Good Ones Forever

They'll always be good ones, good ones forever.

We often look back at our childhood, try to look at somebody else' childhood and we see a happy kid jumping around the backyard, jollying about a playground, rolling on a bed, giggling mindlessly, a perpetually happy kid with only happy memories to take forth in life.
We look at ourselves in a time when we would cry for things, destroy ourselves for a chocolate we could not get, things which are merely trifles now. My mother keeps telling me how others asked her, "Your son is always laughing and merry, why are you so strict, ma'am?" Its something I like to know, that I was a perpetually happy kid. But its the same case with every kid.
Childhood was when no one understood the gravity of the situation, no one understood the gravity of  grief. We were all planets who got pulled towards a bright, happy star defying the sorrowful pull of a black hole. We were things defying the laws of gravity. Sadness was not getting that toy you wanted, not getting potatoes for lunch, but tomatoes, doing homework beyond the stipulated study time, not getting ice cream, which as we grow up, we recognise them to be trifles. And thus, childhood passes like a happy memory. We realise that everything that made us sad back then were merely trifles and things that make us sad today were things with gravities we never understood. Only happiness remains. Maybe, even today, if we choose to ignore the gravity of the situation, everyday would be a day of Childhood. These Childhood-filtered good memories, they are what will counter today's bad memories. 

Childhood memories will always be a good ones, good ones forever.

A Memory to Share!

I remember distinctly when I was very young; a distinct memory like a song over-sung.
I used to see scary images on the window mesh when I used to wake up at midnight. I used to see faces, mashed up ones, screaming ones, horrified ones, pale ones... scary ones.
I used to hear things, fear the night and fear darkness. A shiver would go down my spine every time I would think about the dark road that leads to the back-field. It was scary to go to the backyard, filled with trees, in the night. I used to feel as if something kept watching me in the dark. I feared any sound that came out of the dark. Ghosts loomed over my head, constantly.
Night time was a scary time, darkness was a scary place.  Crying, I would hold out my hand in this darkness and one hand would always reach out to hold mine. In that cold place, one warm hand always held mine to tell me "I'm here." He kept holding until I got over that fear or drifted off to sleep. My brother was there to hold my hand in the most scariest of times. When I silently said, "Be there when I'm scared," he would gesture with a smile, "I'll be there when you're scared."
He used to say, "There's nothing to be scared about! If something makes you feel weird or scared, go and find out what it is;  poke it with a stick and you'll see that its not scary at all. Or, even if it is, it is fascinating and new. Don't be scared. Its really nothing." Those words did give courage for that time. But he made sure that these words reach me every time I felt scared.
"There was this time when I was walking the dark road to the back-field. I heard some noises. But I did not run away, or turn away. You know what I did? I went to where these noises were coming from and you know the watchmen? Ya, they were sitting there laughing and talking. There was this other time I heard an unusual sound. I tried looking around and saw that it was the trees rustling against each other. It really is nothing, nothing to be scared about," he used to say, instilling as much courage as possible.
There was this one time when I was sleeping alone. My brother and my mother were in another room talking. I heard a sound that I never quite heard before. It was shrill, shreaking and regular. It was at a time when I had seen an alien movie named 'Signs' and it was scary, terrifying. Except, this time, I wanted to see what it was. Yet, I was too scared to do it alone. I called my brother, who came to me and asked, "What's the matter?" I told him about the sound and he said, "Let's look at what it is!"
We switched the light on and looked around. After five minutes, he came from under the bed with something quite pretty in his hand. He said, "So here's your answer to the sound. Its called a cricket! It makes those sounds.... No reason for you to fear. Go back to sleep." That night, I slept knowing that I was in the company of something pretty that sang a lullaby to me to help me sleep, and not something that was going to kill me.
I won't say that I was never scared after that, I won't say I don't feel scared now, because fear is something that will never leave you. It is something that mankind must learn to live with.
But today, I am not that scared kid. I am a scared kid, but not that scared kid. Back then, I would say, "Be there when I'm scared," today, I say. "I'll be there when you're scared."
There is some point in time when everyone goes from "Be there when I'm scared" to "I'll be there when you're scared."
That memory will always remain as a bright star in the heart and when I relive it, tiny droplets stand at the brim of the eye, ready to jump into the smile that just took over.

Celestial Permanancy!

"Moon's dark. Not supported by the sun to shine and smile. I wonder what is wrong. Maybe, the heavy clouds filled with tears are too thick and is blinding the moon to look anywhere."
"Or maybe, the Moon took a break, sick of modelling."
"Always ready to come down in a rush and repeat the same again by absorbing its own grief."
"To be the character that is being played over and over again in the same play, returning again and again in different stories, tired of persuading kids to stop crying, tired of pulling the seas up from their deep slumber."
"But its her job... what more is she entitled to do?"
"She went on a short holiday, one everyone deserves."
"Its the Moon, she can't be selfish, she needs to radiate for everyone relying on her."
"Well, everyone needs a break."
"For those who admire her..."
"Her shoulders are drowning in tears people shed on her. Her heart is dying with the pain of all her rejection of people who love and admire her, the pain of staying thousands of miles away, from touch, just suspended in nothingness."
"I know... but what if the people's lives are affected by her decision? She is still seen... she touches us..."
"Nights are dark without her. She is just not there sometimes. At some point, no one is."
"And what  do people do then, without her glory?"
"They look toward the stars!"
"Without her soft commands... All too small..."
"And yet too vast, too many!""Are they worth worshipping?"
"They so are!"
"The stars, they come and go... in a blink, not that trustworthy."
"Stars are permanent. They're there everyday, every hour, twinkling aimlessly just for being there. A billion systems, just lying there, for you!"
"But one can never be chosen."
"That's the beauty! Every star will be there, whether you choose or not."
"What if one tries being extra bright... catches your eye and then the next day, vanishes?"
"It means that something happened that the star or you don't entirely understand. And when you don't understand what, you think and you take your mind off things that are killing you."
"Thinking and talking your mind off could be North and South."





Well, all in all, celestial bodies will be there for you, always!

"Can I?"

It was just me and a few others, well, still just me, walking on the road when this happened. One of those moments you really don't know what to do...
It was a sunny afternoon. It was around 3 O'clock and the sunlight was piercing through the skin, blistering every blood vessel possible. I turned around the corner and that's when I saw it happen. A man got thrown onto the road, pushed with all ferocity. He was dark, short and formally dressed. Then the person who pushed him came into sight. He was a tall and fairer in complexion. He was not as formally dressed as the other person. Then, the less formal guy grabbed the formal guy by his collar and began to throw him around. The formal guy kept shouting something, with an expression of apology and regret and fear. The informal guy did not stop. With every step towards Mr. Formal, Mr. Informal kept getting more aggressive. He picked him up and began to drag him. He slapped him and beat him. By now, Mr. Formal was crying, with pain, with helplessness, with fear, with the lost faith; just crying. He was still trying to get away, though. The next I saw him, Mr. Informal arms himself with a flat, think stick. Mr. Formal is being dragged, half of his body dragging itself after the torso being pulled. Mr. Informal generously helped Mr. Formal stand up and whacked his thigh with the stick. The stick broke at the whack. I wonder how painful that could've been. Mr. Formal screamed. He screamed out of pain and remorse, as loudly as he could. He screamed. Mr. Informal finally left him and Mr. Formal ran. He ran like his life got a fifteen minute headstart. He ran without looking back, shouting something in a language I could not understand. It was all over a kilogram of marijuana. Mr. Formal, here, apparently, tried to steal it. Mr. Informal got pissed. He beat him up. It all happened 2 metres away from where I stood. I could've tried to stop them, I could've stopped his thigh getting whacked. Except, for some reason of fear or doubt, I did not.
I just found it hard to believe that Mr. Formal wanted to steal the weed and I found it hard to decide as to who could be right, if Mr. Formal did intend to steal it.
It just turned out to be one of those events during which I stand doing nothing and regret later that I stood there and did nothing...