My Childhood Vacation

After hearing about our great grandma’s death, I suddenly remembered my childhood days when our winter vacation would transport us to our grandma’s farmhouse from our schools in Sikkim. I used to run, without much haste to reach home, just to find her sitting on the terrace of one of our fields when others would direct their way to the house. I used to return home in the evening fastened on her back with sweets in my hands, only ending up to quarrel with Uppa for not letting her have some. I was very much familiar to that place, where Uppa, Robin and I have many times tried to climb the trees just to pluck a mango or a bunch of hog plum and bruised ourselves. The sixty-five years old historical farm-well that witnesses all of our birth was our favourite play ground. Running in the open paddy fields where golden seed-pods swaying in the mild gust of breeze would indicate its time of harvest; boarding the back of buffaloes and splashing muddy water all over was our diurnal, when one day a buffalo sprung up and nearly ditched Sanjoo di and Pravin mama. I still remember Rikesh da with his newly made catapult aiming the innocent sparrows, when I would assist him by providing pebbles for his weapon only of fear that he would thrash me, otherwise I was more into handling a non-violent front. Ramu Baje’s rebuke after finding us getting into the fields trampling the new sprouts still tingles my ears, how Ramu Baje dug the potatoes for us and we baked it in a hearth along with tiny rice-grains and enjoyed the childish bash. Oh! Ramu Baje is also too old now to look after the fields. Jageshor’s Baje grudging at having found one of his fishes missing, which Rikesh Da had stolen quietly and later I was accused of having it done. Alas! Jageshwor Baje is no more. I recollect the times when we used to rest behind the dense bamboo thicket (famous ‘baas ghari’) where I had shared my first puff of cigarette with Robin and wander into the fields, where our footmarks have left an indelible imprint on the surface of memory. Uppa and I one day accidently set fire on our storehouse when we were imitating to smoke with a jute straw and I finally took the charge of it only on Ganga Aunt’s sweet cajoling and how grandma had defended me off the situation else I would have been beaten out of life. I remember how grandma used to take my support whenever I made a mistake; afterall I was her dearest one. It was one day when Rikesh Da was digging a space on the ground with a spade and accidently the spade took its way to my feet leaving me seriously injured, I just made a lame-excuse of a buffalo having stepped on my feet only to avoid Rikesh da’s thrashings later. I hadn’t disclosed the secret for long until few years before when I happened to talk to grandma about the scar on my feet. After two months of our restless actions, our vacation would be over. The time of returning back to our schools after vacation would be the bitterest part of my life. I used to go and hide in the fields just to avoid my journey but I never succeeded. My grandma’s eyes watered with love hugging me tight and my eyes full of tears hating to leave her, when our guardians would be pulling me along. I miss all those days…

And today also, when I get blown by the wind of nostalgia, I turn the album of my memories and bookmark the pictures of those days when life was such a fun. And nowadays when I play FarmVille in Facebook, the picture of our farm-house shines in my mind, a perfect village-life of my imagination.