Because I miss home. And because I read too much LM Montgomery.
Once upon a time, the field was full of children. Every afternoon, there would be a slow trickle of children from the neighbouring houses, and the slums, to the field. By the time the sun was moving towards the horizon, the field was full of people. Everyone was equal here-no issues of caste, class, religion or gender. The field didn’t know how to differentiate, and the children didn’t.
I can still see the field. It wasn’t wild-the children exerted some kind of unnatural control over nature here. Or the running, and rolling cricket pitches would not let the grass grow. Some flowers grew around the edges, probably planted by some energetic grandmother, as she walked around the field while her grandchild was engaged in some game. There was the group of teenage boys, playing cricket, each nursing a secret ambition to be Sachin, and determinedly banishing the image of the Science textbooks, waiting at home, from their minds. Some kids played Lock-and-key, and some were busy racing each other on their cycles. Races, animated conversations about the latest heartthrob in the film world, games of Football… the field saw a constant buzz everyday.
In one corner, the children’s nurses would usually sit and gossip about everything under the sun. They were meant to keep an eye on the kids, but gossip was so much more interesting. Grandparents walked around briskly, enjoying their walk and exchanging stories. Stories of those half-forgotten homes across the border, the days of partition, the demanding maids these days, and their daughters-in-law. Occasionally, parents would appear too-to call the children in, to watch the Sunday Morning Cricket Match that everyone took very seriously, and on some rare moment, when they’d shed the dullness of adult life, and join the game.
Everyone in the neighbourhood knew of the field, and most were there every evening. The guards took it in turns to come, and guard the children, and eye-flirt with the young maids. The drivers would be called excitedly by the boys to make up the remaining members of the cricket teams. The maids, the families…it was a community-centre and a playground. And became so much more.
One day, the cricket team just couldn’t be completed. The tallest boy couldn’t make it for the game, as he had to prepare for his engineering entrance exam. And soon, some kind of exodus started. It was like one by one, each of them responded to some kind of music that was audible only to them. One child went away to study, one got married, one moved away from the neighbourhood, one was sent to boarding-school, one took up Tennis coaching and couldn’t make it for the daily games at the field. Each one heard the music and allowed it to draw them away to some far-off and distant land. Even the grown-ups stopped visiting. Without the children, the field lost its attraction. And some couldn’t deal with the memories lurking at every step of the field.
Except one boy. No one knows if he hadn’t heard the music or whether he was the last lame boy, from that long-ago story. But he stayed.
Nowadays, the field can still be found, mourning the loss of her loved ones. And nursing her last baby, as he lies flat on the field, his empty bottle of cheap whiskey beside him.
