Across the Bridges of Yesterday

Childhood crossings, trembling planks, and memories that never let go.

I was born in Calcutta, and one of my earliest impressions of the world is a bridge—the great Howrah Bridge. To a four-year-old, it didn’t look like steel and rivets; it looked like a giant playground that grown-ups had stolen for themselves. Perched between my parents’ arms, I’d watch the crowds tumble across—rickshaws rattling, trams clanging, and men and women moving with such determination you’d think they were all late for the same wedding. The bridge seemed alive, breathing with the city’s pulse, while I—small, sticky, and mostly confused—wondered why nobody else found it odd that the whole thing didn’t collapse under the weight of so many feet.

And then, just like that, we left Calcutta behind for Kerala. If Calcutta was the theatre of life in full volume, Kerala became the poetry of water and bridges. To visit Granny in her village of Thiruvarppu, we crossed so many bridges that the journey itself felt like a lesson in trust.

There was the Poothotta Bridge, where fishermen waved fresh catch skewered on slender green coconut leaf stems—the supple kind that might have become brooms, but for now stood proudly like banners of the day’s luck. They’d dangle the fish at our car window, grinning like salesmen at a clearance sale. Then came Murinjapuzha, where the river looked calm enough to keep secrets, before we finally met the grand Nagampadom Bridge in Kottayam town. Unlike the others, this one didn’t have water flowing beneath it, but railway tracks, where trains puffed and screeched their way into and out of the busy Kottayam station.

But no bridge was as dramatic—or as traumatic—as the Illickal Bridge. Made of iron girders, it had a rumble that could rattle even the bravest adult. To my child’s imagination, every thunderous clank was the sound of destiny giving way. The car would bounce, the iron would groan, and I would shut my eyes tight, rehearsing how people might remember me. Not in an obituary—at four, I had no concept of that—but more like a whispered family story: “Ah, yes, the boy who was last seen clutching his toy car while the Illickal Bridge gave way.”

And then, after surviving that beast, we’d finally roll into Thiruvarppu. But Granny’s house still lay across a maze of choices. On days when she had sensed our nerves—or perhaps Mummy’s nerves more than mine—a country boat would be waiting, sent by Granny herself. It was her way of saying, “Why risk the ropes and planks when the water will carry you safely?”

Mummy, after all, had reason to worry. She had once slipped into a stream while crossing a narrow coconut-stem bridge, and though nothing worse than drenched clothes and bruised pride came of it, the memory stayed like a permanent watermark on her courage.

But on the days when no boat awaited us, we had to summon our inner daredevils. We had to choose between the rope bridge near the temple or the one by the toddy shop. Both had their quirks, both had their risks. Halfway across either bridge, I was always convinced the swaying planks had conspired to topple me into the water. Yet somehow, clutching breath and dignity in equal measure, I always made it to the other side—alive, damp only in imagination, and carrying one more tale to add to the growing family folklore.

At the temple, the evening air carried the sound of bhajans, soft and steady, as though the gods themselves were whispering, “Steady now, little one—the planks will hold for just one more day.”

By the toddy shop, it was a different kind of music—half-slurred songs of men who had traded their day’s worries for clay tumblers of comfort.

And sometimes, Gurno, the toddy shop dog (and proud sibling of Granny’s Tipu), would decide to escort us, as if to say, “Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.” He’d trot ahead with the swagger of a guide who knew every shortcut, only to abandon us midway when a bush smelt more promising. Between the gods and the drunks, someone—up there or down here—was always looking out for me.

Then there were the short coconut-trunk bridges, deceptively innocent until one decided to betray me and I landed in the shallow water, soaked, sputtering, and earning a family story that refuses to die even now.

And finally, the tall stone bridge near Granny’s house. My cousins leapt off it into the stream like Olympic divers, their laughter echoing in the air. I, of course, stood on the edge, courage stuck somewhere between my knees and my throat. “Next time,” I told myself. Spoiler: there was never a next time.

And yet, each of those crossings left behind more than fear. They left memories—fragments of journeys, voices, and places that stitched themselves into who I became. The bridges we crossed weren’t just over rivers and streams; they were over time, childhood, and change.

Life, after all, is nothing if not a series of crossings. Some shaky, some steady, some that leave you trembling, and some that leave you laughing long after you’ve made it to the other side.

And sometimes, when I look back, all my best memories come rushing clear—some that make me laugh, some that still make me cry.
As if it’s yesterday once more.

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And speaking of crossings, one more lies just ahead: the launch of my memoir, You Told Me To Be Brave. Stay tuned—I promise it has a few bridges worth revisiting.

Until then, may this story carry you across a few of your own. If it did, share it with someone you care about—perhaps they’ll remember a bridge or two of their own.