“Come let’s take a walk Tushita, near those marigold flowers!” I invite my younger one, signalling her to hold my finger. She laps up the invitation with equivalent enthusiasm. We step out of the house and begin walking. It is a little cold but we are adequately equipped; in spirit and clothing. We stroll along the slightly uneven and dusty road, our fingers entwined amidst the marigold flowers.
This is not just an evening walk for me. It is a walk towards life too! I am here, after living a locked-up life for 8 months (alone with my kids) courtesy of the pandemic, in a 650 square feet flat in Mumbai. The Diwali festive spirit replaced the fear associated with travelling during a pandemic with renewed positivity. As a result, I took a 2-hour flight and an 8-hour drive post that, to be here. And that is why this is not just some mother taking her daughter for a walk. This is a heart walking, in search of something.
The urban dweller in me experiences the urge to click selfies and pictures of this evening stroll with my little one. She is a happy camper now. She touches the marigold flowers along the road and tries to identify the different shades of the flower. There is so much similarity between the enthusiastic expression of a child and the orange hues of the Marigold flower. I do not have a proclivity for the marigold flower but whenever I lay my eyes on it, it evokes happy emotions in me. Isn’t Orange representative of life and all its manifestations? It is a happy colour. Almost childlike! The marigold flowers on the farm are wrapped in a promise of a beautiful present and at the same time take me back to the warm and sunny days of my childhood and adolescent years spent in this farmhouse.
I watch my child soaking in this simple pleasure of life and at the same time I am ambling along several lanes of a place called MEMORY with childlike mirth. Both events recur together in perfect harmony. I look at my house from a distance.
Several changes have taken place over the last so many years. New rooms have been constructed. Walls have been painted and repainted many a time. The backyard which was once studded with lush green mango, papaya, banyan and Neem trees, has been cleared significantly, to accommodate farm workers. Just two days back, the house became Wi-Fi enabled (Still got my elder one’s online school to attend!). So, there have been changes!!! And yet this continues to remain my family’s go-to place for as long as I can remember.
I was born and brought up in Nainital, a gorgeous hill station. An hour’s drive from Nainital is this farmhouse of ours, in Haldwani. Every weekend, every festival, every holiday we would drive down to this place, welcomed by the twinkling eyes of my cousins. My favourite memory is of the 3-month long winter vacation. November was special for me though it was the month of final examinations. It was special because December – January- February were coming soon!!! And that meant packing our bags and shifting base to the farmhouse.
This place smells of the wonderful bond between cousins, of farm adventures, of tractor rides, of my first cycling lessons. It brings back flashes of memory of 6-7 children, trying to climb the trees in the orchard. It reminds me of how we were rebuked and thrashed by our respective parents for becoming unidentifiable under muddy clothes and faces covered with dust, as the day ended. It transports me to the mornings which were spent playing cricket and how one of us would sit on an old worn-out tractor in the corner and provide rib-tickling and nonsensical commentary. This place is a reminder of how lovely my Diwali used to be. Lights, crackers, card nights with cousins, sweets and our homes jarring with laughter.
This place is my haven; My home. Now the adult in me finds it difficult to visit this place as often as the child in me urges it to. And now when I am here, I have found that something I was looking for. I found a missing piece of my heart here. That piece which vanishes in the city life and leaves a void within me. That piece which refuses to leave this place. That piece wonders if a time travel is still possible! This missing piece of my heart is scattered all over this place, basking in the warm sunshine of memories from my childhood and adolescence.
I guess that is why they say home is where the heart is.
If I want this missing piece of my heart, I will always have to return here, to this road surrounded by the marigold flowers; to my home.
This one is for my marigold lane, and yours!
May we all be blessed with a marigold lane of memories, where the uncorrupted version of us still exists; And where a piece of our heart awaits us.
Amen.
P.S. – This post was originally written during COVID- 2020 for Momspresso.
THIS POST IS A PART OF THE BLOGCHATTER BLOG HOP
THEME – CHILDHOOD
Image by lachetas on Freepik
2 comments
Nostalgia spills out of the marigold beds.
It does ! Thank you so stopping by!