Page 14 - September 2020

LITTERATEUR

It was almost always the same vivid scenes.
It started with the garden – his precious haven
during his childhood. Sprawled on a mat laid on the
ground and beneath the shade of the majestic mango
Touch Me tree, basking in the warmth of the glorious Sun during
the summer break, eyes half closed, feet propped one
over the other, and his head on his mother’s lap as she
read to him the adventures of Tom Sawyer and
Huckleberry Finn – he was quite, the picture of ease.
His mother’s lilting voice kept him enraptured – oh,
was she quite the narrator! As her voice hit a high
note here and low one there, he would find himself
getting engrossed in the story and imagining himself
to be either Tom or Huck! The occasional bee or fly
that came to squat on his nose, and stare at him
incredulously, as if to question his proposition of
being Huckleberry Finn or Tom Sawyer himself, was
Navya Benny the only annoyance that interrupted the flights of his
fantasies.
And all the while, his mother would thread her
hand through his hair, as if she were weaving her own
little story in his mane…
It then quickly dissolved into another setting.
This time, he was at school. Ah! His second home! It
was here that he understood the true meaning of

L I T T E R A T E U R
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