The Visit
The dazzling sun illuminates on the trees with shamrock shades. Trees stand tall with its slender branches, swaying rhythmically to the swirling wind. Every oak tree has ginger brown branches, they twist, twine and tangle against each other. A myriad of leaves rustles, as the breeze speeds through them. Some are emerald and the others are the colour of the bumblebee. Yet, the melodious ripples formed by the nonchalantly falling leaves add beauty to the ceiling of the bluish hue. The soft moss greenish blanket of soft waves glide aimlessly. Few oak trees, with oblong leaflets, make their spaces between the oak trees. They are dark juniper with steep and pinnate leaves. As they stand proud to the neighbouring water body to act as the fence. Adjacent to the row of the oak and Ashoka trees is the fur-like cushion of the green patch of grass. It gently oscillates and tickles my sole. Ferns grow wildly at the stump of the trees. Presence of light air, sway the ferns tenderly, bringing alive a sense of tranquillity. Although the row of trees envelops the water body, the other half perimeter of the garden is fenced with metal wire.
As I walk, I remember my father insisting me to desert myself from the hustle and bustle of the busy crowds, and rather go along with him for a walk. He would always remind me to get the vibe of a calm and solitary life. Besides, he would explicitly illustrate the soft ripples of water like the running children, the clouds like ice cream, and a flock of birds that would glide rhythmically. However, I would put swabs in my ear and pretend to be absorbed. Later on, when he asked, "Are you coming?" I would shake my head shamelessly.
A pile of putrid rotten leaves brings me to my senses. It stinks of fresh air, as the wind blows over it. I cover my nostrils, with the hem of my kurta. In the same row of trees, I hear a buzz. I gaze past the leaves, slanting rays, make their way through the gaps between the leaves. I spot a nest of wasps. Immediately I take a step backwards and dawdle to the other end. There is a wide opening to the fence where the playground is located. This is opposite to the water body.
There is a group of four boys, they are attired in yellow jerseys. The boy with the cricket bat is panting heavily. He has dark curly hair that covers his forehead. The other boy clutches a ball in his right hand and sprints towards the tree, where I am standing. There are four different coloured bottles, huddled together. He picks the black metal bottle hastily and gulps down their water. Her carelessly tosses the black bottle as it clacks and clinks. Exhaustion slows their down, as the sun beats upon them. Droplets of sweat trickle down their wet bodies and wet their jerseys. The playground is rectangular, covered with fine particles of dust. It swirls, as wind darts through it. Right next to the water bottles, sits a carob bench. Dust covers the surface of the bench, as I tentatively pick my way towards the bench and caress it with my bare hands. I puff the dust and take a seat. It creaks softly.
I often played this game during my childhood with my dad. I remember missing the throws and getting frustrated at myself. I would fling the cricket bat and walk away exasperated. My dad's face would portray helplessness as he believed in persistence. Now after two years of detachment from him, I comprehend my dad's advice. I regret my actions toward my father. Besides, I feel awful about prolonging this visit. The existence of the flowing water, the trees and nature is a sign of my dad still being alive in my memories. Nonetheless, as this gives me a sense of peace and I plan to embrace the unhabitual calmness.