Flying into the Past

 Flying into the past 


As the cool raindrops mixed with warm sweat trickled down my brow, the shuttle came flying towards me and I missed it again! 

The sun had set, the fluorescent bulbs lit the front of the building, and the six of us were playing a lousy yet competitive game of ‘building’ or ‘gully’ badminton. The shuttle swept more than it flew, and on the few rare occasions of a ‘good shot’, the opponent missed it due to the slippery tile floor of the building front, wet from the continuous drizzle. The miss would happen in a rather idiotically epic manner by slipping or twisting and turning themselves at weird angles, which made everybody crack up. Sometimes, one was so lost in the breeze and rain that they would not realise the shuttle was heading towards them until it was too late. The expression of confusion, followed by the urgency to hit the shot, made them look so funny that it set all the spectators into hysterics. 

We played more with the roof penetrating above the lobby area rather than with our opponent. Out of the eight shuttles that we had bought, only one remained. The rest were lazily bathing on the dusty roof. The uncle living on the first floor had very generously kept an extremely long stick at home to get them down for us. But today he was busy, and we had settled to play 3v3 with the one lone shuttle that we had. It was as tedious as a survival task—getting the shuttle across without scratching the person (or the car) next to you. 

It was a game to remember with our laughter ringing out in the silent night sky at the silly jokes and faces. 

It was a night that reminded me of the times back in sixth and seventh grade when I used to play like this with my friends back at my old society. I am sure that if anybody were to break that chajja, they would be drowned in the rain of shuttles. But there they are, still, preserving the joys and laughter, the friendships that we are too busy for now, preserving the memories of those times when the burden of studies, assignments and the future did not weigh us down. The weight that turned our young upright shoulders into stooped ones. When the opinions of society had not yet tainted our carefree laughter, turning it into forced smiles that hid exhaustion and sadness. Oh, they are monuments of those beautiful days! Those carefree days! Those days of joy and bliss! 


Written by Harshada Viswanath 

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

The Fine Print of Teaching

The Fine Print of Teaching We find so much of ourselves in classrooms. Our teachers, then, become the bridge between the gaps of so many different versions of ourselves. Through education, we remain both young and old at the same time - because, here, we are allowed to make mistakes, but are also taught to reach beyond where we are. Teachers don’t just expect us to answer; they teach us to question, too. The classroom becomes a sacred, crucial space where thoughts and ideas are nurtured to someday be able to change the world. This Teachers’ Day, we want to honour some of these educators who dedicate their lives to lifting others higher. We want to bring to light their stories and journeys that have aged into their wisdom over time.  Dr. Karuna Gokarn Among the teachers who embody this spirit with grace and passion is Dr. Karuna Gokarn - a name that resonates with wisdom and unwavering dedication. For three decades, she has poured her heart into teaching and transforming microbiolog...
Read more

One July Afternoon

  One July Afternoon As I walk homewards, the sun shines above me in a spotless blue sky. The weather on this day reminds me of the warm summer days I had revelled in months ago, years ago. The path that I walk takes me back to the quaint, picturesque roads I once walked, punctuated by mountains and bazaars. The wind that caresses my face blows back little lost parts of myself, those that I unknowingly left back in moments, and experiences: everything around me is a gate wildly flung open, through which I can go against the imposing gush of time, back to the moments, hours, days, weeks and years when I truly felt free from all influence, when I felt the total chance and serendipity of me being here, drawing breath, alive; when I knew that my feet had their place in this world, and my thoughts and ideas were a part of our shared consciousness. But, even if I were to run away from my road and revisit these memories, would I still be content? Would I feel the miracle of this chance as...
Read more

Stone Garden

Stone Garden At the age of twelve, her best friend abandoned her in the middle of a storm — not the real kind, but one that leaves you shaking, eyes burning, trust splintered. When she was sixteen, a boy with warm eyes promised her forever - then walked away without a glance back.  Two betrayals. Two clean cuts. She didn’t wait for a third. Trust wasn’t something she could afford anymore.  Her mother was the exception. The one person she could still lean on, the only one whose presence felt like sunlight in a cold world. They shared late-night talks, secret smiles across crowded rooms, and an unspoken promise that they would never leave each other. Until the night her mother did. A fight too sharp, words too loud — and suddenly her mother was gone, leaving her alone in the middle of a dark street with nothing but the sound of her own breathing. Perhaps "forever" was woven into memories, That night, the final light flickered and died. Her parents became strangers with the same...
Read more