childhood vignettes

you are proud of your country, and of her rich heritage. and you shall try,desperately try, to be worthy of her. you open your eyes wide, waiting in line at a school quadrangle, it is yet another morning assembly among your fellow restless comrades eager to escape to lands outside of the tiny home they have grown up in. you yearn together, as you wipe the glistening sweat from your dusky foreheads, stuffy tunics amplifying the effect of the sun's heat emanating from the azure sky as crows erupt in a cacophony of voices. the hymn is disrupted, but the choir undeterred-their scarlet robes a testament to the long-standing heritage of a school that has seen far worse days. the final bars of the national anthem rise and swell as your eyes travel down the corridors of an undefiled heritage of the storied past.

you long to go back, to summers well-spent you'd laugh with your cousins over jokes you cannot remember, your attention arrested and suddenly occupied by their boisterous dog, she'd lick your face and you'd both fall down. you like to reminisce about the stories your Nani would tell you, of your childhood, the sweet, pungent aroma of her signature Aam ka achaar wafting through the dense air. the warm,fresh-out-of-the-tava aloo parathas await, but it is not enough for your ever-eager appetite.

you would greet guests sometimes, they would ask you "what you want to study, beta

? but you didn't have an answer, so your shy smile would do the talking for a while." then, in dadi's open aangan you would sprinkle coloured powder onto the olive floor, hardened by the passage of time. the finished product was a rangoli, you'd smile up at your mother's face, she was proud, you deduced (oh but you hoped, you really prayed she was, pride was a commodity too precious to sacrifice.) on Diwali, you'd hasten through the Puja, tie the red thread on your wrist, only to pull it out a week later, carelessly. gazing admirably at your Dadi, circling incense sticks over elephant gods that you have to believe in, the earthy scent of deep yellow marigolds emanating through the smoke of the puja room. gorging on mithai after every meal with your Dada. you'd help acquaint them with the wonders of the technology you have grown up with, but to them is a reflection of changing times, the roles reversed, the younger generation adopting the role of a teacher, the older, the unsuspecting student. aloo tikki drizzled with dahi, generous amounts of gold-streaked sev and green dollops of chutney, the taste of which lingers in your mind.

and then you'd go back home, awaiting your next visit. they'll tell you to call but you will forget, only birthdays can serve as a reminder of what you leave behind, away from the cosmopolitan society you belong to. they will tease you about your Hindi, and you'd laugh and shrug it off. and maybe, just maybe, you will remember to call.