The school bus that never came!

Perhaps most of us have a story that connects us to ourselves, telling us who we are, a reflection into ourselves. I too have many small ones; stories that have perhaps made me what I am, these aren’t just random memories; they are the roots of my existence, the edifice of my being.
My first memories from my childhood are when I must have been 5 years. Every morning my grandfather would walk me to the bus stop, hold me a one rupee coin and seat me on the bonnet next to the driver asking him to drop me near the school 6 miles away. Sometimes I would get a lift with a neighbour on his bicycle and on a lucky day in a jeep. How I wished for a school bus then!
School wasn’t very exciting and all I remember is the time I spent day dreaming on the back benches. Life was simple with the small joys that came along - the pristine blue sky, the first flakes of snow, the weekend game of cricket and many such not so hard to get pleasures of life. It was also about the small things I coveted and couldn’t get. If at school I would have to settle for an orange bar instead of the ‘milk’ bar that wouldn’t fit my pocket money, at home it was the Comic books that were always borrowed from my cousins or the Sunday movie that I would want to catch at the neighbour’s house often from outside the window.
When I grew a little older I wanted a bicycle, in my little imaginary world it was my vehicle to my dreams, of simple heroism, of the romance with life, of freedom. The bicycle, a blue second hand one, came for a day. It was returned the next day for being expensive. For many days I would visit the repair shop and hope the owner would just see the disappointment in my moist eyes and gift it to me.
Till date the most treasured thing has been the cricket bat gifted to me by papa. It was perhaps the first thing that was completely mine, I was proud to own one. Battered and bandaged it lived on for many years.
I have always been a recluse and perhaps it has something to do with the days I spent playing cricket alone against the wall, my little sister being no good at it and the cousins staying away for reasons not comprehended by childhood.
In college when I lived on my own in a hostel I splurged, on books. The conflict was small when the choice was between clothes and books; it became bigger when it had to be between a meal and a book. I often chose the latter. One of the most distressing moments came when all the 200 of them were eaten away by moths. Not a single word was left.
My kid sister who used to call me her little daddy was everything that I wasn’t, lively, vivacious and full of life. Born on Ist April she was a prankster. And I thought it was a prank when she left the world without saying a single word to me. But I truly believe she is back in my life this time as my real daughter, Mayaa.
After many years I still prefer the orange bar, have bought many books and yes I still ride a bicycle with the same enthusiasm. But today I enjoy everything that life has given me and try to fret less over what it hasn’t. Life after all has its own way to even it out.