Down the Grassy Aisles

By Aruna Gurumurthy
At the crack of dawn, my dad turns off the cuckoo clock every single day. He chews a piece of antioxidant mint and we set out on the grassy aisle of the suburban Colaba, skirting South Bombay. No talks; just our nods tell the tales. My “hmm’s” set the tone for our brief convos as I breathe in his wisdom. We stop at the chai stall, drinking our refreshing cups of tea, our chaos blown away by the steam. Our visions turning in a projectile, scanning through the green pastures of the gulf lands, with pools of water and pelicans pecking at every endearing droplet. My Walkman singing Eric Clapton’s “My Father’s Eyes,” and my gaze turns to his eyes, the hazel beauties of creation. Blessed with bonding walks and soulful rendezvous, bound by timelessness, we embrace the dot, dot, dots of life ... one evening he ties my luggage tags and religiously writes my name on them with a black felt pen. We hug each other and bid goodbye. Many mornings later, I open my eyes to the mountains of Massachusetts, waking up to the same cuckoo clock. I think of my dad. I ponder walking down the grassy aisles together. I am brushing away my goose bumps. Because he is gone.
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