She loved her evening walks along the beach. She had loved her walks along the beach for as long as she could remember. Growing up in a small seaside town, she accompanied her grandfather to the sea shore everyday. Her tiny hand in his gnarled old hand, she felt safe, and the soft sand made her feel like she was walking on the softest of cotton. When she came to the city to study, she missed her town and its beaches. She missed the sand on her bare feet, and she missed her family. Eventually she got married and moved to another city, far from the sea. She watched while their new house was built, and her husband made a pretty garden, but the sand remained in her memory. She went on short trips to the sea with her husband, and hated it when she had to go back home. Her kids grew older, and went off to college, and the house became empty again. She was no longer in love with her husband, and she knew he felt the same. They had frequent arguments, and made no efforts to make up. One day, as she watched her husband stumble home during the day, she knew something terrible had happened. Her younger son, the apple of his father's eye, had been killed in a motorcycle accident.
Of course, she never remembered any of this now. Medicines made her groggy all the time and she did not recognize the walls where she now lived. All she knew was she was grateful to the kind man who held her hand and walked silently with her along the meandering shore, and looked at her with amused eyes as she stopped every once in a while to feel the soft sand push itself up between her toes.
3 comments:
This is just an amazing stuff Mr. Vinod...I don't have words to express how touching that was...my heartfelt thanks to you for giving this pleasure trip down the memory lanes...am sure, like me, there are other people who would relate to this emotional stretch that you have weaved in such simple language....I could almost feel the sand push up between my toes...
Hi. Just read this as Priya forwarded this link to me. Can't tell you how I felt. I could smell my childhood. My parents are no longer there. But I could feel them. My dad's smile, my mom's songs...everything came back. Why do memories seem so bright?
But this is not only about childhood. This is about something you have felt and lost. But it is not actually lost. It remains in your mind. You breathe it all the while, yet you choke when you try to inhale.
I have come across simple memories being rendered precious because of the writer's ability to use weave a beautiful story. But here is an example of a simple memory rendered even simpler by the writer's simplistic use of words. There's no doubt the writer shows tremendous potential and talent, but this simply smacks of laziness. Develop the story; don't kill the son; write a few more words. Then, all those sorry weepy creatures will cry their eyes out. But some of us will definitely want to come back and read more.
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