Dots in Line

As I hold on to the moss covered gate-post, the scrawled codes of the past shake off their reveries and take me back through the barely distinct portals of my lost days, to where I was, some thirty years ago, walking these sandy paths, feet crunching, sand kissing my toes through the sandals, their ever so faint brush of discomfort on the soles, still walking, unthinking and immersed in the locale, inhaling the morning air that carries the faint salty sting of the nearby seas, and the sun on my skin, walking between the then newly erected bamboo fences, their thorns seemingly dulled by the rains, unknown vines twining through the abrasive structure, pale and fragile wild flowers hiding their heads between the leaves, white and yellow, blue and vermillion, and I sense the slow-moving little sand thorns gripping at my sandals, as if railing at me : “who are you to tread these paths, you stranger boy, go back to those red and hilly terrains you were frequenting not so long ago”, I lift my feet and carefully take them off, placing them on dry areas on the path, so that they could move again, wondering whether I am doing right, and they stay quiet for a moment on the loose sand and begin ever so slowly to travel again, I could see water snakes slithering across the sandy path out of the corner of my eyes as I turn my head towards the rustles in the leaves in the nearby trees, ever quick and frightened and disappearing into the wayside pools, their scales glistening brownish, looking so thin, and incapable of hunting prey, as I step on the clear puddles left by the rains the black grainy silt is seen flitting and settling down again revealing patches of sand, washed like fresh grains of white rice, the skeletons of fallen leaves floating to the surface and sinking slowly, and I hear the muted pops of the little silver fish jumping in the narrow wayside gutters, coupled with the flowing water sounds, its faint gurgles, and its stops, its silent passages over broken branches and jutting rocks in the gutter, and those elderly people that come against me smiling down, “no school today eh”, and passing by me with a twinkle in their eyes, as the sound of their footsteps fade through the sands I enter into the shady stretches of the path, mangrove branches stooping low, pines with tongues darkened at birth, barren palms with distended and graying leaves lined with long scratches near their bows, some darkening, others fresh, showing the losing green flesh underneath, there were red flame-of-the-woods, with their honeyed stalks, residing in bunches, determined to get through the sudden rains, and then the sounds of the beginning of winter days, the Thira coming opposite me with the frightening jill-jill of the anklets, its feet covered in dust, the calves in protective wrappings, with the circular head gear engraved in wood, with its demon in tow, rough drums playing a single harsh dancing tune, and the demon asking me “what’s for the demon now, kid, what’s for the demon” I search my pockets and locate a few coins and give them to him, he has a red wooden tongue sticking out of his gruesome and many colored carved mask, the Thira takes some dance steps to please me, and then they go away to dance and collect ………………

My thoughts break as someone ask me how I was. Yet these memories do not fade; they gain the strength of dreams and bring me back to my childhood.

                                               ( Back from the haunts of my childhood)