Thoughts on turning twenty five

A water droplet finds its way through my window, the wind makes its presence felt, the earth slowly surrounds itself with a soothing dusty flavour, and I know even before the droplets fall, that the monsoon is here. The twenty fifth monsoon of my life. Just as the rain starts, I see people hurrying to find shade, shopkeepers putting up rainproof sheets to cover the unauthorised part of their shop on the road, some cautious civilians holding their umbrellas with pride, and a few casual rain lovers stand still in the middle of this pace, smiling silently and enjoying this sudden change in weather. Being born in the month of July, love for rain comes naturally to me I suppose. I can write volumes on my thoughts about monsoon, on kinds of rain, on waterfalls, on freshly filled ponds and the beauty of lazy water buffaloes floating in it, as if, the day would never end. But the real pleasure I believe, is to be out there and feel the serenity that comes with it. If you observe carefully, you can see nature’s response to rain. The plants and the trees that had patiently been waiting for the first shower turns green. The cuckoo birds rejoice with their favourite song. Mountains gleefully bathe themselves with waterfalls. Rivers and lakes comes to life again. Creatures like insects, reptiles and frogs come out of their home to experience this bliss – each of them singing their own son. ‘A natural paradise’ is formed.

Having lived the first twenty-five years of life without much trouble is an achievement in itself, I acclaimed loudly at the dining table. ‘Yes, twenty-five years is a long time son. It’s time for you to settle down.’ quickly replied daadi, who, like our family pandit is eagerly waiting to see me married. Daadi is getting impatient with relatives enquiring about my marriage plans all the time. On the other hand, pandit’s prediction are being interrogated by daadi every morning. ‘Of course daadi, as soon as you find someone who can cook Sabudana khichdi (a Sago recipe) as good as you, I will surrender.’ No one can cook Khichdi like daadi. The secret, she once told me, is to let it cook at its own pace – slow and steady. ‘Why rush, when you have all the time?’ is daadi’s cooking mantra. She cooks it mildly spiced (she knows my taste) and adds extra peanuts to give it a light crunch.

However, our cook – Raju bhai, who for some unknown reasons is always in a hurry, would readily deny daadi’s cooking techniques. He would rather make a meal in minutes to keep up with this fast pace world. Within a few days of his stay with us, it was apparent that our appetite for food would be affected by Raju Bhai’s ‘in a minute’ cooking techniques.

“Raju bhai – I am hungry!” I would claim.

“In a minute.” replies Raju bhai.

“Raju bhai – Is the tiffin ready? Getting late for work!”

“In a minute.”

“Raju bhai – How far is station from here?” I enquired one day.

“It’s very close sir, within a minutes distance.” I decided to take a lousy walk to the station. Giving up after some thirty tiresome minutes, I raised my hand to stop a cab.

No wonder, we’ve seen reduction in our grocery bill, while the world is seeing mass protest against inflation. I wonder, if I should time Raju bhai cook Maggie noodles (a two minute noodle recipe) to test his cooking abilities. Perhaps that too can be cooked in less than a minutes time with Raju bhai’s mantra.

The earliest childhood memory that I can recall of was my hard resilient nature towards school. I was just three years old then. My cousin and I would cry in succession everyday just before the rickshaw arrived (no school bus but cycle-rickshaw during those days - which accommodated fifteen of us at a time; a nest of our bags and water bottles hanging out at the back), but despite all our efforts we were always sent to school. I wonder now, if our crying together on the same day would have made any impact?

Schools started quite early in the morning, so during winters we would spend hours boiling water on the chulha (earthen stove – for no LPG in our town). During late evenings, locals would gather on the road, create bonfire and spend hours talking cricket and politics. Tendulkar was in good form those days, as he still is. And, not a single politician was considered worthy, which they’re still not. I guess, some things never change. I usually joined a noisy gang which busted out with the sound of laughter in every few seconds. I would nod and laugh along, even though I admit now, that most of the discussions were absurd to me. A few years later, I came across a medical term called laughter therapy. I had no doubts in my mind that the noisy gang of my town had a role in its incredible discovery. Sometimes when the discussion was not of my interest, I turned out great help in finding papers and wood sticks to keep the fire alive. As I write about it, the joy of finding a piece that could keep the fire burning, the joy of standing with bunch of adults discussing life, laughing at their sorrows, sometimes laughing at themselves, makes me think that life is not complicated at all. It is as simple and easy as it can be. All we need is good companions to keep the fire alive.

From old school days, I distantly recall the face of an arrogant girl in my class. Soon after the mid-term exams, teacher shuffled the seating arrangement and made me sit beside her. I was shy and she has too much pride, so we rarely spoke, but one day just like that we started talking and soon became friends. I taught her Maths and she showed me her tricks for memorizing Social Studies. Before we could start something special, I moved to a boarding school. Even now after over eighteen years, she comes to my mind in her own special ways. I would like to remember her as my first love. Does she remember me after all these years? Perhaps not! But, what we shared must have been special, for me to still think about her.

My stay at boarding school lasted two years, before I realized that it was going to lead me nowhere in life. It would have ended very soon, had I dared to call our six feet chubby history teacher ‘BIGSHOW’ (a nickname given to her by fellow mates). Having no interest in watching WWF (naked men fight), I had no clue that BIGSHOW was the famous wrestler of that time. Every morning Mr. Bundela, our sports in charge, would make us run five rounds of the campus, followed by fifteen minutes of yoga / relaxing exercise. Me and most of my classmates preferred only the first and last round. The others rounds were spent hiding in school building preferably inside the corner washroom, while other athletes worked on building their stamina. One fine morning, Mr Bundela had his nature call and was shocked to see nature’s harness on over ten students at the same time. The very next day wakeup call shifted from 5:30 a.m. to 5:00 a.m. and number of rounds increased to seven. No one dared to hide that morning, but only half the class stood up after yoga practice - the last aasan performed being Shavasana.

Being raised in a small town had its own advantages and disadvantages. Call it ignorance if you wish, but some of the most incredible memories of my childhood were created due to lack of technology in our town. During those days, power cut was very common (it still is), so most of my time was spent playing out with the neighbourhood boys and girls. All the games that we played were not only great fun but each game had an exceptional name. Our list varied from: Gilli-Danda (a game played with pair of a long danda and a short gilli, both wooden sticks. It is taken over by cricket everywhere now); Nadi-Pahad (river–mountain, switching mountains without being caught by crocodile - the seeker, in the river), Saankal (Chain - the seeker goes after other players and those caught forms a chain by holding hands with the seeker and the chain grows until last player is caught); Pittu (a rubber ball is thrown towards the pyramid formed by seven stones – aim is to re-form this pyramid before the ball gets in the hands of opposite teams); Lukka-Chuppi (known as hide and seek, only game I believe that is played in metros); Kanche (a game played with colourful ceramic balls which are aimed with fingers at a small circle to score points); Langdi (jumping and hopping on one leg – still played in my hometown). I recently came across a photograph with some of these games with following caption: ‘Your childhood was awesome, if you can identify these games’. I smiled and instantly agreed to it. May be, I should introduce one of the game as a team building exercise for a corporate outing. How about my favourite Saankal. No one would mind holding hands with pretty colleagues. Only if your boss doesn’t turned out to be the seeker.

Soon after, a technology, the great invention of doorbell filled our life with great adventure. During lunch recess, when neighbours around school enjoyed their afternoon siesta, our restless gang made every effort ringing the doorbells.  Most of the families would open the door to their surprise and soon realised our prank. However, Dada (a short tempered man in his fifties, who loved his afternoon siesta as much as using swear words) on being disturbed one afternoon came running to our classroom with his face turned red and disrupted the surprise history test. The event turned out to be great entertainment for the school, including the principal (who, I later found out, was himself fond of swear words). So, our name was kept under the blanket. As a favour to the class we rang Dada’s doorbell only on the special occasions such as class tests and assignments to save everyone from the burden of preparation.

When relatives visited us during summer vacation, the size of our gang would swell to more than twenty. The games would usually lead to a fight or an argument, but by the evening we would be friends again, and by night would remember only the good part of the day. Forgetting and forgiving the mistakes and quarrels of the previous day, and we eagerly waited for the next day with more excitement.

Nowadays, children learn selfishness and arrogance instead. In the fast, tough world, they need to keep up with the pace. Achievements are measured relative to neighbour’s performance. In the process, innocence is lost, and moreover considered imprudent in this current competitive world.

Daadi, even at an age of eighty, carries her innocence and lives her life with humility and so does our cook Raju bhai. Even though he magically cook meals with his ‘in a minute’ technique, but deep inside he is patient and applies daadi’s matra of ‘letting it cook at its own pace’ in life. With a salary of just over five thousand rupees a month, he is happier and content than many of us.

If there was only one lesson that I was to take from these twenty-five years of my life, it would neither be a religious teaching, nor a rightful philosophy but a powerful tool called patience. Patience can sail you through your broken past, can get you the feeling of contentment for present and can provide you hope for the future. It can make you accept the way life is.

On this landmark of my life, I thank you, my friends, for I have lived my childhood with great adventure and fun. I have memories of people and places, that I will cherish throughout my life, in my own small ways. May you have patience, to let it cook at its own pace.