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.
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