It was before I was introduced to poetry, even before I loved songs and movies. It was a long time back. It was the time when I walked with a comics tucked under my arm and thus had everything. Desire had not raised its head, and if I had a comics with me, I had everything. It was as simple as this. My world was a wonder. I was the King of my world. My comics were my joy.
Me and my parents lived in a rented house on a narrow street. I was less than four years old and was able to perfectly read Hindi. I don’t remember how often I went to the little shop at the other end of the street, that sold many little toys for children, some domestic things of daily use, and rented many comics. In the shop, the comics were put on display on a rack in the wall. They were covered by plastic sheets to prevent them from damage. I used to look at them with wonder in my eyes, and a little greed, for I knew somewhere inside that each one of them would take me to a different space, that would become a part of my dreams, a part of my waking hours, and would make up my world.
The act of choosing one of the comics out of around fifty of them was to me a difficult task, and yet it was something that I could do all day. I had to be shook from my dreamy state by the shopkeeper who was a big fellow with a face the shape of an egg, and with very short hair, very close to baldness. I would make a calculation, not something of mathematics, but something of the heart. I don’t know how I concluded, but I know that I enjoyed even that calculation. The shopkeeper would pick up the comics selected by me and would brush the dust off the comics, slapping it twice. Even that slapping filled me with wonder. And an old smell came out from the comics. Oh! Not a smell, but a fragrance of adventure. Even today, I remember that fragrance of adventure. Then, I would pay the one rupee rent to the shopkeeper, tuck the comics under my arm and was off to my house lost in the thoughts of my comics, and walking in an odd way, taking a few steps to the left, a few to the right and occasionally skipping.
As I reached my house which was on the upper floor, my mother would be waiting for me with my food. She used to feed me with her own hands the food she cooked with love. She would be feeding me Daal and Roti, but all my attention was on the new comics. I had already started reading it while eating, and sometimes, even when my mother was careful, some food would fall on my clothes. Then, I would sit in her lap and was enveloped in the comics.
There was no other world, there were no ambitions, there was no regret, neither was there anything incomplete. It was just me, my mother’s love, and my comics…
© Manan sheel.
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