"i'm going."
and that was about it. there really wasn't much to explain considering that during holidays the parents were more than content to let the boy off on his own, running around the town and being up to no real good...it was better than having the boy stay at home and crib and complain all day and put up with his whining. too bad that the boy couldn't stay put in one place. he had his books that he devoured at an astonishing speed and then once he was done reading he had nothing...that's when the whining started. and that's when the boy decided to get going.
the boy loved his cycle. it was a shade of purple with a dash of red thrown in. to the boy there was no better color. the sleek racing bike was his ride and he adored it and he pampered it. it was his first love, and for him, at that time there was none better. the boy's destination hardly took him 10 minutes at max to reach on his cycle on a route that he could ride with his eyes shut. and yet in those 10 minutes he managed to find something new everyday. the dust and the grey factory building remained the only constant landmarks. the potholes were the variable in the equation; always there, and then there were more the next day. the people also seemed to increase by the day. the city in which he lived was a growing entity that was ever hungry and that seemed to swallow whole the areas that once were the outskirts. there was no stopping this beast. it simply grew on. the dull grey of the factory building was in itself impressive. the massive letters that spelled out the name were something that the boy always thought could have been better done some other way. still it was there as he rode past it.
the heat and the dust was no deterrent to the boy and his friend. there is something about being boys, maybe its the age, that makes most things in the natural order bearable. the mid day sun was a scorcher that sent everyone scurrying for cover. the asphalt on the roads would turn greasy as the tar melted under the hot gaze of the fireball while the dust danced about in small wind funnels sucking up the plastic bags and other garbage in the same manner that a house is uprooted by a hurricane/twister. and yet despite all this the boys carried on in gay abandon their game of cricket. one bowling and the other batting.
the boy enjoyed cricket, and especially bowling more than anything when it came to the matter of any physical activity. for him all that mattered was the fact that he had the cricket ball in his hands that he could throw at his opponent who was batting, make him dance around as he toyed with him and finally castle him and shatter his stumps. and every time he did so, he sported a wide victory grin. but most often it was the other way around, the boy's friend being a better batsman, managed to pick out the boy's intention and thwart him in achieving his goal. the ball would promptly be dispatched to the other end of the ground and the boy would scurry after, bearing in mind only one thing.
:)
and that was about it. there really wasn't much to explain considering that during holidays the parents were more than content to let the boy off on his own, running around the town and being up to no real good...it was better than having the boy stay at home and crib and complain all day and put up with his whining. too bad that the boy couldn't stay put in one place. he had his books that he devoured at an astonishing speed and then once he was done reading he had nothing...that's when the whining started. and that's when the boy decided to get going.
the boy loved his cycle. it was a shade of purple with a dash of red thrown in. to the boy there was no better color. the sleek racing bike was his ride and he adored it and he pampered it. it was his first love, and for him, at that time there was none better. the boy's destination hardly took him 10 minutes at max to reach on his cycle on a route that he could ride with his eyes shut. and yet in those 10 minutes he managed to find something new everyday. the dust and the grey factory building remained the only constant landmarks. the potholes were the variable in the equation; always there, and then there were more the next day. the people also seemed to increase by the day. the city in which he lived was a growing entity that was ever hungry and that seemed to swallow whole the areas that once were the outskirts. there was no stopping this beast. it simply grew on. the dull grey of the factory building was in itself impressive. the massive letters that spelled out the name were something that the boy always thought could have been better done some other way. still it was there as he rode past it.
the heat and the dust was no deterrent to the boy and his friend. there is something about being boys, maybe its the age, that makes most things in the natural order bearable. the mid day sun was a scorcher that sent everyone scurrying for cover. the asphalt on the roads would turn greasy as the tar melted under the hot gaze of the fireball while the dust danced about in small wind funnels sucking up the plastic bags and other garbage in the same manner that a house is uprooted by a hurricane/twister. and yet despite all this the boys carried on in gay abandon their game of cricket. one bowling and the other batting.
the boy enjoyed cricket, and especially bowling more than anything when it came to the matter of any physical activity. for him all that mattered was the fact that he had the cricket ball in his hands that he could throw at his opponent who was batting, make him dance around as he toyed with him and finally castle him and shatter his stumps. and every time he did so, he sported a wide victory grin. but most often it was the other way around, the boy's friend being a better batsman, managed to pick out the boy's intention and thwart him in achieving his goal. the ball would promptly be dispatched to the other end of the ground and the boy would scurry after, bearing in mind only one thing.
"it mattered not how many times he got hit for a boundary. what mattered was that every now and then he would manage to produce that perfect delivery that would leave the batsman gaping and standing rooted to his spot like a fool on a podium."and that was reason enough to retrieve the ball and get back to the marked run-up and continue bowling. he had his heroes in the pacers of the international game who did the same at a much tougher level and he had to live up to their expectations and never give up if he was indeed a 'real bowler'.
the human thought is a funny thing. it has a systematic eccentricity about it that makes it so. the conscious memory of a person is something that we build up in the process of building ourselves. we learn to remember certain things in a certain manner that helps up mold into the sort of person that we are. the other aspects of our lives that get classified as the daily and mundane are locked away in some discreet corner of our brain, condemned to be forgotten over time. but that really never happens. our thought capitulates our past into the necessary and the unnecessary and adapts it to the present while at the same time brooding over the yet to pass future. but then there are always triggers that release the locked away memories. sight, smell, sound, touch and the other present senses stimulate the past and force it to surge forward like a wave crashing on to the coast. it engulfs you and grasps you in its folds and drags you along with it back to the past. and all one can do is surrender to it and feel the wild emotions flow through one's body and enjoy it....revelers, that's what we must be. today i reveled in the memory of my boyhood and my friends and the games that i played as i grew up. today was my first day of the so-called-holidays. a nice and sunny day outside with a clear blue sky.
:)
