Fond Memories

The best days of my life (as a kid) that I treasure most were those that I spent with my grandparents. As my father was in a transferable job, we had to shift from city to city every 3-4 years. The pain of leaving behind friends and relatives is unbearable. After couple of transfers, I learned to withstand the agony of leaving behind near and dear ones.
Memories of that summer are still fresh when my father announced as soon as he came back from office, “We are going to Bombay. I have been posted out.” I could foresee best days of my life coming to an end; meeting my grandparents from almost every month would be restricted to only two months during my school summer vacation.
Every year I used to eagerly wait to get promoted to my next class so that I get my new books to read. This year, I earned the unwelcome bonus, too – new place, new people, new school, new teachers, new uncles and aunts. I was like a seedling transplanted to an unknown environment, anticipating growth. We shifted to our new accommodation in Bombay (bustling city even during early 80s, two-wheelers were strict no on roads). Gradually, I began settling down in the new city in the midst of unknown people.
First thing in the evening, after coming back from my school, I would enquire whether Ma (mother) has received any letters from Dadu (grandfather) or not. Often, my desperation for his letters used to take me to nearest mail despatch section (inside the campus). His postcards had a unique look, neatly written using blue ink fountain pen (some of us might have seen but not have used), which reminded me how upset he was when I mischievously replaced his fountain pen with another ballpoint pen. His postcards were like bag full of gifts for me – they had information about every small thing I was attached to in my village. Starting from my fishing tool (unattended), about the little calf, the plant we jointly planted and watered. His letters, albeit brief were sufficiently detailed that after reading them I could exactly imagine and predict when and around what time he must have written a particular letter.
During next two years I could sense the expectancy and anticipation waning. Not the least because I was growing materialistic with the city, but I guess age was catching up with him. Now, he would manage to complete his letters over weeks and sometimes, even months, unlike earlier days when they were so much more frequent. At times, the completed postcard slept in between pages of his diary as he forgot to drop it in the mailbox.
All kids look forward to the month of May because for most of them last day of annual examination falls in that month. But for me it was the time that I did not have to wait for the postman for letters, instead only wait for the train to reach Kharagpur railway station. My fun days were again back, even if it was only for next 50 days. My grandparents were like genies who fulfilled all my wishes – protected me from scolding, beating (courtesy my parents) even if I did something wrong. Granny gave me the liberty of choosing what I wanted to eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and everybody was supposed to eat the same. Today, I wonder how I kept myself absorbed in my own world of wonders that included sprinting behind the calf, plucking mangoes and dates, chucking pebbles at ducks near the pond and in between sneaking into granny’s kitchen, expecting some sweets. No sweets? Never mind I will be fine with fresh sugarcane jaggery.
As the village had no electricity, every evening neighbors and relatives would gather and share their stories of the year gone by. And it was the time for me to quietly slip into vicinity of my grandfather, listen to his stories from the past and retire under the quilt of his warm affection.
As all good things come to an end, so also my two-month stay with my grandparents. The days had gone by so fast and it was time for my return journey with the sweet taste of jaggery and even sweeter memories of the vacation lingering in my mind and consciousness. Again a long wait for next year May.
How right Horace Mann was when he said “Lost, yesterday, somewhere between sunrise and sunset, two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered, for they are gone forever.” The only difference was that his two golden hours and sixty diamond minutes were, in my case, two golden months and sixty (almost) diamond days.