The bridge

I am standing on the banks of holy waters of Ganga. There are staircases leading down and submerging in the water at the 15th or 16th stair. I am standing on it. The water is touching my feet and splashing away. The sun is setting down and scattering its radiance in the horizon. The bridge that connects the two parts of the state is shimmering in a distance behind the sun. I glance at it. My eyes get filled with nostalgic tear drops. They sparkle in the remembrance of a night. The bridge, henceforth, became a souvenir, of what I was and what I became.

“Mamma, I’m home” cried an 11 year old making her way through the packed stuff ready to be loaded on the van. She looked at them with regret. The one room apartment was tucked in between a copse and another flat next to it. There were beautiful plants in the porch which were now being loaded in a van. She saw the laborers picking up each stuff with delicacy and putting them down inside the tuck which was soon to leave for a new city.
She was a tall girl, enough for a girl in the sixth grade. Her skin was as soft as supple. She had large and pretty eyes, and thick cheeks which would never let anyone resist pulling them. “Go and change as soon as possible. We must leave as early as we can.” Said her mother who looked like a replica of her younger daughter. The elder one was sent to hostel a year ago, but right now she would be waiting for them to arrive at their new home with her father. Her father moved before they did as he had to catch up with his job and the little girl could not leave her school in the middle of the session so she stayed back for a few more months with her mom.
She changed at the speed of light and came out just to see and feel the world around her, which would no longer be felt. As she saw the cartons being picked up with all her stuff inside she felt gloomy. Her jolly face (which might have been so due to the happy time in the school) turned miserable. She wanted to stay back forever. As she saw her articles being put into the van, there was a rush of nostalgia.
She saw her dolls being picked away and remembered her time with them. How she took care of them as if they were her own children and how she passed her wonderful time with them. Then she saw her clothes going in the van, and remembered all her shopping tours to the town market with her mom, and the feast they had after it in the hotel. She saw her novels being carried, and recalled all her journeys in the country, with books being the only friends and also her room where she read them with a plate of snacks always beside her. She saw the television move into the van and reminisced about how she had grown up watching Disney junior to National Geography. She realised, the television would still be there, the channels would still be there, but what wouldn’t be is her home. She saw her study table picked up by four men on each corners, and looked back on the time she had spent on it, most of the time indeed, but later when she would open her books on it, she would not feel the same ambience around her. Then someone came and lifted her school bag with all her text books and note books in it. It reminded her of the wonderful time spent in school, which would not come back at any cost.
She shed a tear. She would give her life to stay back. This was the country where she was born and brought up. It was where she had put her first foot step, where she had smiled and cried for the first time, where she spoke for the first time. It was where she had spent all her 11 birthdays, now how could she feel happy on her birthday next time when she would be hundreds of kilometers away from this place.
It was almost six months ago when she came to know about her father’s transfer. She was preparing herself for this trauma all these months, but could not help herself from weeping that day.
She sat down in the front seat of the van and off they went for an entirely new place. For her, it was like leaving heaven and going to hell. She felt sick at heart.
After a tiresome journey of 7 hours, they reached their destination at the mid of the night. There were no vehicles on the road, except the. Entering a bridge, that was the entrance to the city, she looked back at all the possibilities of going back, but all the doors were now closed. The arch was the start of her new life.

Today, I am standing below the same bridge, on the same land, which once I cried to not to go. Today, I feel quite unusual at the decision. I still wish I could go back and live there forever, but then, leaving what I nurtured here would be tough. I made my first friend there, and made friends for life here. I came into life there, and met life here. I laughed and cried for the first time there, but here, I grew up doing that all the time. There, I had taken my first steps and here I realize how important each one is. There I spoke for the first time, but here I apprehended the meaning of words.
I smiled and wiped my tears. It’s been three years and here I am, on the same spot where once my tears might have fallen down from the bridge. I am happy today. But in a corner of my heart, I still wish, if only I could go back crossing the bridge.