the turning on memory's road

The house is empty, the mood is melancholic. My ears ache to hear the familiar voices when the living room was rocking with loud music and louder laughter. Two weeks of doing things together. The whole family eating pizza and watching telly like 2 nights back, like almost 20 years back, except then there was no smoking joe's and we ate home made pizza. But silence stares back from every corner. I called them at home. Mom and dad. They must be missing us all too. I think of old times, of childhood, and my heart feels heavy with memories.

My leg hurts a wee bit more than my heart. A few days back it took a good fall to remind me, I was no longer nimble footed like the days of yore. My foot had slipped through floor railings outside my balcony and for once I was glad for my fat thigh, which got stuck and prevented me from crashing down to the 7th floor. I had been not-so-gently informed by all, that next time I try such a stunt, the leg might just break into two pieces. But for now, the bruises have turned a facinating purple with tinges of green and a fading yellow. As I pressed them gently and winced in turn, it gave me more reason to put up my legs and reach for comfort food.

But bruises are not new to me. All through school I sported them. At 10 or 11, after some consistent display of tolerable behaviour, I was rewarded with a shining new bicycle. After that began the pleas and tantrums to be allowed to ride it to school as did so many of my friends. Finally after a year or so, the parents relented. But I was to take the little road through tea gardens and people's cottages. The road where you saw a car, or anything with wheels, if you stood at the same spot for 20 minutes. It was so safe you could ride blindfolded, and you knew every person you met on the way, if you met someone, that is.

I sang lustily as I cycled along every morning. The early morning sun filtered through the trees and I played my own little game. I pedalled fully when I hit a sunny spot and pedalled half in the shade. Until. Until that turning that winded like an "S". Every time I turned I would unfailingly hit a deep ditch and land, cycle and all, on crackling dry leaves. It became a regular ritual and one reason I hated going with anyone else. I rode and fell alone in shame. Then I would get up, look around to make sure nobody saw and push the cycle till I hit straighter roads. And it was my little secret. Nobody knew I couldn't make that turning on my way to school. Strangely, I managed it on my way back.

I have often tried to remember but I have no memory of ever managing that turning without falling and one thing that nags me often is whether I will be able to get through it now. What I dream of doing is, take the same road again and give the S turning a last shot on my old bicycle (which is no longer with me). The lane is undoubtedly more crowded and may even have traffic signals. And the S turning may have become a straight concrete road. But still.

Anyway, so I had a permanent bruise that stopped hurting over a period of time. After the initial apprehension, the parents too developed an undeserving sense of confidence in my riding skills. My secret was safe. I was happy. My parents were happy. No reason not to be. Except, mom till today is still clueless that an innocent S turning every morning was responsible for the colourful display on my legs all through the ride-to-school days.