She asked him what the matter was.
The cane fell to the ground first.
She shouted, her eyes brimming with tears.
She shook him but he did not move.
And just like that, she lost the man she loved the most.
Twenty years later when she would be all grown up, she wouldn’t remember his face, nor the long afternoon walks down the narrow street in a little town in Bretagne.