It was a late sunday afternoon. My mother was preparing tea and my father was watching some intense political discussion on television. I was feeling lazy and decided to do nothing. But you never can achieve this lazy goal of doing nothing. Infact, you end up doing something more magical than you thought you ever could. My mom called for me as the tea was ready. There is something very special about that cup of tea that my tastebuds crave for it when I am away from home. Even if I hadn’t asked for one, she would smuggle a quarter cup from her share and that without any change in preparation becomes sweeter.
She asks if I need anything to eat. Biscuits, bread, sweets. I refuse. My dad’s tea is getting colder. He is still into that debate. I move back into my room. I stare at the pattern of the bedsheet. The colourful threads running in the most amazing fashion. I stare at other things in my room. The wardrobe, the bookshelf and then the curtains. In this entire setup of furniture and upholstery, I find the colours, patterns, reflections merging onto one another creating such a serene environment. I see them everyday, but they never fail to charm me. Everything has a story, a memory attached to it. Perhaps that is why they say old is gold.
My phone rings and it is my brother on the other side. The conversation begins with a tone of excitement. We talk for a while, with me doing most of the talking. It is a rather long conversation that we have everyday. Details of everything I did during the day, and to my amazement though I actually didn’t do anything of use, I have so much to tell. About all the little things that happened, about the future plans for the day. While I didn’t have one when I started talking to him, I do have one now. To pen down such overflowing thoughts. About how this set of old furniture is still precious to me, about this perfect cup of tea and about how these seemingly useless things are of utmost value in one’s life. These fine threads in our lives is all that matters.
I am growing up. And I realize how difficult it is getting for me to stay in touch with such memories in my desire to achieve it all. In the heat of the city, somehow we forget to smell the damp soil. We forget to remind ourselves about our roots.
‘The tree stands locked in soil. It looks around with pride. Taller and taller it grows. It still stands on ground, it doesn’t know. The earth then shakes with might. Its roots still holds it tight. And before him lies a graveyard. It was his roots that proved to be its savior.’
And as we engage ourselves in this perpetual competitive wars, we become indistinguishable. Our identity perishes.
‘The black ash with time shall merge and we will then search ourselves in other’s soul. We lie scattered in the infinite. Time did claim it’s share. Of what little is left, we need to gather. Or else the mirror will fail to reflect’
Someday, I see myself watching an intense political discussion on the television. My wife would be me making tea for me. But it will not be the same. That sunday afternoon’s essence will be lost. Afterall Sundays are all about Dads being at home. Afterall there will be no one to share with me that quarter cup of tea. My tea would be getting colder and the sound of television would hover. I will miss it. But I can never get it back.
‘How we refuse to live in the moment! The little things in the little time. We fail to smile at things we have and frown on things we don’t. And though its never late, the rest is spent on regret.’
The quarter cup of tea and home is where my heart you will always find . It is where my traveling soul shall find solace at the settling tide.