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.
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