The Writing Room

  The music of the crunching of stones under my feet, the bu-dum bu-dum of my heart and a head full of grown up thoughts accompanied me as I jogged down the dirt steps. The steps led to a dirt track that resembled a squiggly mark that a child who had not yet learnt to write had scribbled on a page. My body traced its curves until I reached its end. A hop and I was on the main road which was not much different from the track, but wider. I was ready to experience the first of many firsts in my life. I ran past silent houses, free from the constant bickering of their owners. After rounding two more corners of silent houses, I reached the guango tree that guarded other silent houses. The guango tree provided shade for people and beasts. I stopped, not because I wanted solace from the blazing sun overhead. Stopping there was what travellers did when they reached that spot. Climbing atop one of the gnarled, sprawling roots of the guango tree, I gazed to my left at the far end of the fiel