A Kid and His Moon

Walking on a deserted tramline invites memories of our perceptive teenage. It tells us about a time that is no longer relevant. Someone else would sneer at us, and label us as loners or snooty. Deep down we are bustling with words that inspire. We are still inextricably tied to our childhood tram ride that leads us from Dharmatala to Kidderpore. The kid inside is still lush green. He has no regret for his inability to communicate. A linguistically disabled tongue cannot complain because he cannot transmute his ideas. A truth, no matter how tiresome and insipid it seems, is a truth. But next, despite his imminent alienation, he attempts to spit out some snippets of vowels. Then, a monosyllabic word could be used. No, not a word; some gibberish and rusty sentences from a masterpiece, he never wrote. He rubs his favourite chappal against the tramline - once, twice, and numerous times. And then, suddenly, a tram is heard at a distance. Its tinkling bell sounds like an awakening call. Take me home, he utters.

Now, he is back home. And on such a full moon night, he would still make some rice and vegetable curry. He would perhaps still marvel at the reflection of a LED bulb on the floor tile. It’s a crescent moon that, finally, he could call his own.

12 November, 2022