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.