Weekend Walks with Dad

A nostalgic journey through childhood weekends

Every weekend had a rhythm.

Before I even knew the days of the week, I knew market day. It meant holding onto my dad’s hand - sometimes his finger was all I could grip - and stepping into a world of colors, sounds, and smells.

When I was two, I rode proudly on his shoulders, giggling as I towered above the crowd. From up there, the market looked like a painting in motion - bright red tomatoes, leafy greens, golden marigolds, and orange carrots all blending into one joyful blur.

The vendors called out with loud voices, weighing vegetables in metal scales, tossing in an extra green chili with a smile. I didn’t understand much, but I watched everything wide-eyed - because Dad made the world feel safe, even in the busiest of crowds.

By the time I turned five, I walked beside him, my tiny steps trying to keep pace with his long, steady ones. He would ask, “What shall we get today?” and I’d point randomly at something - maybe because it was shiny or smelled nice. He would always nod, as if I had made a wise choice.

As I grew older, the shoulder rides became rare. But the walks continued. We’d stop at the same corner sweet shop on the way back. He always bought my favorite - warm, sticky Jilebi or a soft Gulab Jamun wrapped in a leaf bowl. He'd hand it to me with a quiet smile, knowing I was waiting for it the whole time.

The conversations slowly changed. From "Will we buy bananas today?" to "Where should we go this evening?" - parks, bookshops, or sometimes just another long walk.

The market never really changed, but life did. School got busier, weekends got shorter, and those walks became less frequent.

Today, I walk past markets like those, and a wave of memories crashes over me. The voices, the smell of coriander, the sound of weighing scales, even the dust in the air - it all feels like a soft tug on my heart.

And in that moment, I miss the shoulder rides.
I miss walking beside him, holding his hand.
I miss being his little weekend companion.

But most of all, I miss the simplicity of those days, where love was shown in a sweet bought on the way home and the warmth of a big hand holding mine.