Dreams

Every noon, we used to play with bricks at the backyard
One day we made a doll-house.
We cooked food with rice and turmeric,
with a pinch of salt and chilli –
all borrowed from my mother’s kitchen.
It was not cooked on fire but still it was nice,
my mother said so.
It was quite an affair
when the doll house witnessed our doll’s marriage
and this time, mom gave some real food for the guests
We had invited the watchmen’s family for the wedding.
At home, others were celebrating
India’s victory over Pakistan in a one day match.
Next day, the doll house was broken,
Now right in the midst of the road were three pillars –
We needed wickets for our match of cricket.
Every day the bricks transformed into varied shapes…
And we saw all shades of dreams in those saffron solids
Until one day, when my father took a day off from work
And had the watchman gather all the bricks….
that were lying “uselessly” in the backyard-he felt.
My study room was getting constructed.
Remains of my crushed playmate
were like the drops of tears in my eyes….
Heavier than the rectangular weights was the feeling of loss….
I was taught to write my name in the school,
So I ran and scribbled proudly my first autograph.
Today after 25 years, I am sitting in the study room.
It is vacant for last 10 years….
Books adorn the shelves but loneliness prevails all around.
Amidst memoirs of several charts on the painted walls,
I can see vivid images unknown to many.
I am sure my mother visits the room often
to look for what I am trying to see now….
The brick with my name inscribed.
I know the room is vacant for 10 years now,
But my mother finds me here every day…
Strongly holding the memories of my childhood
In the brick house that I created years back.


© Amita Paul 2004 23rd December

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