Gentle twists, a schoolboy’s will
to ease the miniature motor
through the chicane from yesteryears.
A right and a left, in slow motion
the bike was urged as an old
family fortress coughed on the left
while the watch tower loomed,
it still keeps an eye on the
blue-and-white teens mugging up
theorems to cut short their heaven.
An open ground and a palace
left in the dust, yellow memoirs zip past.
Ahoy! The market where dreams
were made, pumped with Iron,
oiled and then dumped,
the end of innocence.
(Yesterday evening’s bike ride from Santa Cruz school to Pattalam ground through the road beside the unused water tank, my old school Britto and the Bishop’s Palace, was indeed part of a normal commute home after an evening stroll at Fort Kochi beach. A 500-metre or so long trip which lasted around 30 seconds; but a life-time of memories this road carries for me and some flashed by, in the same pace as the eight or so Sodium vapour street lamps I left behind during the ride.)
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