There was that old Persian bakery that Dad took me to
in Bycullla, near my school; where they served bread
pudding. And I remember that it (the restaurant) had the sweetest of smells –
of creamy crusty rolls, like a patisserie. It also had a juke box!
That was the only restaurant in Byculla, I knew of, that had
a juke box! And I used to be fascinated by the little lights in it,
behind its glass pane. Now as I think of it, I’d say, if I were a
a turntable, I’d play my own songs. Like a meadow with its own perennial
homebred rustling breeze – of the blue and white asters Dad brought home
or the sweetest tasting tea Mum made with cookies for my
primary school recess. I am clothed in my own diaspora,
the fabric of which brings longing, even siblings, that we cherished
moments of pastimes in graveyard afternoons, whose fun never
seems to come back, but if it wasn’t for memories of them! I remember,
life was so poorly simple then, that our family may have earned
the sobriquet of being the Athenians among the Spartans of
the neighbourhood! Dad gave us all our necessities and more,
and a solidity; Mum gave us our wisdom. So, don’t blame me
if I feel like a vestige of the simple seventies, playing like an old turntable.
If you wondered you could enjoy the music a bit, before you think I’m
paraphrasing too much, of lyrics I never get tired of. Even of the
deadend Passion Week that Mum and Dad took so seriously, that it
encrusted pangs of claustrophobia in me. But there is so much
Oester in memories, like Mumbai had no spring season, but there was always one!
montes-musings.blog 