"The scorching summer, deserted afternoon and a pair of slippers; that's all we needed to spend our vacation. The both of us would ride through the entire town, up and down, in and out. Sometimes, our cycles took us on hidden paths, through the dense and in to the valley". I saw grandpa as he narrated, animated in his speech. His wrinkles gave way for the excitement to appear, that broken voice of his now sounding childlike.
The journey was a long one, wearing down on my holiday mood. There was blankness outside the window. It seemed like we were passing through endless darkness, a bit whitened by benevolent presence of the moon. Only my ears could tell there were trees around, maybe it was a forest land. "Could there be bandits lurking in the woods..or maybe some hideous creatures who venture after the sun has gone down. Are we the only ones in this vast stretch of land...", I was being overwhelmed by my imagination, which was regularly fed on fantasy tales. Shifting my attention to the familiar inside, I noticed grandpa staring at me through those bespectacled eyes. He knew the "suffocation and fatigue" a child was undergoing and sympathized with my boredom. It was again his fables which came to my rescue, taking me along on his journeys, as we traversed his heydays.
It was our regular summer vacation, but this time, my parents chose to visit our ancestral place over the beaches down south. I voiced my disapproval at first but as things usually turn out, was cajoled and coaxed into believing this to be a nice vacation. And here we were, in this compartment, as the train chugged along, whistling the night away. He beckoned me by his side, preparing himself yet again for another story.
-"Is that the only fun you had, cycling all day long", wondering at what alternative modes of enjoyment my grandpa might have had.
-"That was more than enough to make us feel free; to make us excite; to make us ponder. The town was ours playground as we cycled past every address, every pillar. There was freedom in the air and victory beneath our feat. Those peddles kept taking us forward, taking our childhood forward, as we stumbled, fell, bruised and got up again. The peddles know how imagination makes a child wander beyond the boundaries. You need to peddle beyond what is seen, what is known."
-"Grandpa, where is your friend now? Does he still live there? We could make a visit to him. A surprise-would be fun".
Some distant lights appeared in view, maybe a station was nearing. The tree-like figures became visible and recognizable. Gradually, the outside gave way to the familiar, erasing any imagination that might have obstructed from seeing the obvious.
-"Many summers passed and we cycled on different paths", his tone turning croaky again, "He chose to guard that town, guarding our childhood and many other memories, while I chose to peddle ahead, peddle towards glory."
-"We sure could visit him..he'll feel nice. We'll find him easily...he's resting at the same spot since ten years; under a stone."
And the train slowly came to a halt.
The journey was a long one, wearing down on my holiday mood. There was blankness outside the window. It seemed like we were passing through endless darkness, a bit whitened by benevolent presence of the moon. Only my ears could tell there were trees around, maybe it was a forest land. "Could there be bandits lurking in the woods..or maybe some hideous creatures who venture after the sun has gone down. Are we the only ones in this vast stretch of land...", I was being overwhelmed by my imagination, which was regularly fed on fantasy tales. Shifting my attention to the familiar inside, I noticed grandpa staring at me through those bespectacled eyes. He knew the "suffocation and fatigue" a child was undergoing and sympathized with my boredom. It was again his fables which came to my rescue, taking me along on his journeys, as we traversed his heydays.
It was our regular summer vacation, but this time, my parents chose to visit our ancestral place over the beaches down south. I voiced my disapproval at first but as things usually turn out, was cajoled and coaxed into believing this to be a nice vacation. And here we were, in this compartment, as the train chugged along, whistling the night away. He beckoned me by his side, preparing himself yet again for another story.
-"Is that the only fun you had, cycling all day long", wondering at what alternative modes of enjoyment my grandpa might have had.
-"That was more than enough to make us feel free; to make us excite; to make us ponder. The town was ours playground as we cycled past every address, every pillar. There was freedom in the air and victory beneath our feat. Those peddles kept taking us forward, taking our childhood forward, as we stumbled, fell, bruised and got up again. The peddles know how imagination makes a child wander beyond the boundaries. You need to peddle beyond what is seen, what is known."
-"Grandpa, where is your friend now? Does he still live there? We could make a visit to him. A surprise-would be fun".
Some distant lights appeared in view, maybe a station was nearing. The tree-like figures became visible and recognizable. Gradually, the outside gave way to the familiar, erasing any imagination that might have obstructed from seeing the obvious.
-"Many summers passed and we cycled on different paths", his tone turning croaky again, "He chose to guard that town, guarding our childhood and many other memories, while I chose to peddle ahead, peddle towards glory."
-"We sure could visit him..he'll feel nice. We'll find him easily...he's resting at the same spot since ten years; under a stone."
And the train slowly came to a halt.
