That feeling called freedom

That feeling called freedom

“Have I told you the story of how I got lost when I was a child?” asked Ajoba. He was making a tiranga omelette for Parul and Preeti. It was Independence Day and the little girls wanted everything in the colours of the Indian flag — green, saffron and white. They had got green capsicums, tomatoes and eggs for the recipe.

The girls had held a flag-hoisting ceremony in the morning after which they played with their friends and enacted their own little Independence Day play: Britishers being driven out by feisty little girls. Now, it was evening, the excitement of the day had not worn off and they still wanted more.

“Tell us, tell us,” said the girls in unison, forgetting about the excitement of making a tri-coloured omelette for the moment.

Aai, who was sipping her evening chai, chuckled in the background. She had heard this story a million times but she never tired of it. “Tell us, Baba,” she egged him on.

Ajoba got ready to launch into the story. Not that he needed any prompt, but it was good to have his favourite girls as his eager audience. He cleared his throat. He had a frail frame but his eyes were twinkling with excitement.

“It was the eve of Independence Day,” he began, “and there was an excitement in the air. I was small, but I knew enough about celebrations like Ganesh Chaturthi and Deepavali. But this was something different.”

As the omelette sizzled in the pan, the girls climbed on a stool to keep an eye on it. Just in case Ajoba got carried away and burnt their special evening snack.