The more I watch the churning of the clock, the more I get besmeared with an emotional block. For me, a clock acts like a wheel fuelled by the sun and moon, day and night, summer and winter unendingly fuelled my other different seasons, by rains and drought and clouds and rainbows making this wheel an ever-churning unceasing revolving object which makes the every passing second your ‘Past’, every passing day a ‘History’ and every passing year a ‘reverie’.
‘Those were the days’ my parents often claim while recollecting the old snaps of their wedding, vacation and of any other auspicious occasion, pointing out the fashion statements and simplicities of the days passed by. “Oh! I wish for those days” my father often exclaimed that heaving a deep sigh looking straight to the ceiling and my reflexes always ensures of a tongue click or a nod of my head in utmost disagreement, for “these are the best days” I had always believed.
Two days back I turned 21, gaining enough knowledge of times right now and collecting enough experience for judgement of these days I claim to be the best. ‘Look Rahul, see how small you were’ my mother showed me an old video of me looking smaller than I could ever imagine, with my infant innocent face, jumping from the wooden top of the bed right on the heavy quilt. The Past, as if flashed before me, welcomed me into its cave of antiquity, offered me the delicious delicacies of history and dumped me in the state of reverie. I thought of the time I played ‘Pacheesi’, an Indian game played with hands or four fingers, of cricket and of hide and seek, the times of no technical advancements and when games were rather more physical than virtual like today.
I sat for unwanted innumerable minutes, brooding, ruminating and contemplating the days gone by; calling it for myself ‘Those were the days’.