So finally
after twenty one years, I visited the small, obscure village (by the name Gedama),
whose name sounds alien to most people even within Odisha. I still wonder why
it took me so long to visit the place which I longed to visit during every
holiday that childhood had offered.
As the door opened, out rushed a flurry of the
lost moments…the earliest life memories… which had got somewhere distanced into
a dormant pool of untapped thoughts
….a lone
little three year old….probably his earliest memories…listening
stories from his Mama (maternal grandmother) and waiting for his Aja (maternal
grandfather) to return back home with a packet of gems…And thirty five years in between
….a four year old wrapping his hands around the round pillar, which supported the roof above, and
unsuccessfully trying desperately to make the tip of fingers of both hands
touch….a two year old closely observing
the activity with big, bold eyes with a red color toy in his hands….. And thirty four years in between
…a six year
old, a four year old and two new babies…all busy displaying their respective
chores around the pillar…And thirty one years
in between
…a ten year
old, an eight year old and two four year olds...being fed their respective
delicacies prepared so lovingly by their grandparents…And twenty eight years in between
…a fourteen
year old, a twelve year old, two eight year olds and a new baby….but probably
the magic of the village was beginning to wane for each one of us and the duration of our stays reduced from weeks to days...And twenty four years in between
..a
seventeen year old, a fifteen year old, two eleven year olds and a three year
old attended the last wedding of the generation for one day and one night and with that ended the magical
journeys of childhood….And twenty one
years in between
Flashes of a
hundred such images…each trying to claim their respective dominant moods of
childhood…the paddy fields where we muddled and danced and jumped…the train station
where we were taken to by our Grandfather to enjoy the view of the coal powered
trains, the Pooja room where we all were taken to recite the evening chants,
the red suitcase which always made us wonder what secrets it stored within, the terrace
where we all gathered to count the infinite stars and later identify the known
constellations, the guava and chickoo trees who played with us as we all grew together…the people
who once existed and whose voices took us to the land of fairies and angels….and
the anguish and tears which reached out once again as I was not present around
the pillar on the last journey of my Aja…
Moments metamorphose to memories….memories
live within us….so in a way the moments live within us….only to be enlivened
with age.
While I was
lost within myself, I saw my four year old son trying to wrap his hands around
the pillar. He tried hard but there was a good few inches gap between the reaches of the fingers. I tried to live the reflexive smile…A smile which was just a
physical manifestation of the memories of moments which took place in
and around the pillar….
