The other day I happened to walk into a conversation among strangers about something I must have loved for a long time. I didn’t realize it till the mention of it brought back memories in rushes.
I remember spending countless days rolling on that red floor of yore, my lazy summer afternoons with Satyjit, Sharadindu, Sunil, Shirshendu. On afternoons, when it would be dark and cloudy or even rainy, I’d curl up on the dark mahogany four poster bed and watch the rain find it’s way through the chinks of the shutters on the window, roll down the ledge and make watery designs on the red floor. Or on a fast disappearing winter afternoon, the coloured glass pattern in the arch above the window would cast longer shadows on the floor and I would sit mesmerized by the changing hues of the red.
Then came the time when I was walking, running, lounging on the mosaic of colours bordered with green in our new house. The house had window seats in green mosaic and I would spend long afternoons pondering over Maugham or just stare out at the sky with Joan Baez and ‘Hey Jesse, it’s lonely ….. come home’ or have the floor strewn with paper, paint, brushes while I took flights of fantasy.
And one day in my red Benarasi, I crossed over a threshold, on to a pristine white alabaster floor leaving behind a trail of footprints in red alta . A new ‘I’ came into being, a new relationship dawned, relating me to many more and breathed life into a sprite.
Life moved on to different cities, different mosaics and terrazzos, on to various shades of alabaster and granite, in barsatis, in shiggat (Arabic for ‘apartment’), in penthouses. But never again did I come across the red of that floor of yore. Not that I yearned for it, but somehow all my memories of my girlhood would have that touch of red.
Now in the eve of my life, I tread on my mosaic, a red mosaic , a red from my childhood, a seamless wonder that the adult seems to have clung on to all this while.
Picture courtesy: mosaicartsource.wordpress.com