Memoirs of a fictional world

‘ It is a place so very much like where we are , and yet it different in many ways. The roads are just as untouched as you see here , yet its fragrance is like early morning’s dew. The sky is clear, untouched by the smog of industries , yet unlike this place , it is more of green , by the trees that shade us all. The roads have holes much bigger than those here, with bigger trucks that roll by. And yet their ruckus lost , amidst an orchestra of chirping birds , gossiping old women , and chattering children, like you my son. The schools are bigger and noisier, with so many children around, who eagerly await the clatter of the lunch bell. And when the bell rings , steel tiffin open , filling the air with the aroma of ‘sambhar’ saturated rice. When the final bell would ring, the children would run out into the open ground , where under the pipal tree , grandfathers and grandmothers would be seated , some half asleep. Then at day’s end , when the sun begins to set , old and young walk back home together , sharing stories of both past and present. That my children, is the land that your father grew up in.’
Taking a sip of brandy , his father would gaze at the fireplace , lost in the flames as though a movie was being played. Crouched at his feet , would be his two children , eagerly hoping for the story to continue. For the 5 year old Kaksi , and 7 year old Seth , listening to their father speak about the land he grew up in , was a luxury that seldom came their way. He only spoke of it , over two glasses of brandy , and stopped at the third.
They were too young to understand what their father spoke. But the words hardly mattered to them, for the poetic rendering through quivering lips, combined with the fragrance of a brandy saturated breath , took them to a land where their imagination filled words into the story.
At the corner of the room , witnessing the scene , would be the children’s mother. Her lips would be curled into a smile , as she watched the lit up faces of her two children. She too would find herself , hoping for the words to continue . It was not often that her husband opened up, and after seven years of marriage , she had given up trying. Two glasses of brandy achieved more than she could have hoped for. So she let him drink , allowing her children to live in the moment with their father, but always aware of the number of pegs taken. At the third glass , when silence would follow , she would motion for the children’s nanny ,Mae , to tuck them in. She never allowed her children to see their fathers tears , hence allowing their imagination to frame a happy story.
The children would obediently follow Mae to their rooms ,stopping to kiss their mother good night. Mae was a small lady , with even smaller feet. She was fondly known as Mae , though her real name was Jumapiu . The literary meaning of her name was one who was born on a Sunday, and her nature was just like a pleasant Sunday afternoon. She swayed as she walked by, as though the living room , was a field of maize. Rarely young Kaksi , would insist on staying , but her stubbornness would not last as Mae’s monotone voice brought stories of African lions devouring disobedient children. The small kingdom of Lesotho carried many superstitions , which on more than one occasion served as effective disciplinary tools.

Advertisement