Hey! Man I want to go.... :))

Two calls.
And I was swept away through the tidal waves of Time into an era that belonged to the foregone Century. There was this unstoppable-never-before urge to relive Childhood. Every moment precious, as it were, and so without the slightest alteration to it.
It was not the first time that I was experiencing an emotional upsurge threatening to do a cloud-burst in my eyes! And yet this was different.

The first call was from a cousin who I knew existed somewhere in Goa. In the long span of time that had separated us I had got a couple of fleeting updates. I knew just a few things about her like she had lost her husband years ago and that her sons were either studying or working abroad. But I had no idea she had a daughter too, who was married and now moved back to Goa with her husband to be close to Mommy. Although I had never seen her children, my mind started weaving their pictures.
Among the images that my heart and mind have stored together there is a vividly clear portrait of this cousin. Without much thought I gave her face to her daughter.

The last time I had seen her, my cousin must have been almost as old as her daughter is now. Her lovely radiant smile showing a perfect set of pearly teeth, the magnificent kundan jewellery adding glow to her already beaming countenance, her phirozi gharara, kurta and dupatta embellished with sequins, lachkas and gotas, the merrily jingling phirozi glass bangles worn with exquisite kundan kangans. And not to forget those lovely rings on her long fair fingers !!!
That was at some family celebration in our native town in Uttar Pradesh years and years and years back.

Now as her voice touched my ears, I tried to imagine her in person. It was a voice that I had  forgotten over the years , and , yet strangely enough it was a voice I felt pleasantly comfortable with. Although all my efforts to put a face or a personality to that voice now proved  fruitless , I knew the voice and the person deep inside my heart ....it was a voice that seemed very much my own.

After the call ended I felt as if  a small part of my past that had drifted away had found its way back to me.
And that should have made me happy. But queerly the feeling deep within me was that of an undefinable emptiness and longing.

The other call was from a dear old friend. She is someone who has been there for me whenever I needed a true friend. We had met in school...Class three to be precise, when my father was transferred from a place in Raigad district to a place in Thane district in Maharashtra. Her father worked for the Birlas. Mine for the Tatas. And in their professional capacities they often met each other, while we girls met in the class every day. Little wonder then that our mothers have been friends too ever since.
We have seen a lot of this world together.

This friend had now called me to share a sad news. Her father had passed away a day before.
Slowly in a controlled voice she gave me the details while I mumbled the customary words of condolence.
Oh! Come on...what was I doing?
She is so close to me, I can feel her pain as my own and yet it seemed I was being perfunctory in expressing my grief.
Deep inside I could feel my tears. I wanted to cry and cry and cry...
But the fact is no words could express my pain.

In everyone's life there are certain things and people whose presence one takes for granted. Life without them is unimaginable. When my father passed away three years back, I could not come to terms with the fact for quite sometime. But being too numb with shock, in a state of trance I sailed through the tragedy with apparent ease. Friends and relatives were surprised to see how "brave" I had been in my "composure", displaying a rare calm that seemingly comes when one entrusts oneself entirely to God.
But I know I am not such a sagaciously detached soul.

While on this call I was reminded of my own loss. slowly I began to realise that with my father a part of my childhood had also died. There was no numbness now as I clearly remembered my late father. They say time heals all wounds. Then how could I still feel the pain as if of a wound that was still raw.
Of loss that was irreparable?

I had never cared for the proverbial bachpan-ke-din to come back.
Never lived in the past.
Never tried to hold back and cling on to memories.

But now suddenly it dawned upon me that my childhood is far too beautiful and invaluable for me to let it just go away. I want to cling on to all those memories, and hold back Time in my tightly clenched fists.

I want to go back...really earnestly...to my bachpan-ke-din... to the time
"when getting high meant swinging,
when drinking ended up with CocaCola bottles,
when Dad was the only hero,
when love was Mom's hug,
when Dad's shoulder was the highest place on this planet,
when one's siblings were one's 'worst enemies'
when my dolls were hand-made by my granny (exclusively for me)
when in hot summer afternoons we sneaked out to collect wild berries and jungle-jalebis in our embroidered cotton frocks and sat on the verandah steps to "divide the booty without cheating !!!"
when behind Mummy's back my sister and I would explore her wardrobe for silk saris and shaneel blouses
when marriage meant gudiya-gudde-ki-shaadi
when one could sleep without a worry in the world,
when all the phones were landline
when the only thing that hurt were skinned knees
when the only things broken were toys
And
when goodbyes were only till tomorrow............."