I was busy cleaning a dusty shelf on grandma's room. This is one thing I love to do once I reach home on every vaccation. It's damm interesting. I always get some treassure to cherish when I do that. It may be some old coins, stamps, some wonderful inland letters filled with love sent by her brothers in some late '80s or some very old family photos. Whatever they be, I treassure them to future. I love doing that.
Between the numerous dusty books on the shelf, a photo tumbled to the floor through my eyes. It was an old photograph. Black and white, slowly yellowing on the edges. I took the photograph but couldn't recoganise the man in it. It was already a wounded photo. The 'Man' had a turban over his head and no mustach. You can say he posed like Swami Vivekanada, with folded hands. He looks very young, may be 25 years. I was sure, this man is not from my family. Aggh....I felt so!!
After a good homely bath, I sat next to grandma, showed her the photograph. She took it and gazed carefully. I couldn't trace out the emotions on her wringled face. I heard some whisper from her. It sounds like a name "Mahan Nambuthiri".
"Mahan Nambuthiri?? What is that?" I wonder. (Later I read 'Mahan Nambuthiri' is a title or some thing similar given to the son of a Nambuthiri family, ummh... quiet interesting.)
Without answering my question she continued "He was the most brilliant in the class. A great student who always top the college. He was the apple in eyes of teachers. He was known for his instant poems. He always get the first prize for poem writing..,blah blah blah...."
I could find exitment in my granny's face as she gone praising him non-stop. I was getting a fire from her. An unknown spark was getting to her eyes that she was not hiding, rather she couldn't hide. It was just like a glint of sunlight through the clouds.
Without giving me any chance to speak she walked away from me with that photo. As she walked I noticed her eyes was still on that photograph. I knew what I saw a few seconds before in her eyes was the true passion of love. Yes, probably 'Mahan Nambuthiri' was her first love! Very often we cherish this memories alot, sometimes idealise them, remember first love as something innocent and fragile.
What goes around, comes around!Like an old photograph, time can make the feeling fade, but the memory of the first love never fades away. She may have forget how she used to feel about him, but the memory of that first love is like an eternal sunshine.
As a sighed myself with a stretch, I thought to myself- 'This may probably be an argument for a life that never really was, but if such a life was there, probably my grandma got the nostalgia she would never lose-touched by an antique love of her life!'