It Was Another Life. We Were Different Then.

When I think back now it seems like centuries ago and I can’t even recognize these people anymore.

On days my father was home, the two of us would go to the local bakery early in the morning to get freshly baked breads for breakfast. I still remember the place. It was in one of the many alphabetically numbered municipal buildings’ basement near a place called G.D.N.S Grounds.

These breads were so fresh out of the oven I could feel my palms perspire under the heat it exuded when I carried it with my tiny five-year-old-hands. On such nights as this when I close my eyes and take in a deep breath I can feel it’s warm whiff enter my nostrils and I can see the image of a road covered in mist with the morning sun fighting to peep through and wake the sleepy little town. The image is so vivid I can feel the chilly air numb my ears. On such nights as this I can taste the still crunchy crust of bread dipped in a hot cup of Darjeeling tea. My eyes would water as in my juvenile hastiness I would burn my tongue. The bakers always cut the bread into rough irregular slices, wrapped them in a newspaper and tied it with a white string. I’d carry it by holding the string with only two of my fingers at times, turning it round and round, while my father carried me home. As soon as we entered the house the two of us would be greeted with the smell of the most mouth watering scrambled eggs prepared by my mother. Family breakfasts together.

Such days were special and rare and I looked forward to them eagerly; my father’s job as a journalist hardly let him spend time with us. Every time he came home my toddler brother would get busy untying his shoe laces and hiding his shoes and socks under the bed. He thought this would stop my father from leaving the house. But he did. He left home and would not come for months on end. There was a time when my brother didn’t even recognize him. He thought my mom’s friend’s husband was our dad.

Rough and irregularly shaped as the bread may have been this didn’t deter it from being the tastiest thing on the planet when had with scrambled eggs made by my mother. They tasted better than any Mc.D or Sub I have had till date.

All I have are these memories now, simple moments of carefree happiness. These are moments that bring you back to your folks no matter where life takes you and no matter how bad the situation between you gets. These memories linger on and keep you rooted, despite the fact that you can’t even remember the last time you had a decent conversation with your father; despite the adolescent arguments that you have had with your mother where you didn’t speak for a month; despite the fact that you take your brother to be a scoundrel because he stole your Rosary that had been blessed by the Pope himself, and gave it to his girlfriend whose name he doesn’t even remember anymore. They linger on.

We’ve changed but we’re still the same.