Small town musings
Strolling on the city's cemented sidewalks; I see spring planning her escape, quietly packing her bags.
The flower beds with their pinks, yellows, and purples are gradually turning paler;
the grass on the hills too is losing its lushness, and shifting shades from green to a dull umber.
All these thoughts of blossoms and leaves have today somehow stirred up fond childhood memories.
I am all at once hankering for that small town I come from. I think about wading through tall grass reaching up to my knees; pockets filled with pebbles and nameless berries.
Of late, I realize I only look at leaves, as they sprout out and drift. I only gaze at buds, which flower away and wilt.
It’s been years since I paused and plucked a leaf or flower by hand.
You’d think I should be taking up picking cherries and building myself some castles in the sand.
Or say, what I need is some store-bought mulch and a yard; so I could grow myself some orange, spinach and chard?
But how do I recreate that old world charm? This is more than potting up plants and muddy digging; how can a small backyard bring back a whole town I am missing?
My mind wanders back to the time when I sulked to water her plants, but ran into that garden she built, to duck my mother’s homework rants.
I think about the frail Papaya trees that clumsily fell almost every monsoon, and the marigold and hibiscus I picked so we could deck granny’s puja room;
the pretend banks my friends ran in our made-up games, carrying our “business” using coin-shaped leaves as cash;
the succulent cactus from our mothers’ kitchen garden, we chopped with our tiny toy cutlery, to feign cooking soup, curry, and mash;
vacations spent under the Rain tree, harvesting sticky pods to be patiently pound, shaping our own cricket balls oh so perfectly shaped round.
I miss scouring bushes for berries and climbing crooked trees of guava and tamarind; learning to fly kites, desperately waiting for them to lift off and soar with the rising wind.
Pebbles and shells, sprigs and vines, these playthings that got left back there in time.
These are just ordinary, everyday things, I pass by now on the streets.
I have grown up and moved city to city, and except in my small town reveries
I no longer pick nameless berries
I no longer run through grass that’s grown knee high
nor do I climb any crooked fruit trees, or attempt to make paper kites fly.
