Summer and Lemon Floor

“Woman at a Window”, oil painting by the artist Caspar David Friedrich

May, 2002

The rooms were all full with loads of packing boxes. Each box had different labels, like ‘Books’, ‘Magazines’, ‘Toys’, ‘Crockery’, ‘Bedding’ etc. and I felt, each box was peeping out in that dusky mood as if waiting to be opened at first. But the suitcase won the race. My mother took out one clean bed sheet and placed it carefully on the recently assembled king size bed. She told me not to get down from here as the electricians were working to repair some of the ancient electrical fixtures. “Madam!” the old electrician spoke quite hastily. “This Munsif bungalow is of British era. We need to change the entire wiring system. I am fixing some bulbs for tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll come!”

My mother nodded and they left for that day. I could hear my father’s voice from quite a distance and immediately jumped out of the bed. After crossing almost eight rooms and nine doors, I could finally reach the living room. My father entered and dropped his court gown on the recently unpacked old fashioned divan. His newly appointed home guard placed the heap of court files on the coffee table with a thud and left the bungalow with a hurried salute. My father sat on the divan and I as usual, took off like a jet to get on his lap. My mother turned on the yellow light.

“It was a hot day, my gown is drenched in sweat,” my father said quite dolefully. The louvered windows suddenly clanged shut. My mother opened the windows and said to my father, “See, it’s for you, it’s raining!”

And the sudden zephyr came in the room with fresh earthy smell. My father giggled and started singing ecstatically, “Āṭa kuṭhurī naẏa darajā āṭā, madhyē madhyē jharakā kāṭā. Tāra uparē sadara kōṭhā, āẏanā mahala tāẏa. Kēmnē āsē jāẏ” (There are eight rooms and nine doors, the fretworks are in between them. On the top of all, there is a great yard and a palace of mirrors, how does it come and go?)

And I stared at the newly wet, shinny yet greyish mosaic lemon floor.

May, 2022

I splashed water on my face and came back to my room to turn off the A.C. That day I felt quite claustrophobic. I moved toward the east window and opened it wide. It’s dusk, but it’s almost dark. I turned on the ceiling light by mistake. I rarely use this one. It’s yellow. Before I could even realise, the gust of wind scattered all the papers of my study table. I hurried to pick them up. The raindrops rushed onto the floor as if they had thousands of unsaid words to speak out loudly. Surely, they had! This time, I stared at the newly wet, shinny yet whitish marvel lemon floor. And the same song was ringing, but this time in my heart.

In that one moment, I could swap my present with my adorable past. We often use ‘nostalgia’ in a little pejorative sense. We nowadays, feel that the past pulls us back so it’s better to keep it in a rusty storage. I was recently reading Existential Psychologist Clay Routledge’s article. He states, “nostalgia helps people maintain and enhance meaning in the present” His numerous studies show that nostalgia increases a sense of meaning in life. And that comes from the sense of social connectedness. Our ‘memory lands’ can fulfil the sense of togetherness even if we stay miles away from each other. Each one of us has that possession of memory. And time wraps it quite warmly. My one ‘staring’ gave me the power of nostalgia and I call it ‘Ina’*. That day I got my Ina in nostalgia. My inner child stepped into my present and passed me her innocent reflection to deal with my chores.  We rush into the present, we fight with the future, but we can cherish our past to make our present calm and opulent for at least one moment.

(*In Sanskrit, Ina (इन).—a. means determined or anything that is powerful)