"FRIDAYS FROM THE VERANDAH"

 Back in the 1980s and 90s, Fridays in our little town had a magic of their own.

From our upstairs verandah, we’d watch the streets outside the local police station come alive — 

especially when the foreigners arrived. It became a quiet little event for us. Me, my siblings, and my 

mother would gather and just watch.

They always seemed so different — calm, curious, and dressed in clothes that were unfamiliar yet 

fascinating. Many of them visited the embroidery shops that lined the street. Looking back, I think they 

had a special love for thread work, maybe even knitting. They seemed to move slowly, soaking in every 

detail.

We didn’t have phones. No cameras. No way to capture it except with our eyes and hearts.

But somehow, I remember it all — the way they looked, the way they smiled, the colors of their clothes, 

the shop signs, even the sound of the street.

I truly believe I was born with camera eyes — the kind that quietly record the world around, storing 

memories in soft focus and warm light. That stored not just images, but smells, textures, moments. 

These aren’t just pictures in my mind… they’re feelings. And they’ve stayed with me all these years 

framed not in an album, but deep within me.

Some people scroll to find memories. I just close my eyes.

Some views stay forever — right where they belong.