There is this feeling

There is this feeling.

A feeling from years long gone. But a feeling nonetheless.

I can’t call the feeling strong. At least not in the conventional sense. Strong things are strong for perpetuity. Or a substantial period of time.

But this feeling is strong for short bursts of time. It swells and ebbs keeping pace with the second hand of the clock — coming all at once and then vanishing before you realise it’s there. But in that ephemeral moment, the feeling is all over you. It begins in your squishy little brain and then seeps through your skull, enters your chest and then rides the spinal cord all the way to your toes.

What is this feeling, you ask?

Well, that’s not vital to know. It could be anything, anywhere, any time. It could be different for you and me.

For me, it takes me back to a sweaty day in Lucknow where the sun had wreaked havoc on my 10-year-old body, and the sweat, ceasing to drip from the nape of my neck, had morphed into a gushing stream traversing the undulating plains of my back and chest. I had left my home as a respectable good boy going to school and now have returned as a dusty sweat-drenched miner who had earned a hard day’s wage. I toss away my shoes and bottle and bag, and uniform as if there is no tomorrow coming my way and make a dash for the bathroom, where cool water is waiting patiently to reincarnate me. I spend about 25 minutes under the shower, blowing soap bubbles with my fingers and trying in vain to overpower buoyancy and sink an empty mug to the bottom of the bucket. I had been taught that we must save water, but the gravity of the issue had not yet sunk in. Of course, I had forgotten to pick up my towel on my way in — but a quick shriek of “mummy!” results in a magical genie appearing out of thin air with a blue towel in her dough-coated hand. My hand stretches out from the small gap where the door stands open, ensuring my naked body remains concealed from the woman who had birthed me. Little fingers attempt to grab the towel without the aid of the eyes and, upon contact, yank it in, while closing the door. The towel smells of fresh atta mixed with the sun's warmth where it had been drying since the day broke today. It knows its way over my body, gaining weight with each rub. I am now clothed and leaving the soaked towel to disburse its newfound wealth with my bed, I scurry off towards the dining table. An unpleasant sight greets me — the bowl on the table smells of lauki (bottle gourd) and upon closer inspection — it is. My face droops in an instant and this sight plunges the heart of the lauki’s cook even lower. She brandishes a packet of aloo bhujia out of a hidden cabinet in the stores, and doles out a rationed quantityon my plate. With the ordeal made more bearable, I hurriedly chomp the roti and lauki morsels embellished with a generous yet measured helping of bhujia — since the allocated bhujia needs to last all 3 rotis.

With school taken care of and the food reaching my stomach — the day is mine to seize now. There is no should I? or can I? There is no to-do list to tick off, nor is tomorrow expecting much from me. Heck, even my class teacher hasn’t given me any homework for the day. I am the young but empowered master of my destiny — the sole proprietor of my time and pleasure. I choose to start the new Goosebumps story I had bought from Scholastic’s School Book Fair — my 32nd book in the series. But before that, time to get comfy. I bang my room’s door shut, turn on the home’s lone AC on full blast, and land on the nicely done bed with the taut cotton bed sheet that feels rough beneath your soles. The wet towel that I had left behind had now somehow vanished. I lie with my head sunk deep into the pillow with the book in my hand. The window AC’s whirring and humming and the fan’s dug-dugging provide the background score as I pass my fingers over the shiny gold-foil cover (I always judge books by their cover). “The Cuckoo Clock of Doom”. Boy, was this one going to be fun. I flip to page number 1.

I don’t remember what happens next. Perhaps nothing. There was a clock in my room which I seldom used — for the longest time, I found it hard even to read an analog clock. But then again, I didn’t need to. The shade of light on the tree outside my window was all the timekeeping I ever needed. It becoming blue signalled to me that it was time my mother would come with a glass of milk and after gulping it down, I could do whatever I want. I think I stayed in bed that day until I finished the book, my face was laced with beads of sweat and my fledgling heart was pounding from the story I had just read. What a waste of air-conditioning!

This recollection took several minutes to write. Perhaps, it took you several to read as well. But when the feeling strikes me, it comes and goes in a few seconds. In those fleeting seconds, I can feel the sun's heat and the AC's relief. I can feel my hungry stomach and the taste of lunch. I can feel the cool shower and the texture of the pages under my thumb. Perhaps I can feel anything and everything other than how I “felt” knowing my freedom. Perhaps because then it wasn’t freedom, just life. I can’t feel how I felt reading those 200 pages in one sitting without anything else invading my consciousness. I can’t feel how uninterrupted that session was without a phone by my side or a to-do list to fulfil.

I try to extend this burst of feelings by attempting to think of it consciously — but like a half-seen dream that just won’t return no matter how much you try going back to sleep, it doesn’t work. The feeling gets triggered on its own. It governs itself and isn’t the slave of anyone else. I wish it could stay a bit longer, allowing me to relive more of it before vanishing, but then my phone pings and I forget about it.

Perhaps next time.