Journeys - A short story.
It was school holidays. Myra alongwith her Mum and Papa was visiting her Grandparents home in Siliguri. Every year with the onset of winter holidays, even before she was born, Siliguri was her parent’s annual pilgrimage of sorts. Winters in Siliguri because of its proximity to the gentle Indian Himalayas were pleasantly cold and warm at the same time; a much needed gateway from the humidity of Bombay.
Myra’s grandparent’s home was big. It had a small flower garden, a well, a swing and plenty of trees and space to play. For a fortnight everyday of each year was fun and games with Debu and Kabir – her friends and neighbours, nap time stories with Grandpa and lullabies at night with Grandma.
Everyday Myra woke up early. Grandpa, every morning made garlands with flowers and leaves from the garden. She helped Grandpa pick and pluck flowers and leaves and then watch him weave them together. Previous year, Myra learnt how to make a garland from Grandpa. Hers would be of different coloured sweetest smelling flowers. As Grandpa, she would offer hers to God as well. Although not completely aware of the concept and idea of God, she did it because Grandpa followed the ritual, and, she loved the smell of flowers in the morning.
One day after the prayers, Grandpa put his coat on. Myra wanted to know where Grandpa was off to and if she can accompany him. Upon asking, Grandpa smiled and instructed her to put on her warm clothes. He picked a few papers, a cloth bag and within minutes they were on their way.
First was the visit to the veggie market. As they neared the vegetable and fruit gully, Myra was overwhelmed by different aromas all at once - some pungent, many a leafy, few sweet, several earthy. Just as the flowers she collected every morning, the veggie market was colourful and fragrant. It was also very noisy and crowded. With Grandpa holding the palm of her hand firmly, she knew she never be lost. It was the fish market next. It was wet and smelled wet; not good kind of smell at all. She loved eating fish, but this visit to the fish market she did not fancy. As the veggie market, this one was very noisy and crowded as well. And muddy.
On the way back, Grandpa decided to take a different route. Myra was happiest, because at that instant she knew of two ways to reach her grandparent’s home; an important piece of information she thought she can flaunt to and guide her parents with when in town for the next winter holidays.
As Myra was engrossed with this exciting opportunity, Grandpa stopped walking. He removed the papers he had collected from the desk at home from the vest pocket of his coat and put it in a red box. Myra was confused why Grandpa would put his papers in the strange looking dustbin. Bursting with curiosity she questioned him. He giggled and then explained her that the red box with rectangle hole was a post-box. A box where letters are dropped by people, afterwards collected by the postmen, and then delivered to other people as her aunt. Myra had not once seen her parents drop letters in the red box. This was new and exciting for her.
Over the next several days of the remaining holiday days, Grandpa and Myra made the same journey. The nippy and misty mornings became warm and adventurous with the two together. Grandpa narrating contents of the letters sent to his friends, his sister and to the people from Municipal Corporation. Sometimes they would make an additional stop at the milkshake parlour. Cold weather, freezing cold milkshake and the warmest sweater eventually became a core childhood memory.
As years floated, Myra’s grandparents began to make atleast one journey to Bombay to see her. Mum, Papa also planned annual winter holiday trips for the fabulous five - them and Grandma and Grandpa. As she grew, holidays in Siliguri were fewer. With college and university, holidays became new journeys with friends. Ma (Grandma) and Baba (Grandpa) became a part of a grid – a fibre optic internet video grid. Many people would think of it as a loss, but Myra remained close, much much closer to her grandparents. They would talk of their lives, her parents, have inside jokes and more.
It was one fine morning that Myra, now an independent woman, had to be in Kolkata for work. She quickly decided to seize this opportunity to be home in Siliguri for a few days. As she neared her grandparents’ home, she began to recognise a few building structures, some lanes and turns, and instantaneously recollected that the taxi driver had chosen the second way home – one which she and Grandpa walked back on years earlier. Then passed the post-box – the red coloured dustbin which Myra thought it was once, still there, and in that moment her senses were soaked with the memories of those winter morning misty journeys’ with Grandpa.
Upon reaching, she stood outside for a moment. The home looked and smelled the same as it always were - the aroma of mustard infused fish and garden flowers. Days with Grandpa and Grandma were filled with visits from neighbours and long leisure walks and talks. Grandpa with Grandma took Myra to the same milkshake parlour they used to frequent during holidays, again. As she sipped the milkshake from the straw and felt that familiar strawberry flavoured sweetness on her tongue, her body remembered the tingle, the happiness and the warmth it had felt the very first time she had been there.
During her stay, Myra got to know that Grandpa didn’t write letters anymore, nor received any except for bills. When prodded, he said he was happy to have conversations over phone, through video and occasionally, receive letters through an email. This made Myra wonder, who are the people who send letters now-a-days?
Back home in Mumbai as days passed, Myra was unable to let go of the red post-box and the conversations, banter, love and care notes it once delivered. And ultimately on one Saturday of July, she decided to write to her grandparents. Talk of sweet nothings; complain of the monsoons in Mumbai and of what an ordeal waiting for next holiday with friends is. A few weeks after it was posted, she received a letter from Grandpa. He was overjoyed to receive a letter again, after many a years. Furthermore, he narrated how he missed the form of communication and the excitement which accompanied it – to express wholly, to receive a reply, to post it.
Thus, began Myra and her Grandpa’s journey to exchange emotions, photographs and their lives on paper.
