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.
