Today is one of those days when I am having a desperate urge to go back in time – be a child again; spend a beautiful childhood; have the protection of a caring father and the shelter of a loving mother. Play for hours in the fields, chasing dragon flies – playing doll house.
I wish to spend lazy moments of my youth, listening to Jagjit Singh’s ghazals in the dimly lit one-room house of my youtful days. Lying on that old wooden cot, with my face turned toward the door, opening into a large puddle, strewn with fallen red hibiscus from the tree that stood silently by the side. I saw the rain drops settled on the hibiscus leaves, left behind by a recent summer shower, hanging and eager to jump into the puddle, like a naughty child naked and eager to take a dip into a pond.
I want to have my dreams back – the dreams that made me smile; the dreams that remained forgotten and forlorn in the mad rush of time. I am looking for them in old diaries; in dried flowers lost in the pages of my college textbooks, and in some old memoirs that I have treasured crazily over the years.