Time stories

Aren’t thoughts a world in themselves?

I am on my left, a little dizzy, with WhatsApp screen on on my phone. It’s standby and I have something going on in my mind. I know this. I know what it is. It’s time standing still and I’m no longer in the same place. Like an unpredictable summer wind, I’m taken away and back to the 90s.

It looks like film. Grainy. Old times really do look grainy- a blend of red and yellow and a sad brown, sepia.

I see my brother, 4 years older to me, with his smile just as innocent as I recall it. His signature full lips, a wide smile showing half of his teeth, it is so intact now that I see it. Alongside him, there’s me, 4 years younger to him, a sister that wanted to fit into his idea of a good sister. He’s wearing his red Polo T-shirt and my frock is brown and white. I’m playing with him, trying to generate in myself an interest for bikes and all things mechanical so that I too will have a say in seemingly interesting conversations between him and father when he’ll be home past 10:30pm. I’m unaware of the fact that I’ll never really have that say because it’ll basically never interest me.

It looks like an afternoon. An odd 4pm afternoon. We’re downstairs, in our old bedroom, playing. It’s one of those rare days when he’s in a good mood to include me in his activities — showing me his comic books or teaching me how to dismantle an electrical vehicle toy. I can’t exactly see what we’re doing. Perhaps they’re our random indulgences. But we look happy. Joyful. I hear the sound of laughter and I see both of our smiles vividly. That’s all I hear. There’s usual life going on in the rest of the house. I can’t see the rest of my cousins, but I know I’d say no if anyone of them comes over to call me out to play because I’m playing with Dada which feels like a very important activity. Because he’s moody. Because he often excludes me but today he hasn’t so I’d better not miss it. Secretly I feel old enough to be taken seriously by him, accepted and important as he’s the eldest among the lot and again secretly do I hope he’s having a good time with me.

I look for mother, her face flashes through my eyes and I recall the colour of her saree.

Soon one or two of Dada’s friends will come over and take him out to play and he’ll have five times more fun outside than with me. But at this moment we’re playing.

I hear the sound of laughter again and I see our house, the bedroom that I believe we liked the most, the little space we sat at slowly blurring away.

The lock-screen on my phone wakes. It’s half past 12am. It’s 2017 and I’m 24, unavoidably so.