Birds of a feather

Whoever coined the phrase ‘bird-brained’ ought to have his head examined. It goes without saying that the person must be the male of the species Homo sapiens; women would never have dismissed the opposition so summarily, lulling us into a false sense of complacency as it were, about our superiority vis-à-vis the inhabitants of the sky. This last is written with considerable passion after having waged a futile war with the romantic pair of pigeons that came home to roost---only their idea of home and mine clashed horribly. My open and transparent admission of my feelings did not deter them one bit from cooing in tandem, all the while gazing unblinkingly at me with ruby-red eyes.

I always knew I was popular; friends are forever flocking to my home to enjoy evenings of merriment. But how magnetic a personality I am was, alas, never fully revealed till very recently. Every morning there were tell-tale signs of our nocturnal visitors who left their calling cards in the balcony. Initially, I airily referred to them as shy denizens of the neighbourhood who hesitate to strike a conversation in the bright light of day. It became less and less a laughing matter when the volume and frequency of their unannounced visits began to take a toll on the general upkeep of their favourite pecking place. Light laughter gave way to clenched jaw, till finally the lady of the house progressed from a frazzled bundle of nerves into a hard-eyed foe of the romancing pigeons.

My first strategy was the use of shock tactics. Without warning, I’d spring into the balcony, letting loose blood-curdling yells. But every such action had the same reaction. Emitting squawks of disapproval, my feathered unfriends would rise high and settle down in the near vicinity, to glare reproachfully at me from a respectful distance. Needless to add, they inevitably winged their way back the moment Enemy Number One was out of the picture. Scream I, II and III thus fell completely flat; in any case, the family was always more startled by these piercing screeches and the birds only warbled in appreciation of the shrill pitch of voice.

Stage Two of the war of nerves commenced. I now attempted to run them off my property by brandishing a pelmet rod above my head every time I declared war. And I did it silently, sans the warning battle cry. The result was the same to a‘t’. Except that I almost gave a nasty gash with the rear end of the aluminum rod to hubby dear and he had rather a lot to say on the matter in his habitually forceful tone. It made me quail while the undivided objects of my affection smirked from their perch on the window sill, to which they had fluttered away in deliberate slow motion.

By now the grey matter was fully occupied with the task of out-witting and out-maneuvering. One concerted attempt was made to get the maintenance guys to install a grill but they were unmoved. Finally I decided that warm winter afternoons and pleasant summer evenings must perforce be relegated to the past. Using the best innovative skills at my command, I got hold of a gaudy bedcover and blocked the entire balcony entrance with it, doing a veritable song and dance a la Anarkali in the bargain. Sadly, the audience didn't comprise an adoring Salim. Suffice to say, at the end of the exercise, I could empathise with her walled-in feelings.

The one thing I could now be smugly certain of, was victory; the birds were sure to die of embarrassment when spotted haunting a home which displayed such garish colours. But there’s no accounting for taste. My morale was shattered when I spotted a familiar figure trying to sidle in through the brick-high space between two horizontal slabs of the balcony wall. I have personally found the space neither an architectural marvel nor the answer to a housewife’s prayer, but obviously the contractor was a closet ornithologist and it was of great use to some living beings who I-do-not-wish-to-name-but- whose-identities-can-be-guessed.

Tiredly I told my chappie to block the space with bricks, so he stole down in the dead of night to do the needful. A fleeting thought crossed my mind that I’d probably end up behind bars for appropriating public goods, but I was past caring by now. There was heavenly respite at last—and a halt to unwanted fly-by-night operations. I heaved a sigh of relief and since the thought didn’t seem to have struck anyone else, was lavish in praising myself for never giving up. The next morning I sailed into the balcony with a smile on the lips and cheer in the eye, to be greeted by a slumbering bird which flapped its wings in annoyance at this thoughtless intrusion. The selfsame creature then went unerringly to the edge of the violently pink bedcover and pulled it aside with its beak, finally exiting into the great blue yonder with a backward triumphant glance at me. In complete silence, I re-assessed my options and then put a brick on the edge of the bed-cover to fix it tight against the wall. I didn't bother to flash the Victory sign this time round.

Next thing I know is the patter of little feet on the false ceiling of my office chamber. I’m absolutely certain it’s the same dratted duo. After all, if they can carry Salman Khan’s love messages across hundreds of miles; why not fly a quarter of the distance to persecute the one who has hard-heartedly disrupted their lovey-dovey plans? I fancy I espied one of them yesterday, staring balefully at me from the office balcony, and am now waiting for the next close encounter with the featherweight champions. They will, undoubtedly, coo the last laugh!          

Bijli chali gayi

This is neither an epitaph nor a tribute, as words can never hope to capture the effervescence and sheer liveliness that characterized Nupur—my chirpy and sparkling cousin, who, with her ready repartee and infectious laughter, brightened up any gathering, and succeeded in bringing a reluctant smile to the face of even the most serious souls.

But why say ‘bijli chali gayi’? Nupur’s dazzling complexion made her the cynosure of all eyes, and simultaneously, the envy of all the numerous cousins in our larger-than-life family. (In fact, it was during one such family wedding, that she earned this befitting sobriquet.) Coupled with a bubbling personality and an irrepressible zest for life, it led to her being compared to ‘bijli’ in more ways than one. During any family wedding, she would flit around the wedding arena, dressed in a bright pink or dark purple lehenga, laughing, joking, and pulling the leg of many a hapless individual. No sooner would the wedding procession led by the bashful groom arrive, than she—with the rest of us hovering around like coy companions—would greet them with the lively folk songs that characterize a typical marriage in Bihar.

The word ‘Nupur’ means the tiny bells on an anklet. And the gracefulness, with which she did the bamboo dance for Sports day in College, proved that Nupur had not been wrongly named. Her nimble footwork and agile steps enthralled all—so much so, that our Principal sought her out and specially congratulated her on her performance. This singular honour would have gone to anyone’s head, but Nupur, with her characteristic simplicity, just took it in her stride.

Basically, she was one mischievous kid. The nursery school she attended included, among other examinations, a test on how neatly a child ate his or her food. Nupur, all of six years old, was the first to finish her food, and, angelic smile firmly in place, shyly accepted the teacher’s compliments. With her trademark grin, later she confided that she had gently brushed aside all the remnants with her foot, so that they were found below the table of her unsuspecting neighbour.

As children, our main activity was to do a vanishing act at critical moments, so as to avoid getting caught for the mundane and humdrum household tasks, which are the bane of any summer holiday. This involved quick thinking, and Nupur was a master in that. Mysterious disappearance in the morning, and a silent reappearance in the afternoon, when Chachi was asleep, was the winning formula. Nupur would creep in quietly and smuggle out two large mango pickles before she was noticed and uncomfortable questions asked. If we were caught in some naughty endeavour, her quick-wittedness extricated us from the sticky situation and concomitant ire of a heavy-handed relative.

The mischief did not give way to sobriety even after she became an adolescent. My mind goes back in time and space to one classic occasion when she was traveling on rickshaw with her father, a professor by profession and a strict disciplinarian by nature. The rickshaw almost overturned on one horribly potholed stretch, and Chacha exclaimed angrily that she had almost knocked him off. “Papa, don’t give me ideas!” was the saucy rejoinder, vintage Nupur style.

Nobody could remain angry with her for long or even indifferent. Though during her illness, the sparkle was subdued, traces of the old Nupur surfaced every now and then, and one felt that nothing had changed much. If you were burdened with worry, she was ready with a smile and a joke to lighten up the moment and make you believe that this too shall pass.

  

It is now more than seven years since Nupur decided to leave us to our earthly pursuits. Her passing, for me, is the passing of an era--of laughter, of childhood pranks, of enduring innocence. Like a bird, she has winged her way to the eternal blue skies, while we grapple with the unvarnished truth—that there will never be another like her.

                                     

You've got to be Dillogical

She had always had an unblemished record of efficiency but over the years, age had taken its toll. She no longer inspired confidence and looked worn out, even imbalanced, as though one shoulder was higher than the other. Worse still, there was a distinct asthmatic wheeze which escalated into a rattling cough, when performing the smallest task. It was all very distressing but everyone glossed over it, not wanting the question to be raised, as to why at all she was still around. 

But sooner or later all hell was bound to break loose. The irritant became a full-blown crisis one day, when she seemed to have had a complete breakdown. What was appalling was that she had even forgotten all the instructions given! ‘A classic case of short term memory loss’ I joked to the spouse as his brows drew close in a familiar frown. The line, which normally never failed to evoke a smile, fell completely flat and he left the room muttering something about not putting up with the situation any longer. I thought this was it—finally. My mind went back over the last several years of our association. The children had been so delighted when she first joined the household. How had the deterioration taken place to this extent that we were now forced to move on?

I decided to try and reach out to her one last time. With infinite patience, though that has never been my forte, I tried to coax some response. My efforts seemed to be stonewalled initially, but I persisted, my confidence growing by infinitesimal bits. There was one faint positive reaction and then the final breakthrough. The problem was nothing more than slight fatigue in coping with additional physical burden, and some amount of memory slippage. I announced triumphantly to the spouse that the secret was to be patient and not start banging your fist on the table, upsetting the fragile balance even more.

That was the only understanding the old lady had craved, but we were too impatient and busy to read the signals correctly. However, empathy had won the day and declared me the winner. It was a Eureka like discovery in terms of diagnosis and treatment, and ridiculous in its sheer simplicity—keep only one sheet of paper in the paper tray and give a command to print only one page at a time. Armed with this sure-shot formula for victory, I printed out the 60 pages of my daughter’s assignment, well in time. The pages came out crisp and without a crease, with every line in sharp focus—a very smart looking document in all.

And thus will our grand old lady, the HP DeskJet printer live on, to teach many an impatient younger generation about being intuitive rather than only analytical—and more importantly, that the old are more than worth their weight in gold.

At sea on the road

It is better to travel than to arrive is a trite statement most of us use when in a philosophical mood. In Delhi, one recites this like a mantra whenever out on the roads as a sort of chant to ward off the evil eye, namely, the skyrocketing blood pressure. A mundane thing like venturing out on a dinner invitation often makes one feel like the original intrepid explorer. Dozens of vehicles all anxious to clear the traffic signal obligingly clog the free left lane. Buses growl and cars blare shrilly at each other. Ladies driving their cars are gainfully employed in checking out their make-up in the rearview mirror; the male drivers, with fists balled up, are more than ready with a string of curses. Should you miss the ‘cut’, you’ve to battle with one-way roads as hostile as enemy territory, feeling totally at sea quite like the ancient mariner. Finally you arrive, triumphantly shouting ‘Eureka’, by which time the harried hostess has served dessert. No, there’s no food at home; I’ve given the maid off, you hiss to the spouse who seems determined to head for the exit.

Traffic pangs have, however, the proverbial silver lining, in the form of empathy-laden conversations between the most incurable wallflowers. Tongue-tied souls lay bare their emotions about life in general, and this dinner invitation in particular, being nothing but one long journey. Determinedly cheerful hostesses trying desperately to enliven the desultory conversation, look gratefully at garrulous guests warming to the theme of the ubiquitous Ring Road. One has personally found the Ring Road a singularly uninspiring topic quite lacking in passion and romance, but is in an absolute minority here, as even the archetypal men of few words wax eloquent on the subject. A guest arrives inexcusably late but launches into an impassioned explanation about how he took a wrong left turn. The ladies don’t much care for it; they are anyway busy looking daggers at the latter’s wife who obviously took a detour via the beauty parlour.

The men react as one to the red herring about the route; there is a cacophony of voices, as two chaps point out the way with vigorous gestures and almost put the hapless fellow back into his car to do a replay following their directions. It’s all a question of perspective, states an opinionated gentleman taking the discussion to the realm of the abstract. Another Good Samaritan takes the lucky object of everyone’s attention aside and after writing his memoirs on the spot, proceeds to give him some inside information for the return journey. The guest is by now heartily cursing himself for not having made a beeline for the bar instead. Just then the last latecomer arrives and history repeats itself. The host joins in the fray, hospitably digging out a few dog-eared maps for good measure and the party truly begins to rock.

Fear is the key

Today’s hectic life demands that holidays also have a killing schedule. Art is long and time is short, so I chalked out a thrilling itinerary, wherein the children and I visited monuments at a break–neck pace. By the end of the second day the girls had become rather querulous, and finally lapsed into glassy eyed silence. Faced with the prospect of a mutiny, I was finally forced to wave the white flag in the form of a query as to whether they were interested in going to the Mall. The effect was magical. They discovered afresh the qualities of the aged relative which had hitherto been hidden under layers of history. Within no time, we were in a crowded Mall peopled by youngsters wearing impossible clothes. The object of the kids’ attention was the ‘Scary House’ show being touted as an experience to remember, so I bought four tickets—for my daughters Tanvee, a sedate youngster if ever there was one, Jayati five years her junior, and for Jayati’s bosom pal, Upasana, who had already seen the show and was therefore doubling as our friend, philosopher and guide.

We entered the dim interiors, heartened by Upasana’s whisper that it was going to be such fun. A ghost leapt at us with a blood-curdling yell—Jayati’s equal and opposite reaction was to bang on the door and scream to be let out. So we left her outside the entrance and came back in, with markedly less enthusiasm than before. There were some faintly lit stairs to be mounted and as we neared the top a mummified hand brushed across our faces, causing Tanvee to drop her spectacles and do an undignified jig around, screeching all the while. I told her to stand still and not crush the sole pair she possessed. Thereafter the thrills awaiting us had to be put on hold in favour of some more mundane business, namely, rummaging round on the floor. Finally, I located her spectacles and put them inside my bag, because something told me there would be repeat performances.

Determined not to be shaken by these developments we carried on and came up bang against the wall, so Upasana squeaked ‘which way do we go?’, to which a ghost, disgusted at having been pre-empted, said in as menacing a whisper as it could manage, ‘turn right.’ We turned the corner and there it was—a corpse, hanging by his neck and swaying gently from side to side. Tanvee let out a horrified shriek, slipped her hand into mine and then with another piercing yell, demanded to know whether the hand was mine or of some ghost that had crept up behind us. These chilling notions made the intrepid Upasana tremble with fear and she said ‘Aunty, please hold my hand as well.’ I gave both a brief lecture on how monuments had been far more enjoyable than this.

And thus we crept forward, with ghosts hissing sibilantly all around, until we came to the high point of the whole affair—a dead body on a cot which shot into you the moment you stealthily inched your way towards the exit and freedom. The ghosts luckily, had by now become unnerved by the prospect of getting a dressing down from this scolding adult and meekly let us go when I said sternly that enough was enough. Finally we were out, the two girls a quivering mass of nerves blithely greeted by an enviably cool and composed Jayati. Needless to add, we spent the rest of the holiday visiting museums and admiring objects d’ art sedately confined to glass cases. In management jargon, the takeaway from the experience was a distinctly reduced admiration of the redoubtable Harry Potter as it had been keenly felt by all that meeting up with ghosts on a one-to-one basis was a lot less than fun.

Ring, ring, why don't you give me a call

The excitement in the air was palpable whenever the telephone rang. This was the dinosaur era, better described as P.T.D, or Pre-TV Days. No doubt All India Radio was alive and kicking but it only occasionally broadcast songs, probably believing strongly that students should study in preparation of the infernal exams, and elders should meditate in preparation of their inevitable passing on. So radio programmes were either informative or spiritual lest the captive audience fall prey to the lures of vulgar entertainment. A critique of the simple living high thinking days of yore which made most people such crashing bores, is only too tempting a subject; one somehow drags oneself back to the topic of the ubiquitous telephone, our window to the world.

The shrillness of its ringing tones notwithstanding, there was an instant sense of anticipation as to who the lucky object of its affections would be. We would fall over ourselves in trying to reach the jangling instrument pronto, each mentally rehearsing the casually sophisticated tone in which ‘Hello’ would be essayed. However, the greeting was invariably a breathless one, the underlying note being one of triumph at having outpaced the siblings and reached the finishing line first.

The P&T department had generously allowed the consumer to choose any colour as long as it was black. And so, unprepossessing black instruments, quite frog-like in appearance, had pride of place in every home. This pompous bearer of tidings smugly looked down its nose at its humble companion, the sofa-cum-bed. Like rice on the dining-table, the sofa-cum-bed was the staple diet of every household since house guests tended to outnumber the host family at any given time. But the selfsame piece of furniture, though sedate in appearance like a quintessential aged relative, played its double role with élan.

One had never been the sociable, gregarious kind, and tended to retreat into the interiors of the home when guests descended. But the ringing tones of the phone were like Lorelei and drew one out like a magnet. Even at the risk of having to converse with the eagle eyed aunts of the colony, one dashed out in time to pick up the receiver and drawl a cool ‘Hello’. There was no caller ID or mobile phone screen to give a clue, and the anonymity of the caller added to the excitement. Was it a class-mate, friend, or—palpitations here—an admirer? Of course, it could very well be the neighbour, asking if we had any extra milk, or simply wanting to share the intricate design of the violently coloured sweater she had just knitted.

The suspense was always killing.  More often than not, the calls were from the control room, giving the lowdown on the transformer and frequency situation, and one mutely held out the receiver to Papa. Temporary setback no doubt, but it never deterred one from making the fifty metre dash next time round too. The very idea of Someone Calling Up made the most stoic heart go pitter-patter and the laziest feet, clitter-clatter.

But God forbid if you needed to place a long distance call through the telephone exchange. Subscriber Telephone Dialling had made its first, tentative forays only into large cities, and we had to content ourselves with booking trunk calls. So one’s stroke of luck started with any of the staff being present in the exchange to take note of the request. The average pleasant morning/ sunny winter afternoon were your determined rivals for their attention. Chatty ladies exchanging notes on recipes were apt to pick up on your fifth attempt and inform you helpfully that all lines were down since the past week and if they had their way,  for the foreseeable future as well.

I vividly remember the time I was expecting to get the results of one of the competitive examinations I had appeared for. The phone rang; I grabbed the receiver and held on to it with clammy hands. The gentleman at the other end proceeded to establish first that I was neither spy, alien nor criminal- in- the- making. He then melted sufficiently to ask me in tones of extreme friendliness whether I had decided to sit for a certain bank recruitment exam—‘Intehaan diye the ka’ is what I recall. Throat dry, I managed to croak a ‘yes’. He then said Papa had asked him to convey the result telephonically as the direct lines weren’t working.

My heart was hammering so hard I could barely hear him. Just then a long awaited ‘Shukla ji’ apparently decided to drop in, so Mr. Singh, my friend, philosopher and guide, decided to clarify the position on various sundry issues that had been niggling his conscience for a while. I was by now contemplating wrapping the dratted telephone cord around someone’s neck—no prizes for guessing whose—when Mr. Singh came back to the subject in hand with much reluctance and said ‘Haan to phir hum bata na rahe the, ki aapka ho gaya hai’. Whew! I had almost passed out by the time he imparted the news that I had been selected. But then I guess that’s why it’s all so fresh in the mind even after almost twenty-five years have elapsed since that momentous day.

Kaleidoscope

Mummy often narrated instances from our childhood. Each one of us had been blessed with a gregarious nature; singing songs and telling tall tales was our forte. Manoj, all of four was once narrating a story about a king. With his mop of curly hair and angelic countenance which quite belied the naughtiness within, he was everyone’s favourite story teller. ‘Raja aur rani ek din jungle mein ja rahe the. Jaate, jaate…’ He paused here and everyone waited with bated breath to learn about the lion which suddenly pounced on the brave king or the enemy’s army which had them surrounded from all sides. Taking a deep breath, our hero continued ‘jaate jaate…unko bhookh lagi’. You didn’t need a crystal ball to divine that so early in life his priorities were very clear--Food was hero number one in every action-packed melodrama.

I’m sure this pragmatism is a family trait. As a child, Bhaiya was fond of singing ‘ek pardesi mera dil le gaya’. Instead of the nebulous ‘gham’ he preferred the realistic ‘aam’, because to him it made more sense that a person would give a mango rather than an abstract notion like pain. So the second line, as per his rendition, went, ‘jaate- jaate meetha- meetha aam de gaya.’ I always sang ‘dar badar ki khaate hain thokar’ with a lot of feeling. Despite the melancholia inherent in the song, the audience could be seen stifling a smile or two, as I would bang my head on the nearest wall every time I came to ‘thokar’, to ensure that there was no room for doubt in anyone’s mind about the singer’s plight.

During family get-togethers, we used to have full-scale programmes, comprising plays, songs and the like. On one such occasion, Jiji and her band of sincere cousins were presenting a song about a boat rowing out to sea-- ‘kishti chali re, daan sambhalo re’. The lyrics were serious, exhorting all on board to ably man the vessel. Though the tone, tenor and tune made it sound suspiciously like a poem being recited, the enthusiastic girls had rehearsed it for hours, with unabated vigour. Sadly for them, at the finale Manoj decided to sit on the steps and present his own version, with actions to match the words. The audience was thoroughly captivated by the cherubic performer and hardly noticed the group warbling onstage.

And then there was the magic show. An upturned table was kept on the stage, its four legs draped with a sheet, below which Manoj sat, concealed from view. The sheet had a hole in its middle. Bhaiya, the conjuror, dramatically plucked out flowers and such stuff from thin air, the items being passed up through the aperture by Manoj. Thunderous applause greeted the performance and with graceful bows to the highly appreciative audience, the magician withdrew from the scene. His assistants—perhaps smarting over the damp squib of their group song-- were clumsy in removing the table, and a wail rent the air. ‘Bhaiya, chot lag gayi’ said a quavering voice from under the sheet. Before the assistants could get their act together, the disembodied voice was followed by Manoj clambering out, tears et al. The cloak of invisibility was not so invisible after all

Manoj may have earned sympathy here, but he sure got on the wrong side of Mummy the next time round. Sweety Jiji was supposed to wear his bright red outfit in her role as the postbox, but he kicked up a huge fuss. He wasn’t going to lend anything to anyone he said, and did his usual song and dance to drive home the point. One of Newton’s laws of motion unfortunately swung into play and Manoj’s actions had an equal and opposite reaction. Mummy the disciplinarian was not standing for the tantrum, no way. The doting aunts tried to step in and suggest a via media but Mummy’s mind was made up. The lad was put into the safe custody of our faithful retainer and he missed the entire show. The rest of us youngsters, if at all harbouring notions of mutiny, decided to be model children thereafter.   

All the World's a stage

Bhaiya and Jiji were keenly involved in dramatics, and during the vacations, would regale us with stories of the plays they had acted in. Papa surprised us one day by saying that he had a flair for the theatre too. Now Papa was the quintessential man of few words. Even discounting the fact that opportunities to get a word in edgeways were few and far between, he was basically the strong, silent type. So, a statement from him on his penchant for acting had us all slack-jawed. A rare hush descended on the family. Then the questions flew, thick and fast--when, where and in what? It emerged that when he was studying in BHU, IT, he had acted in the play, ‘Baiju Bawra’. Again, open-mouthed wonder and stunned silence in the room.

One has gracefully omitted mentioning that though we were all reasonably good at singing, there was one notable exception—tunefulness had given Papa quite a wide berth. In such a situation, the very idea of him acting in a play, where the interlude between one intricate song of Baiju and another, was one complicated song of Tansen close on the heels of the last impossible one, had us dumbfounded. He described the play scene by scene, building up to the dramatic moment of the historic contest between the two maestros. “And then”, he said with a flourish, “I come onto the stage responding to a clarion call of ‘Sipahiyon, Baiju Bawra ko giraftaar kar lo’, being one among the posse of policemen who drag Baiju away.” 

My own tryst with acting commenced with our presentation of Snow- white and the Seven Dwarfs. Jiji was going to be Snow- white, while Manoj and I were among the seven dwarfs. The roles were being hotly debated when one budding talent--probably the wicked stepmother-- acerbically commented that since Manoj was fairly plump and rosy-cheeked, he’d be a good choice for ‘Greedy.’ Well, I may have called him that any number of times, particularly in the context of toffees which invariably turned out to be the last of a vanishing breed, but I wouldn’t stand for anyone else implying the same. A cold war broke out then and there which almost jeopardised the whole thing. Anyway, the upshot was that Manoj was cast as Sneezy and I was Grumpy, while some new recruit, blissfully ignorant about the connotations, was ensnared into the role of Greedy. Manoj's lines comprised an awful amount of sneezing; I had to look and sound quite sullen, which was alien to my generally sunny disposition, but we enjoyed ourselves immensely all the same.

The unforgettables

Though Mummy’s forgetfulness was the stuff that legends are made of, she scored hugely over Jiji in one respect, namely, recognising people. She would remember students who had left her class more than a decade ago and it never failed to thrill them. Jiji, on the other hand, was a dismal failure here, given to looking askance, if not downright suspiciously, at those she’d been back slapping just a day before. Had she chosen to be a part of the intelligence community, no doubt she’d have let out all manner of unmentionables to the wrong ‘un, mistaking the KGB chappie for the CIA fellow. One particular uncle in the colony got a blank look from her every time he came to visit. This repeated refusal of the grey cells to go ding dong made her so embarrassed that she started staring unblinkingly at him whenever he sat in the drawing room. One afternoon, the doorbell rang and she rushed to open the door. I hissed that if the visitor appeared to be a complete stranger from Timbuctoo, she should greet him as Prasad Uncle. She laughingly dismissed my suggestion, stating airily, with a wave of the hand as it were, that now there was no question of making a mistake. She could practically sketch his face like a police artist. With that lofty statement, she peeped out, asked the person to wait and told Papa there was someone at the door. Papa went out and immediately called Prasad Uncle inside. I think Jiji decided against transfixing anyone with her limpid gaze after that debacle.

I don’t suppose it’s catching, but I was afflicted with much the same thing when it came to Mummy’s cousin, Shekhar Mama. Somehow, he managed to look different every time he came to our house, with the result that I gave him an unfocussed look on each such occasion. I confessed this to Jiji and she said in tones of utter shock that surprising though it was, she, too, was never able to recognise him. I let that one pass, but swore to make the grey cells do a jig the next time he came. Anyway, one evening, Papa, Mummy, Jiji and I were seated in the verandah when the gate opened. It was a close contest between Jiji and me; we both sprang up and said in tones of heartfelt warmth ‘Namaste Shekhar Mama’. He seemed rather shaken with the fondness of the greeting. Papa looked up, and said ‘R.P.Singh, aap file le aaye hain?’ It was his steno from the office. Had I but seen ‘Ghajini’ then, the term short-term memory loss would have acquired a different significance, only, I‘d have kicked myself, not the other party.

There’s a School in the Valley of Maithon

Valley School was where most of us studied. It was only till Class seven and you had to join some other school after that. It was the epitome of a small-town school. We called the teachers ‘Aunty’ because the Headmistress, Aunty Paul did not like the convent culture of calling all teachers, married or no, as Miss. The focus was equally on academics, sports and cultural activities. We were not allowed to converse in any language other than English, and if caught lapsing into the vernacular, got a stinging slap for our pains. The discipline would have put an Army boot camp to shame. Those who were not in full uniform, meaning if they had forgotten either the tie or the belt, got a couple of Aunty Paul’s best in full view of the school during the morning assembly. She used to observe which boys spent the entire lunch-break on the playground and would tell their teachers to ensure the boys ate their Tiffin before the classes re-assembled. 

The terror Aunty Paul inspired was legendary. Once she saw three boys, who had passed from Valley School and were now in St. Patrick’s, shouting on the road. She sternly told them to stop behaving like hooligans and called them home the next evening. Despite knowing that she no longer had any control over them, two of the boys turned up at her door-step the next day. She reprimanded them for forgetting all the manners and good behaviour that their parents and Valley School had tried so hard to inculcate. Both boys burst into tears. Clutching home- made biscuits, two remorseful teenagers left Aunty Paul’s home that evening, with a lesson they took to heart for life. 

Valley School was particular about celebrating important events. Sports’ Day had races and Drills for each class and though the programme became frightfully long, proud parents happily sat through the entire day. Mummy narrated with great amusement my performance in the Duck race as a four year old. The race started; gifted athletes competed at breakneck pace and prizewinners triumphantly took their places on the victory stand. Amidst all this, one lone duckling was found quacking on. When the older girls, tasked with the responsibility of clearing the field after every race gently tried to get yours truly to waddle off, I responded with an indignant squawk, that my objective was to reach the finishing line, and everyone could jolly well wait till I got there. 

For Republic Day and Independence Day, we used to have a March Past and though I was easily the shortest, I used to be in the last line. This was on account of God’s gift of a stentorian voice, which enabled me to loudly shout ‘Saamne Dekh’ after the last line of marchers had crossed the Chief Guest. I used to be awfully thrilled about that and any wisecracks about my height thus always fell flat. Each student got a packet containing biscuits and toffees after the March Past got over, which we eagerly awaited. But the attendant problem was how to survive the interminable monologue masked as the Chief Guest’s inspiring speech. The teachers watched us with an eagle eye lest we fidget and we were therefore model children, deeply concerned that the punishment may turn out to be deprival of the biscuit-toffee packet. The only Chief Guest I remember, and understandably with an emotion akin to affection, is the one who stood before an expectant congregation, took the mike in hand, and said ‘Dismiss’. We complied with alacrity. I wonder we didn’t all break out into enthusiastic applause as well; no doubt the aforementioned gimlet eyes put paid to any such ideas. 

I was always a sincere student and Manoj was a study in contrast. All his waking hours were spent in playing cricket or football or talking about the last/next big match. Invariably he got hauled up for not paying attention and would then cajole me into writing a hundred times ‘I will not talk in class’. I even recall writing an essay for him once when the teacher was too new to recognise his hand-writing. It must have been too girlish in style, because it didn’t fetch anything much by way of marks, so Manoj routinely scoffed at my command of English after that. English as a subject I thoroughly enjoyed, which is more than can be said for Mathematics. My nemesis were those trains which insisted on starting from two different stations and moving inexorably towards each other, while one hapless student tried her damnedest to figure out when they would cross one another and holler recognition in a burst of shrill noise. Why both the trains couldn’t play catch me if you can and run in the same direction was beyond me. Every time the question stared up from the examination paper, a cold sweat trickled down my spine. They never did manage to meet—not on my watch for sure. Probably believed staunchly in Kipling’s theory that ‘east is east and west is west and ne’er the twain shall meet.’

Seasons in the Sun

We enjoyed all manner of activities—picnics in which everyone tried their hands at cooking, playing Holi, lighting diyas and bursting crackers in Diwali, and congregating in the Puja pandal for Durga Puja. But for students, Saraswati Puja was especially meaningful. Being the patron goddess of learning it was very important to propitiate her, and ask her to put in a good word for us with the examiners. The puja pandal was always decorated beautifully. The canopy would be a kaleidoscope of colour and festooned with tinsel which added to the glitter. There would be people everywhere, laughing and chatting, while children ran around and the pretty girls glanced coquettishly at potential beaus who pretended to ignore them. The colour yellow being of particular significance, the ladies wore sarees of all hues of the sun and created a dazzling picture. The statue of the goddess in a shimmering yellow silk saree emitted a different kind of radiance, which even today suffuses my memories with its golden touch. Anxious parents, otherwise perfect martinets when it came to regulating study hours, encouraged their recalcitrant offspring to pray to the goddess, for only she would be benign enough to overlook their cavalier attitude towards studies. 

Most of the colony children did well in academics, going on to study in leading institutions of the country. But there are exceptions to every rule. One of the girls, though below average in studies thought that her main purpose in life was idle chitchat and gossip. She succeeded admirably in that, but at the end of the year when her report card came, she found that she had flirted unsuccessfully with Lady Luck. In other words, she had failed. Undaunted by this minor setback, she erased the marks and did some nifty over-writing, so Failed was substituted with Passed and all was hunky dory at home. Till the time when her mother met with one of the class teachers in the book store and fondly asked how her dear daughter was doing. The next thing we knew was much banging on the neighbour’s door in the dead of night, with the young lady screaming that her parents had found out and were going to kill her. Well, nothing as melodramatic as that happened, but her red-eyed visage in the bus for days altogether, was a chastening image for those who toyed with the idea of playing fast and loose with studies. 

Maithon was one sleepy place, with only a handful of shops. One Sunday, we had just finished lunch when there were familiar noises of a car drawing up. We looked out the window and lo and behold! Papa’s cousin sister Uma Bua and her husband, who had never visited us before, were getting out of the car with both their sons. The gas cylinder was empty and the fire lit in the morning, had died down. Only some dying embers and ashes remained. There was no milk in the fridge and the dear old market opened only at six in the evening, so there was no scope of purchasing even the most godforsaken brand of biscuits. Mummy looked at us and we tried hard not to look at anyone else, because the question was writ large on everyone’s face—what do you offer the guests? 

It was left to Jiji’s innovative skills to rustle up something. So she went and mixed some milk powder with water. There being no chance of any heating, energetic efforts on the mixing front were made, but the milk powder got a cold response from the water and decided to float frostily on top. Coffee and sugar were stirred in, the whole thing poured into decorative glasses, ice added generously and I was pushed out to serve the concoction. ‘Aha cold coffee’ said one of the cousins with evident delight, before taking a large sip from his glass. He put it down with the speed of a striking cobra. The others gingerly tried theirs, and moved like greased lightning to put down their respective glasses. Silence fell on the group and conversation languished noticeably. Eventually, the mithai they had brought was served in this TINA situation; the guests took leave soon after. 

When we all sank down to do a postmortem, it emerged that Uma Bua had written to Papa a month ago and he in turn had informed Mummy right then, that they would be reaching our home around lunchtime that particular Sunday. He’d blissfully overlooked her absent-mindedness, and not reminded her even on that morning, assuming that she’d remember to prepare a special lunch for the guests. Mummy, who was such an enthusiastic hostess, was mortified at her oversight, especially because these were formal relatives on their maiden visit to our home. We somehow managed to laugh off the whole thing, but I fancied I detected a less than warm smile on Uma Bua’s countenance when we met again. 

Mummy’s forgetfulness was legendary. It wasn’t uncommon for us to hunt all over the house for her glasses and find them perched high on her forehead. Then there was the time when she fixed a yoga teacher who used to come every evening to take her through the exercises. On the first day, after the session was over he requested for permission to leave. She smiled encouragingly; he kept waiting and so did she. Finally he said apologetically that if she gave back his pair of slippers instead of wearing them, he might perhaps proceed for departure. 

We narrated all these stories with glee to friends and family alike, till one day Mummy indignantly pointed out that everyone (read Papa), had conveniently forgotten her sterling contributions of yore. She used to be in a state of high alert in the days just after their marriage, when she and Papa possessed a set of outdoor chairs of which one was literally on its last legs. On many a tranquil evening, neighbours would drop in for a chat and a cup of tea. So the hosts perfected the drill. While one person went to the gate to welcome the guests with every appearance of warmth, the second one sprinted to take possession of the chair which tended to topple over with an unseemly crash if the person seated on it was not parked at a particular angle;. It was Mummy who invariably remembered the delicate situation and quickly occupied the chair, seating herself with aplomb while urging the guests to make themselves comfortable. 

Papa was as meticulous and careful as Mummy was absent-minded. He had the same fountain pen for years on end and this could be said of his daily routine as well. He rose at five every morning and on return from his walk, would make two cups of tea, for Mummy and himself, and then listen to mournful melodies on the radio. Being late risers, we children missed the daily quota of K.L. Saigal and Pankaj Mullick, but we took this irredeemable loss with equanimity. Papa was punctual to a fault; very often we’d reach the venue of a wedding reception and find whorls of dust as cleaning staff swept the place. He noted down train ticket details in his diary, as there was always the fear that Mummy would lose the tickets midway through the vacation and he’d need to do some quick number crunching. The only area Mummy scored over him was in not getting her pocket picked. She always clutched her bag tightly to herself, as past experience had shown that at railway stations and in cinema halls, Papa was not the man you could rely on for paying for the refreshments. The indigenous solution to this was to keep only a meager amount in his wallet; he once had to borrow money from his driver when one of his sandals broke and its repair cost a princely sum of ten rupees.

Those were the days

Our main source of entertainment, apart from books and games, was the radio. We had a venerable old-timer, and all vied for its affections. Effectively that meant Papa listened to News, which Manoj promptly changed to cricket as soon as Papa left for office, while I was forever wailing plaintively in the background that I had missed the latest songs. Luckily, Jiji was clueless about which radio station hosted which programme, so there was one less contender and Bhaiya was always so easy going that he listened to a potpourri of news-commentary –music without a murmur whenever he was home from the hostel. 

By and large we were all fond of music, so as soon as a song began playing, we’d try to guess from the opening bars which song it heralded. It was neck and neck between Manoj and me, though he was generally disinclined to concede gracefully when he lost. We were musically talented, especially Manoj who could whistle any tune and even play on the back of an upturned bucket like a tabla. All of us were given to belting out songs at any point of time. I’ve always loved singing and even today, burst into song without invitation. Needless to add, it leads to some rather pained expressions around. Jiwesh, the ever supportive spouse, casts away habitual silence for a long drawn out monologue to drown out the noise, while the girls simply edge away. 

We had hardly any house-help, and were supposed to do our bit in the house. After a notable performance in heating up food, when I placed the cup with the milk directly on the fire, I got the easiest chores, like plumping up the cushions. Jiji took on the toughest tasks of cleaning, while Manoj was assigned the in-between stuff like folding all the clothes neatly in a pile. He always had home-grown solutions, so we’d find that instead of sorting through all the clothes piled high on the clothes rack, he’d simply thrown a sheet on them, hiding the mess from outside view. No matter how much he grumbled about having to do work, he wasn’t allowed to shrug off anything, unlike many households where boys had a privileged position and generally lorded it over the girls. 

I always wished that being the youngest of four siblings I would be pampered and spoilt, like a lot of my friends were. But no one was inclined to be indulgent, including Bhaiya of the most amiable disposition. I tried to throw tearful tantrums, wouldn’t eat a meal waiting to be cajoled, and became woebegone at the first instance, but somehow nothing clicked. Once I even wrote a note threatening to run away to my Uncle’s in Jamshedpur, but everyone pulled my leg so unmercifully, that henceforth I dropped all pretensions of being a sensitive soul. I emerged from all this a veritable battle scarred veteran, and in fact thanked my lucky stars many years later for that unsentimental upbringing, when I saw class mates dissolve into floods of tears at the drop of a hat. 

The colony we grew up in was a small world in itself, and families lived side by side for decades, sharing bitter sweet experiences, the children growing up all the while. The evenings were for playing and nothing could get us back before seven p.m., when we trooped in reluctantly into our respective homes, looking by then like something the cat had refused to drag in. The older boys played cricket, with an all-consuming passion. I remember the time when one boy brought along his parents, who demanded to know from Manoj, the captain of his team, why the apple of their eye was never given a chance to bat. Now the specimen in question closely resembled the selfsame apple, being fairly rotund in shape and quite unable to run the proverbial extra mile for his team. But the belligerence of his parents had an equal and opposite reaction in the captain, who hinted to the opposite team that they could try their hand at bowling bouncers. The end result was a bawling batsman and a set of budding mama’s boys who crossed their hearts and swore to die rather than lug along a heavy-handed relative to fix matters in future. 

Mummy made the mistake of fondly stating once that her children didn’t fight much, and it was almost as if we set out determinedly to prove her wrong. Young Manoj was ever ready for a squabble, as opposed to Bhaiya who was always mild. Bhaiya never scolded us and just one gentle admonishment in the form of ‘Manoj’ from him would bring a sheepish grin on the countenance of the latter and an end to the sibling quarrel of which he usually was the agent provocateur. I remember only one occasion when Bhaiya raised his voice. We’d reached Srinagar and I kept whining that I was hungry while Papa and Mummy were trying to fix a taxi to take us to the hotel. Bhaiya rebuked me and it was solely because we were in public that I didn’t burst into tears. My photographs of that day show me with a markedly sullen expression. 

Manoj and I quarrelled over just about anything. Who got the new pen or the new diary or ate the last toffee—everything required a referee. Jiji usually managed to arbitrate except for one notable occasion when she and Manoj got caught up in a tussle over switching off the light. She wanted to read, he wanted to sleep. The one would switch it on, the other, though normally terribly lazy, would promptly spring out of bed and switch it off, till it became a never ending contest. Finally, Mummy decided the issue—the light would be allowed on whenever any of us wished to study, but certainly not for reading a story-book. In fact Manoj decided the best revenge after yet another fight, was to hide the book I was reading. Books had a soporific effect on him, while I read like a man possessed. So one spat between us and the next thing you knew I was hunting desperately all over the house for a book hidden on the top shelf of the cupboard, which I, with my woeful lack of height, would never be able to find. I kept plotting to get even, but they never fructified, like the best laid plans of mice and men. 

I was the quintessential pain in the neck, because I always wanted to tag along with big sis, despite not having a clue as to what she and her friends were talking about. She’d try to protest, but Mummy invariably quelled it with a firm ‘what’s the problem if she accompanies you?’ So I would sit in the room, happily reading comics by the dozen while they gossiped sotto voce. There was this one time that Jiji had to go to a friend’s place and make a call. She was adamant she wouldn’t take me along and got a scolding too from Mummy, but resolutely stuck to her guns. On the day of my birthday, she presented me with ‘Summer term at St. Clare’s’. She had elicited through skilful questioning that it was the only book I hadn’t read of the series and had called up her friend to get it from the book store and give it to her in school the next day. Mummy felt really bad about the scolding. 

Manoj had a Tom Sawyer like ability to win friends and influence people. One day, he and Arun, who was otherwise very peaceful by nature, were found announcing to the world that Maithon could boast of a road view Circus, with an elephant on bicycle for the first time ever. The elephant in question happened to be an unfriend (an invaluable term coined by social media), who, after a heated argument with the two boys, had decided to ride her bicycle round the colony. This public announcement of Maithon’s latest acquisition didn’t endear them to her one bit, but they didn’t really care. The only thing Manoj took seriously was Mummy’s annoyance, but even then he managed to provoke it every once in a while. She’d be taking an afternoon nap and he’d walk into the room whistling or carelessly knocking his fingers on the nearest wooden surface. She was a light sleeper, and would wake up with an irate ‘Kaun hai’, and the next thing you saw was a pair of heels disappearing round the corner.

My Family and Other animals

I have always maintained that nursery rhymes shape you for life. Superstitions, scoff the disbelievers, but look at my case. I used to recite ‘I am a little tea-pot, short and stout…when I get all steamed up then I shout’ in an appealing prattle. Everyone loved it, especially as I was unable to pronounce the hard ‘T’, but I grew up into a short and what is worse, stout individual, prone to flying off the handle and shouting. How I wish now that I’d stuck to ‘Twinkle twinkle little star’—perhaps it would have wrought a miracle that rained diamonds on me.

Mummy was the most doting mother in the world—she would dash off into the kitchen at twelve midnight if you were hungry—but conversely, also a disciplinarian. I remember when Manoj and I were walking back from Ranchi Colony one day; we decided to buy a lemon drop each. These were kidney shaped sweet-sour toffees that were stored in a big jar and the cost of one was five paise. It wasn’t a princely sum but in good ol’ days, no one had heard of pocket money. Since Sukul ji who ran the paan-dukaan recognised us well enough to be assured of our credit-worthiness, we bought two lemon drops. The home-front was another story altogether. We asked Mummy for the money, saying that we had been unable to resist the sweet temptation. I seem to remember that as being the only time ever that I got a slap from her. I’m certain Manoj can’t say the same, because he was forever into and out of scrapes, but meek, inoffensive ol’ me sure hadn’t bargained for Mummy’s anger. ‘You will eat toffees on credit?’ she asked in a furious tone. To date I have not forgotten. I use my credit card so sparingly that I get a joyful sms from the credit card company welcoming me with open arms whenever I make a paltry purchase.

I tried off and on to be a model child beginning with trying to be unselfish. That entailed not taking extra portions of dessert but invariably all good intentions flew out the window when the time came. So Manoj and I would ask casually whether there was any dessert left. Mummy would discover right then that she’d eaten far too much and it was impossible to accommodate dessert; resolutely we would refuse to look in the general direction of Jiji (big sis), who we knew would be glaring at us, and would happily tuck into the helping from Mummy’s share. Today’s children suffering from plenty, rarely behave in this fashion but I can’t say I would trade our days of less miraculously becoming more, for anything in the world.

'Think before you speak' was, for me, limited to the odd English lesson on proverbs. On one occasion, a plumber had come to repair a section of the pipe and after he'd finished the job, requested me to give him a note to that effect. I asked him the spelling of his name in English--I think it was Baleshwar-- and he replied with some embarrassment, that he did not know the language . That should have been the last we heard on the subject. But yours truly, not content with one display of utter foolishness, proceeded to narrate the incident over dinner. Peals of laughter could be heard from all present, interspersed with a clever comment from Manoj that I should have asked him what he thought of the US President. I stormed out of the room in a huff that day and barely managed to live it down thereafter.

We were like that only

I really don’t know why I’m writing this. I mean there is no doubt in my mind that no matter how captivating a personality I think I am, few kind-hearted souls will be interested in reading about my life and times. So I guess the reason is that I have this deep-rooted desire to talk about the days of yore and how we were like that only. To be honest, it’s not really an effort. I am the original garrulous type who will launch into a prolonged narration of the previous day’s dream at the slightest provocation, and, I greatly enjoy writing. And if truth be told, I must confess hand on the heart, that I do think some things about me and my history will give rise to mirth. So there is a larger design.

I will start therefore at the very beginning. My earliest memories are of being close to three years old and calling out to Vasavi, who was younger by ten months, to come over and play. Though younger, she was three inches taller, and sadly for me, even increased the lead over the years. She didn’t know much of Hindi, and I had not even a nodding acquaintance with Marathi, so we conversed practically in sign language till we had both picked up rudimentary English. 

We grew up on a staple diet of Enid Blyton books and comics of Phantom, Mandrake, Tintin and Asterix. I vividly remember being horribly jealous of Mandrake’s girlfriend, Narda’s golden locks and wishing that I, too, had been born a blonde. It never occurred to me that I’d have looked positively weird with Indian skin and golden hair;--but then I guess one does not necessarily need to born a dumb blonde—the talent can be acquired at any stage. One oft-repeated phrase in Enid Blyton’s books ‘it was a glorious sunny summer day’ never ceased to amaze me. How could a summer day, with a dazzling sun blazing down from a cloudless sky be even pleasant, let alone glorious? But heavy doses of Geography, which we would have happily forgone given half a chance, brought enlightenment much later about climatic variations across the globe.

In the initial years, I used to fall ill frequently so the class- teacher suggested that I be retained in Nursery for another year. Determination being my second name, I started practicing ‘ABCD’ in big and small letters by writing on the upper and lower margins of the newspaper. After running out of newsprint I transferred my undivided attention to the walls; fortunately, my teachers were able to read the selfsame writing on the wall and I managed to clear the class. The very next year, there was a change of heart, and I started going to my mother’s class room-- she used to teach class six and I was in the equivalent of Upper Kindergarten, called for some quaint reason, Higher Infant – invariably crying and asking to be taken home. I did this without a pause for close to two weeks and then with the capriciousness of the very young, suddenly started enjoying school immensely. 

Not all memories are edifying though. I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I stole an eggplant from a neighbour’s vegetable garden. I have never cared for that particular veggie but I must have overheard Mummy talking wistfully about ‘Baigan ka bharta’, so I sneaked into Uncle Prasad’s kitchen garden and crept away with a plump and purple brinjal. Triumphantly, I held it out to Mummy and her warm and loving face underwent an instant change. ‘You have stolen it’ she said in a frighteningly stern tone. ‘No, I just brought it for you’ I stammered and she responded without any change in expression ‘Taking something that doesn’t belong to you is stealing. Take it right back and give it to Auntie with an apology.’ 

I crept away, miserable and tiptoed back to the garden. I couldn’t bring myself to tell Auntie Prasad, the most placid of souls, about my misdemeanour, so I took the easy way out. Casting a hasty look around to confirm that I had not been seen, I quietly placed the vegetable back on the plant. ‘I saw you do that’ a familiar voice said—it was Shibu, their gardener. ‘I’ll tell Alka and Arun about it’ he added with a laugh and I fled in abject misery, tears streaming down at the thought of being an object of ridicule of the entire colony. Of course no one learnt about that shameful episode, but it was a lesson in life I have never forgotten. So when Jayati, my little one, all of four years old, came home triumphantly from school with a new pencil and rubber which just happened to have ‘fallen’ near her chair, I rebuked her with similar sternness; she too cried, and never did it again. 

And then there was the incident with the dog. No this one too didn’t bark, it just bit. We all had taken a fancy to a litter of puppies of a stray dog and had adopted them between the four of us—Manoj, Arun, Vasavi and me. A fight broke out between them and I went to save my puppy, getting bitten on the wrist for my pains. No one was very clear in all the brouhaha which puppy had done the biting, because we all ran screaming and crying to our homes. But the consensus was the pup which had a particularly shifty expression. So he was carted off to our garage, where we could keep an eye on him, because if he died, it meant he was rabid. 

I vividly recall us coming back home one December evening, and checking on the puppy, only to find it was dead. It was certain then that I would have to take the mandatory fourteen injections on my stomach. The shocker was the doctor advising that since the puppy had licked Manoj’s hand, he was also at risk and should also be given the injections. We were taken for a penicillin test, which means that if you have a reaction to a test dose, you get the oral medication. I sent up fervent prayers but alas! We both tested negative to reactions and fourteen injections stared us in the face. Mummy used to become tearful everyday when the compounder came to give us the injections. Bhaiya (big bro) would gently hold us both, turn by turn and I used to ask him the same question daily, as to whether the injection would take too much time. Every day he replied patiently that it wouldn’t, and that’s how this six year old found the courage to bear the pain stoically. The whole colony rallied round, and Uncles, Aunties and our friends came by regularly to cheer us up. 

Vacations were for playing Monopoly and Badminton, and swapping books. At birthday parties, the favourite game was a G.K. Quiz competition, so rather than dress up for the party, I used to brush up my knowledge so that I could win a new pen or comic book as a prize. Reading was always my passion, and I narrated many stories to Vasavi. So many books were about hidden treasures that Vasavi and I dug up acres of garden, searching for the ubiquitous chest full of jewels. It was rocky and hard ground and we weren’t allowed to use a spade so we made do with a stick that kept breaking every time it faced a stony reception. We hit pay-dirt once and found a five paisa coin, which was treasured till the next exciting thing happened.

That next thing was the formation of a Club called ‘The Fantastic Three’. Vasavi, Sharmishtha and I were the fantastic members and our hidey-hole was the unoccupied garage. We had a password which had to be whispered since that my brother Manoj, like Peter’s sister Suzie, was always trying to trick us into opening the hallowed portals of the garage to his gang. When they finally realised that we were cagier than the KGB in letting down guard, they went off in a huff to form their own club called the ‘Faithful Four’. Appropriately, this was housed in the vacant servant’s room, but a quip about the appropriateness earned me a clip on the ear. Expectedly, their enthusiasm waned rapidly, and soon all that was left of the club was a raggedy notice stuck drunkenly on one door. 

With the devotion worthy of a nobler cause, we three girls persisted with our fantastic club. Earnest meetings were held with each of us seated solemnly on upturned empty cardboard cartons (we, particularly I, must—sigh—have been lightweights then), and we discussed several matters of importance, like not opening up the membership to other children because then we’d be (quote unquote) ‘swamped with requests and refusal would be a problem’. 

One day we decided to have a cultural programme. The function would comprise solo and group songs, solo and group dances, and a one-act play. Family members and close friends were invited and since this was our garage, Mummy promised to take care of the refreshments. All respective siblings, without exception, bluntly stated that they weren’t coming. Not for them the gentle letting off; so each of us was informed amidst howls of laughter, that nine items by three girls, not known for their prodigious talent anyway, was a bit too much to stomach, notwithstanding the delicious snacks later on. Thankfully, the proud parents and some uncles and aunties of the colony came and sat through the entire programme, even clapping enthusiastically after each item. 

The one-act play was the high point of the evening. There was a father, a son and a servant. The father had a double role in the play, because he was also the dacoit who comes to rob the home, and kills the faithful servant. Sadly, the audience quite missed the heroism of the servant saving the son and being shot dead by the robber/master, because the clothes of the robber/master hardly underwent a change, so the viewers thought that the master got fed up with the servant and shot him dead for no apparent reason. In other words, the double role was too finely nuanced and the pathos could not be appreciated easily. Nonetheless, the audience broke into vigorous applause, though I have a sneaking suspicion this was because we had declared that the play was the grand finale of the programme. Anyway, we were thrilled with the success of our first endeavour and also learnt about the art of sitting through programmes that are a crashing bore with every appearance of enjoyment.