Roots

Times change. People change. Memories Fade. But some memories..never fade. Or do they? You are traveling light heartedly engrossed in thought. Suddenly you see something. A newly built café. Quaint. Reminds you of a time lost, a memory forgotten. Another Restaurant. Heavy rain. Festive Season. You with a dear one. Little hands holding on to firm premature hands. Premature by hardship. Premature by struggle. You are seeing the world with big frightened eyes; feeling security in those firm hands. Firm young hands. Firm not by age but by overwork. The two of you enter that big restaurant. Both are extremely hungry. Greedily the menu card is opened. Dishes you don’t even know the names of. Sooo many…and they all seem so tasty. One dish. But..the price…. Okk another dish. This one costs less. But there is money only for one. How can you buy one plate of vegetable curry in such a posh restaurant? No money to order two plates. Quietly the two of you close the menu card, grin at each other at the idiocy of the prices and hold hands. Quietly the two of you step outside the restaurant in the blistering rain. The manager looks up from his newspaper. He takes a look at the departing strangers and goes back to reading.

Outside. In the Blistering Rain. The grins broaden. Wholehearted laugh. He saw us. Hehe. He didn’t say anything. What would he think? Goodness, to hell with that! Who charges soo much? We could have ordered at least something doesn’t it look bad? The premature voice of the firm hands comforts the little hands. Dhurr… Who cares? Let’s go find something to eat. Onekkhon khidey peyeche….

Times change. People… yes People also change. Sadly. But memories …do they fade that easily? You are ordering Biriyani from a posh restaurant. You keep the phone down and smile. The premature eyes have become more deeply set now. The eyes look at you and both smile instantly. Remember? Yes I do. How can I forget? Times change. But our roots don’t. Our roots make us who we are.

The bus. The quaint café. Sigh. Days of hardship are over. At least for now. But where are the premature eyes, the firm hands? The hands on which your whole world rested? The eyes were wide and bright. The firm hands had long shapely fingers. Where are they now?

Past. Togetherness. Love. Bond.

Present. Freedom. Alienation. Memory?

The bus speeds on. You look away and continue listening to music.