Old And Nostalgic

One day, the eighty-eight-year-old ‘you’ would be sitting on a bench in a park, in nostalgia, in melancholy. Much above worldly affairs or disconnected from loved ones, you would be sitting there much wiser from now. Much wiser or less concerned, it does not make any difference. You would be sitting there alone and yet together with a lot of people, not physically but mentally.

Remembering each and every person you could remember from each part of your life. Starting from your kindergarten friend who saved you from bullies. You don’t have any clear memory of your friend’s face or name, but recalling that event makes you happy and thankful to your probably first friend in school. Then your neighboring buddies, different ages, different faces, different places but one common thing, the bond of togetherness and that fun you had even after quarrels.

How can you forget your cricket buddies, karate kids, and school bus pals? You’ll relive those olden days. Those moments, golden ones, darker ones, and the silver lines ones too. You don’t remember all of their names, neither all of the faces, but just thinking of those moments makes your heart pump gallons of blood. Sitting there, in the park, alone on a bench, you would live the bests of your life, again.

Your crazy bestie, the one who stole your pens and conquered every samosa you brought from the canteen. You’ll remember how that silly creature refused to submit his notebook just because you forgot yours at home, and stood together with you, outside the class, on punishment. And how you both chilled even out there. And then saddest part of your childhood, your friend’s family getting transferred to another city! Ah! That still aches!

Then the bad times. Everyone you met was a plastic man, cold and freshly out of the mold. You fell, not once but again and again. And now realizing, every time you fell, you stood stronger! Those bad times were nothing but just a process to make you stronger casted steel. At last, you rose, stronger, bolder, and brighter. More independent and blue. Creating and defining the ‘you’ in you.

And there, you got your pals, your buddies, not one but two to be glad. True, bold, and original like you. Always together, while studying or playing. From sharing lunch to sharing secrets, you three had nothing to hide from each other. Chilling or hanging out, studying, or being scolded for not doing the homework, you were always in sync. The more you think of them the more you miss them. You don’t remember each and everything you did together, just because you did millions of small and great things back then, and now you are too old to remember all of them. Now realizing, the friendship is not about great things, but about a million small things.

Those were the days when your life was just perfect, and then you found someone to make it more perfect, your first crush, your first love. Following her from the library to class, trying every small talk idea you could think of, asking for notes, or helping her in mathematics, you left no stone turned. Your friends teasing you, her friends poking her, everyone knew, but none of you confessed to others. You waited for her and she waited for you, and the story never started. Now you have nothing but regrets. You sit there on that bench, wishing, you had confessed to her. You do miss her, but there is nothing you can do. Except wishing for her well-being and happiness.

Life is nothing but, shades of emotions and memories.

The eighty-eight-year-old you would be full of memories, emotions, and regrets. And then, you would be in no condition to do anything. You can’t live your moments with friends, you can’t enjoy and hang out with your loved ones. And you would have a lot of regrets. You would regret not taking risks, you would regret not taking that leap of faith, you would regret the decisions you never made.

In nostalgia and melancholy, you would be sitting there, helpless. Remembering and sobbing, in memories and emotions. The one of a kind creature, on verge of its extinction, recalling his life.