First prize in School Youth Festival-2011 Story writing-English
THOSE LOST DAYS
“Lost days are lost forever,
but life will not drain out of them as long as they lie fresh in human heart”
I don’t know who has penned these; may be a great poet or some one anonymous. But now I know well that they took birth from real life experiences that have pierced into my soul and life.
My long lost childhood!
It was a time when I knew nothing and wanted to know anything and everything.
And she came to teach me anything and everything.
My beloved teacher!
She was a second mother to me. She was a part of my soul, essence of my breath. She mixed colours and still add colours to my memories. In fading mist of memories I find her running across the green-clad paddy fields, eagerly, to meet her single student, 4 years old naughty girl, me. She took me to the world of letters. She told me that letters make words and words make marking impressions on people around me. She used to come each day after I had finished a big glass of milk, pushed into me by my over-caring granny. She had a fine sindooram on her forehead and deep dimples on her rosy cheeks. I wished that she may be my mother, for I missed my own parents in the childhood; staying with grandparents; but no!
I have heard several times my granny speaking to her about medicines and rituals, prayers and homage and many unmemorable treatments. And I still remember the day she wiped off tears that rolled down her rosy cheeks like mountain dew dripping from the tip of a rose flower, when I accidentally called her “Amma”!!
How will a 4 year old know that being infertile couple is the greatest curse one can ever come across in life?
Yes, my teacher was never a mother. She had married a military man whose virtue led him to live for nation than for the family. Years later, I came to know that my second mom flew across the green fields to dry her quest to pamper a child. Now I understand, to be a mother, it is never destined that you should undergo deadly pain; but you can bear a baby inside you to be a mother.
I left her to go to the world of harder words. I left that humble village of light rhythms and soft melodies to step into the world of harsh life. She parted with me; rather an essential part of my heart left me. Fast and fuming years of studies which turned me down to book worm flew away. That 4 year old, curious at drops of tears of her teacher grew up to be a journalist.
The life I went on under experience of intense and compassionate care of parents went off. Standing on my legs, eagerly I watched unrelieved face of new life. The city around me kept on wearing a charming smile hiding the ghostly greed for blood. Everywhere I found women being pushed down! Teenagers abused! Children tortured!
Old parents thrown out! City had used them and wants them no more. Thoughts clenched my hands, touched my brain- yes, I had to do something.
One dark night I met a 2 year old baby at the verge of road brimming with action. I held that unexpected treasure to myself. I knew not what to do. Early morning I made up my mind to go to an orphanage for street children which I often wished to visit. I set off. I held my breath when I came to entrance of that ‘home’!
It was about the same structure of my grandparents’ home. With shivering mind I pressed the door bell. I could feel my long lost childhood running back to me, clattering with memories. A middle aged woman came to open the door. A shrill ran through my spine. My soul jumped out of me! My teacher, my beloved second mom was in front of me. She didn’t recognize me. I know she can’t. The 4 year old baby she taught was not the journalist who eagerly made fussy news. I held the baby which she took earnestly from me. I could recognize the passion that overwhelmed her eyes when she held my hand, years back.
She didn’t want the whereabouts of the baby. She was a mother who knew everything. I walked back speaking nothing. Later when I returned to my village, grandma had lots to speak. She told me of my childhood friends, the ancient stories that my home ‘tharavadu’ and at last, about my teacher. She couldn’t stand her lone life, suffering the dark face of husband’s mother. And her patriotic husband left her, shedding his blood drops for mother land. My teacher knew what she had to do- if her husband to whom she wed to be together in everything-dharma- died for motherland, destiny tells her to shed her sweat for the same nation. She did that. Later in her life, she worked for the uplifting of street children.
Her virtue proves that she was a right teacher. I know ‘unsung melodies are sweeter’. My colourful childhood under her care is long lost. Men forget past as he craves for higher altitudes in peaks of life. My village, its theme and heart, made my teacher a mother. And those days have now made me join hands with her; we now work for same aim. You know, our lives are destined before our birth! And destiny has held this daughter and mom together.
Yes! Life is unpredictable! Destiny says it all.
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Arsha Maria Alex
XI Science
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