Diary

Another smile gone...

2012-03-10T21:55:00.002+05:30

When I mentioned to Papa that Joy Mukherjee was my favorite actor, he asked me why. I told him that I liked the way he looked: truthful, with a genuine smile. I was very young then. Papa explained to me that being a hero was not just about looks. Over time I understood what acting was all about. But I dread going to the theatre these days to watch one of the insane new Hindi movies. Barring very few, what are the actors of today about, if not looks and lineage? I still feel Joy Mukherjee had his charm. Listening to "Geetmala Ki Chhaon Mein", the excellent roundup of Hindi film music and anecdotes, right out of ameen Sayani's mouth- I learnt how most of Joy Mukherjee's movies were made by his in house production: Filmalaya using a set formula wherein the songs and music were decided upon first and the story crafted later on to fill the gap between the songs. No wonder we were bored with the sunday evening classics back in the Doordarshan days!

But the songs from Joy's movies were real joys indeed. In recent times I rediscovered the song "Alif-zabar-aa..." a fun song that teaches the full Urdu alphabet easily. It was from the movie "Love in Shimla" which, if my memory serves me right, the first hindi film for Sadhna. (Another related trivia: Sadhna's first appearance in Hindi movies was as one of the Chorus girls in the legendary 'Shree 420' song "Eechak dana, beechak dana..."). She was later to appear with Joy Mukherjee in another super-hit-song-studded: 'Ek Musafir Ek Haseena'. Two songs from the movie: "Aap yu hi agar, humse milte rahe..." and "Bahot shukriya, badi meharbani, meri zindagi mein huzoor aap aaye..." are amongst those closest to my heart... mostly due to Sadhna's natural dance and Joy's disarming smile.

As my humble tribute, I recorded "Lakhon hain nigah mein..." on my harmonica. As usual, it sounds too mechanical and the second stanza is a bit messed up, but hey- better than nothing, right? This song is what captures the essence of Joy Mukherjee as he meant to me.

Like the balloons that rise at the end of the song (I am sure one can find the right videos on youtube), I hope Joy would be high up, lighting the skies with his beautiful smile.

Happy Holi to me...

2012-03-09T00:08:00.010+05:30

Today is Holi. A festival that reminds me of wonderful Gud ka pooa and Dahi bada- with a sprinkle of sugar, just for me- that ma would prepare and which we would a relish to eat- fresh as well as till the next morning. Holi also bring back memories of placing gulaal at the feet of elders and seeking their blessings. Of how I would keep some space in my tummy to eat at Pranay's place- the home which was my source for some of the most delicious non-vegetarian food I have ever had. But Holi also brings back memories of my frantic efforts at running away from the wet colors. I do not know what my allergy from wet colors is all about. It just makes me feel like throwing up- spasms emanating from my stomach, though I don't think I have ever actually thrown up. I guess it is psychological. Anyhow, what it essentially boiled down to was an annual ritual wherein I would stay holed up in my house lest someone came, smooth talked to me about not doing anything at all and sneaked a sachetful of the dreaded green color in my hair. Ewww.

Then there are the memories from plus two days in Ranchi when I did not arrange for anything to eat for the Holi day, for I planned to go stay at Nani's place. But all I ended up with was being fed on the previous evening and being 'suggested' that I use the time for studying - back in my room. That was my first experience of being hungry the whole day long, that too on a day when every house in my universe was releasing heavenly aroma of food: sizzling, frying, baking. Oh and I was naive to think that the police 3rd degree was the worst form of torture. I practically begged to be fed in the evening at Prashant's place. And that day, I guess, was the first time I went to Abhijeet's place - which was to become my heaven of good food in the coming years.

In comparison, the two Holi spent in Jodhpur have not been too bad. Last year I was tricked by Ummed into coming out and being colored by him and his friend, but that was all. I was able to cook, just as I did this year. Plus, this year I was able to escape the colors, though I missed the dry Abeer and Gulaal and, of course, the pooas, dahi badas and katahal ki sabzi. But this nostalgia is not what prompted me to write this post. Late in the evening I wound up listening to Sharda Sinha's "Jai jai Bhairavi, asur bhayawani...". I tried to look it up on Internet and found that like most other great Maithili devotional songs, this one too was written by Vidyapati, a poet that lived in the 14th century and with whom Lord Shiva was said to have agreed to reside as his house help. The song is really a treat to hear and I hope the link I provide will stay intact:

The lyric is in Maithili, a dialect that is not too difficult to understand for me since it is close to Magahi. Since the people from Mithila are worshippers of 'Shakti', this prayer sings praise of her fear inducing form when it is most potent. Any attempt at translation can be a mere act of audacity, but I am going to do the crime anyway. The song describes her as the better half of Pashupati (Shiva). It is this form that even the daemons fear. It is a prayer to her to grant us the boon of wisdom so we use our knowledge in good ways so that we may attain salvation. The second stanza describes her as someone who seats herself day and night on a mat made out of a dead body, and whose feet are adorned by anklets studded with gems that shine like the moon. She is the one who makes it a game out of slaying countless daemons, painting her face with their blood and spitting their remains.

The third stanza is the one that I find most beautiful wherein her dark body and red eyes are compared to a bloom of red lotus in a pond of dark, rain bearing clouds. Her lips have swollen red like a flower by the frequent chattering of her teeth in anger and her angry breath causes bubbles to form in the bloody froth emanating from their corners. Having driven home what she is capable of, the last stanza brings her out as the creator of music through her anklets while her hand beats the rhythm like swords cutting through the air. Vidyapati begs that the mother does not forget her child (Vidyapati, a mere servant at her feet).

जय जय भैरवि असुर-भयाउनि
पशुपति - भामिनी माया |
सहज सुमति वर दिअओं गोसाउनि
अनुगत गति तुअ पाया ||

वासर रैन शवासन शोभित
चरण चन्द्रमणि चूडा |
कतओक दैत्य मारि मुख मेलल
कतओं उगिलि कैल कूड़ा ||

सामर वरन नयन अनुरंजित
जलद जोग फूल कोका |
कट कट विकट ओठ फुट पाँड़रि
लिधुर फेन उठ फोका ||

घन घन घनन घुँघर कत बाजय
हन हन कर तुअ काता |
विद्यापति कवि तुअ पद सेवक
पुत्र बिसरि जुनी माता ||

And this led me to remember a beautiful motherly person I met in Ranchi. Ashish Jha's mother was known to be very strict. My freinds from Kairali school describe an incident when a gang of them went to his home with him, somewhat past the time he was supposed to be back, to get some notebook. Asish received a good tight slap in front of everyone, that resounded louder each time the anecdote was recounted. But I got to know her as the most genial person. She would not talk to me much but every so often, on holidays I would find Ashish walking to my quarter in his typical elephantine gait and telling me that aunty had called me for breakfast. Those were the treats that I looked as fructification of my prayers. The meal would be simple: Pooris, a couple of sabzis and curd but I really used to pray that I get invited to that tranquil home more often. I was really pained to hear that she passed away when I was in M.Sc. I remember her very much today. I know she has become a part of the divine force that sustains the cosmos.

(Source: The player and the lyric have been copied from: http://maithilisongshub.blogspot.in/2009/08/jay-jay-bhairavi-sharda-sinha.html and a the rough translation is what I could glean from http://vidyapati-songs.blogspot.in/2011/11/jai-jai-bhairavi-asur-bhayawani.html)

PS: I found another translation of the prayer at http://www.stutimandal.com/new/poemgen.php?id=91 . But here the lyric seems to be modified slightly. So, I will let my attempt stay here for it is what I was able to understand on my own and I guess it has its own life.

O Bhairavī, Who causes fear in the demons, Who is the consort of the Paśupati (Pārvatī), Who is Māyā! Be victorious. O Bhairavī, Who is benevolent to cows! Give a simple boon of wisdom to me. Those who follow You, achieve You. [1]

You are seated on a Śava (corpse) every moment (day and night) and Your feet is adorned by jewels of moon-like white color. You took the army of demons in Your mouth after slaying them, and chewed away their fingers.[2]

You have a deep blue complexion like the ocean, Your eyes are red like the lotus or the fruit of Koṁkā. Your lips are shivering with rage and Your teeth is clattering with sound. Your breathe is powerful enough to raise foam on the chest of ocean.[3]

Your anklets are chiming ‘ghana-ghana’ and Your sword is drumming with the sound ‘hana-hana’. The poet Vidyāpati is Your servant. O Mother! Never leave me alone (never leave me out of Your mercies).[4]

Coming to terms...

2012-02-14T23:34:00.000+05:30

Despite my best wishes, I am not being able to come back to my blog more often. The work is taking its toll, by draining not just my days’ energy quota but the acumen to perceive and respond to various stimulus. Stimulus that used to move me enough to write in the past.

But I shall try to come here as often as I can. Because this blog might just be the only thing that I’d have- to remember these days by- decades down the line. It is not that I have not had some random thoughts that’d be nice to put into words. But I do not have enough energy to drape it up in the best of the words and accompany it with befitting side-musings to grow the thought nugget into a bright crystal with shining facets. Like yesterday, I realized that more than any other reason, the reason I would like to go back into my past is to go to my kid self as he lay curled on the bed, hugging himself on one of the countless nights of ‘being with self’, to ruffle his hair and to assure him that things would turn out pretty fine. Not, maybe, better than his wild dreams, but not too bad either… maybe even exceeding the dreams in some ways. But at the same time, I find myself craving to have my hair ruffled today, and to be told that things will turn out fine.

I know that with the passage of time, I will not remember the exact circumstance I am writing this post. But I do not want to commit the prosaic details to cold hard words. These feelings are just too sacred to be penned down directly. I know they will form the core of what I will become in the future, just like the past has formed me.

That apart, some songs have been playing randomly in my head lately and the immediate reason I wanted to write today was to put in a beautiful 'Shahryar' couplet that has been playing in my head for the past few days. I might as well drop in time to time just to mention the lines that are playing in my head… for they are not far from a good sized chunk of my current thought process.

याद तेरी, कभी दस्तक - कभी सरगोशी से
रात के पिछले पहर रोज़ जगाती है हमें

Source: Of course this is from the beautiful ghazal 'Zindagi jab bhi teri bazm mein laati hai hamein...' from the movie Umrao Jaan. Both, Talat Aziz's voice and Khayyam's music have added as much soul to it as the words.

Meeting the Lucknow Boy...

2012-01-12T16:38:00.000+05:30

I am not a person who may be called a Gossiper’s Delight. If someone came to me with a ‘juicy’ story, he’d mostly be disappointed with the unenthusiastic response he received. When Flipkart filled my order for Vinod Mehta’s autobiography: Lucknow Boy, it came with one of those little Flipkart bookmarks which have a humorous reason mentioned on them for using the bookmark. A smile kindled in my eyes when I saw the reason this one provided: “Your friend has real life gossip”. Having just finished the book, I think it sums the book up beautifully. Only, I had to put the bookmark aside and delve into the book for the gossip instead of using it.

For the past couple of years, all the books that I’d come across were lacking in the style of writing that attracts me. More than anything, I look forward to the kind of writing in which the writer is able to make a connection with the reader right from the page one. I compare it to meeting someone in real life. You have been living in this world unaware of the existence of this person. One fine day you meet him and get to know him slowly, layer by layer through his recounting of stories of his life. You read stuff written by him, listen to stories recounted by his friends and these help you paint a picture of him. Of all the writers I have read, I feel R K Narayan was a master at this form of writing. All of his stories would have a central character. Through telling of numerous stories, mostly innocuous and apparently inconsequential, Narayan was able to paint a detailed sketch of his Rajus, Swamis and Sampaths. Vinod Mehta has recounted most of the tales in his autobiography with the same flair. Alas he, as I do, can only admire the class that Orwell possessed.

The only other autobiography I had read thus far was the one of Jawaharlal Nehru. If nothing, it is a wonderful insight to India’s freedom movement, recounted by one of the key players. In the telling of one’s life story, one is expected to bare some juicy titbits and regale the reader with some embarrassing anecdotes – for the sole purpose of justifying it as an autobiography, if for nothing else. But, in my opinion, there are two types of such stories. The first are the ones that are playing too heavily on one’s conscience. This, again in my opinion, is the primary reason for writing the story of one’s own life. One simply has to get them off the chest. The stories of the second type are too sacred / secret to even recall by oneself unless one is treated to truth serum or under hypnosis. These are usually the ones that come up in the independent biographies and random reminiscences elsewhere, as we have seen in the case of Nehru. Even Mehta has taken his jab at it with disdain: Nehru, Meena Kumari, Firaq and many such. I am very positive that Vinod Mehta will never have his independent biography written, and may escape most of the stinging stories regarding him unless, of-course, if he features in the stories of his friends and foes. But this too I doubt because he has meticulously avoided digging up stories about people who may come back to him. Of course, I am far removed from saying anything conclusively and am just putting to words the feeling that I had in my gut as I read the book.

My acquaintance with ‘Outlook’ began when I first purchased the attractive magazine at Gaya railway station. I forget the exact month, but that was the edition in which they’d broken the Manoj Prabhakar story. Though I was merely in high school then, I was awed by the power of investigative journalism as also the beautiful magazine that was so unlike India Today and Frontline. Another point that I noted was that even though I have pushed away the temptation of being drawn into being updated with news round the clock by simply not having a TV, I have not missed much of consequence over the past few years. I was glad to note that most of the inferences I’d drawn on my own about politics have been substantiated. Coming from a place where Maoism is not something you just read in news, the lengthy discussion was a moot point without any suggestion of a workable solution. The ringside view stories about the goings on in the seat of power confirms just what it is, something that the average voter understands deep down in his heart – pure hogwash.

The book taught me some nice words like Toff, Panjandrum and Meretricious. But the long chapter on the collected wisdom, though given in good faith, I will file as just another reference material with the lot doled out by all my well-meaning elders. Maybe when I grow old, I too will quote from all of those crumbling pages, add a line or two of my own and pass it to the next generation, expecting them to follow my wise musings.

All in all, I am really glad to have met the Boy from Lucknow. He confirms my view of the world that random good things happen even to random people who have a conviction, a faith in their heart. A faith that guides all their actions focused towards attaining a fulfilling life. I once read a joke which went:

“A writer dies and reaches the portal to God’s kingdom. His sins and good deeds are weighed and by a queer chance they balance out in number. God ponders it over and offers the writer a chance to visit both hell and heaven before deciding where he is to be sent. First off he’s taken to writers’ hell: a long dark room with rows upon rows of wooden benches and oil lanterns dimly lighting the pages upon which the writers wrote furiously, their sweat mixing with the ink. The Satan’s servants hollered as soon as one of the writers would so much as look up. Our man was terrified and begged to be taken away. So they guided him out of there to a beautiful looking building which they said was writer’s heaven. He stepped in with a lot of expectations, but was appalled at what he saw inside: the same long wooden benches, oil lanterns, sweat and hollering repeated all over. Confused, he looked at God and asked what the difference was. God winked knowingly and said, “Here their work gets published”.

The Lucknow boy hopes he’d find a place in heaven for his service to the written word. From Debonair to Outlook, I think he has already been living in a veritable heaven all along.

Ears of music...

2012-01-03T22:43:00.000+05:30

I wish I had the gift of musical ears. Now, I am very thankful for all the gifts I have been blessed with in life and even consider my quirks to be things that make me stand apart in this world. But everyone wants to have powers that one notices they do not have, while others flaunt it with disdain. Of course I have wished I could be Superman, one of the nephew ducks (Huey-Dewey or Louie), be in the shoes of the star of most of the movies I saw as a kid and so on, ad nauseam. But these wishes have invariably been fleeting, lasting till I encountered the next ‘blessed’ guy.

Not so for music. For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated with music, songs and musical instruments. My earliest memories regarding this are from my early childhood when one of my neighbours brought a Banjo along on the annual family picnic we used to have. I was thrilled and fascinated. But despite my best wishes, I could never acquire the skill. My singing is best constrained to the arena of my bathroom – a place that I truly unleash and hone my skills. I like the way my voice sounds to me in my head. But the few times I have recorded it, I have always wondered if my head is playing tricks with me or the recorder is. I guess it is the same as when someone tries to chorus a song with headphones on at full volume.

Bhaiya got me a Hero Diatonic Harmonica from his school trip to the North East sometime when I must have been in class 4 or 5. That is when my love for the instrument began. I could not play it but was fascinated by the effortlessness that I could get some sound out of it, unlike the Banjos and the Harmoniums that I had tried before that. I used to talk and sing into it and the funny sound it made was all the music that I could make. Any song that had a mouth-organ piece in it had my instant attention. And the one at the top amongst them was the anthem “Hai apna dil to aawara…”. The trivia that the piece was played by none other than RD Burman, endeared it even more. With time I was able to play the Harmonica piece of the song on my Diatonic. I played it over and over since that was the only recognizable piece I could play. To this day, the few friends who have heard me play it feel that it comes out very nice.

But the next leap happened only during my MSc, even though the ‘Hero’, reeds bent and badly out of tune (as I realize now), accompanied me to Ranchi for my plus two and back home all through BSc. Over time, I’ve developed a temperament that I can attempt anything: like learning a new language, painting or some such skill by breaking it into very small, easily workable parts. And I take delight in sharing whatever I am good at, by breaking it into similar easily digestible chunks. It makes me sad to see when the gifted people seem to think that their gift is something that comes just by birth and should not even be attempted by lesser mortals. It was some trivial incident in which a good singer friend said something to the effect that learning music was not everyone’s cup of tea. I took it as a challenge and joined Harmonica lessons. I really must thank my teacher for introducing me very gently to the theory of music and the right way to handling the mouth organ. Though the classes were never very successful due to frequent new inductions and poor attendance, I got what I wanted… a platform from where I could do my experiments and learn at my own pace- a journey that I know will continue for the rest of my life.

But that is not all that I wanted to post today. Over years, I kept thinking I could never ever understand the intricacies of music. But out of the blue, some recent incidents have had me by surprize. That many of our songs are based on classic Raagas is no secret. Many websites abound in categorizing the famous songs according to their Raagaa. Vividh Bharati has an evening program (once a week I guess) that plays 3 songs one after the other belonging to the same Raaga. Anyway, on a car trip a couple of months ago, we had enqueued a long list of oldies and were enjoying the scenes passing by the window when the song changed and the introductory music of the song “Hum tere pyar mein saara aalam, kho baithe hain…” played in sitar began. From some corner of my mind the tune of “Baje sargam…”, the nostalgic Doordarshan song, leaped forth. I wondered if there was some connection. I looked online after I returned and sure enough, the two belonged to the same Raaga: Des. I was stunned. Next, a few weeks ago I was listening to the songs from the old Raj Kapoor, Dilip Kumar starrer Andaaz when I came across the song “Uthaye ja unke sitam…” and was suddenly reminded of the song “Bekas pe karam kijiye, sarkar-e-Madina…”. Again the song came from the same root, Raaga Kedar, thus spake Wikipedia. Then, last month I had the fortune to attend the live performance of the Bangesh brothers Amaan and Ayaan Ali at the Town Hall, Jodhpur. At the very end of their performance, they played a piece based on Raaga Pahadi, a favorite of their father Ustaad Amjad Ali Khan. The tune stayed in my head and last night as I was listening to “Neela aasman so gaya…” from the Amitabh starrer ‘Silsila’ (the movie for whose music the great maestros Hari Prasad Chaurasia and Shiv Kumar Sharma came together for the first time as Shiv-Hari), the interlude reminded me of tune that emanated from the Sarod many nights ago. My conviction was right again. That it made me glad ought to be clear from the fact that it pushed me to write this post… something that I had begun to procrastinate again.

Picking up the threads again...

2011-12-08T23:28:00.000+05:30

A lot of water under the bridge. That is how we talk about the time gone by. Truly a lot of it has flown under mine since I wrote something in here. Maybe that is because none of the waves were large enough to leap up and wet my feet as I stood by and observed the flow of time. I could not be more wrong if I said that no big changes came by in this period. In fact, this was when the biggest achievement - my job - came by. To continue the water analogy, maybe I was standing just too far up to let my feet get wet.

I have been pining to write - there are no doubts about that. And after quite a few false starts, I think I am going to put something in today... just so that I can begin. I want to make entries in this diary of mine and get back to it as often as I can.

I have just returned from a trip back home... after one full year. When friends and family ask me, I always brush things aside by saying that home is where family is. Since Ma, Papa keep visiting, I do not feel the dire urge to be at home. But once I go there, the floodgates open up, memories come rushing in. Despite the almost unrecognizable crowded mess that my hometown has become, every corner whispers some long forgotten story in my ears and a smile finds its way to my lips. I wish to go pick up some of these pearls and relate them here. Not in one long post this time but into many short ones. Hope I am able to get ahead at my plan this time.

The main agenda during the home trip was to find a bride for me. This has been the subject of every single discussion worth its name in the past year and half. But as things are with me usually, they are still stuck up. I don't think I have the patience to clear up the mist surrounding the matter... mainly because it simply is not worth raking up the muck. But a small fun incident regarding this is what made me write this post so I did not have any qualms bringing it up.

That I have acquired my love for old Hindi songs from Papa is no secret. It was really nice to see Ma relish some folk songs by Sharda Sinha that I hunted out for her. She made Papa write it down so she could add one more jewel to her treasury. On the final night I was there, I had put a long random list of old songs from the PC on the playlist as I sat with Papa teaching him how to navigate his way through Internet, and especially to view the matrimonial site we had been using as one of the ways for my bride hunt. I had suggested that we widen our search by relaxing our criteria for the perfect match by a little bit. As expected, it gave us a wider set of girls to view and send proposals to, which I had done but received no replies thereof. We sat there discussing the likely reasons for me not getting the expected replies. Whether it was my nerdy sounding job, my posting in an area that is generally known as desert, me coming from Jharkhand - a place known for being under-developed etc. The screen was full of my list of preferred girls that would not respond when the next song on the playlist came up and we both burst out laughing. The song was the famous number from हरियाली और रास्ता that went: लाखों तारे आसमान में, एक मगर ढूंढें न मिला... lol... Even randomness knew something was up.

2008-10-06T15:53:00.000+05:30

कामिक्स हमारे बचपन की अभिन्न साथी रही है। गर्मी की तपती दोपहर में राहत लाती थी वो रंगीन कहानियाँ जो पहचाने से पात्रों के साथ हर हफ्ते हमारे साथ होती थी। जिस किसी ने भी इनका लुत्फ़ उठाया है, फ़िर चाहे वो मांग के हो, छीन के हो, या किताब के बदले किताब ले के हो। हम भाइयों में न जाने कितने झगड़े उनको पहले पढने में हुए हैं। कहानियों के किरदारों की बोली हमारी बोली से मिल गई, यहाँ तक की हमारे झगड़े और मजाक भी 'धडाम', 'ढिशुम' और 'धायं' जैसे शब्दों से भरे होते थे। हाय, कितने प्यारे दिन थे।

इन में से जिसकी याद मुझे सब से ज्यादा आती है वो है 'मधु मुस्कान'। यह साप्ताहिक पत्रिका हमारे पूरे मुहल्ले की प्रिये थी। मैंने कई बार इसके अंक internet पर ढूँढने की कोशिश की पर हर बार यही दीखता की लोग मेरी तरह शिद्दत से इसकी तलाश तो कर रहे हैं पर कहीं इसके अंक हैं नहीं। फ़िर एक बार मुझे इसके कुछ अंक एक पुरानी किताब बेचने वाले के पास मिल गए। मैंने बहुत चाहा की जल्दी से उनको scan करके सब के साथ share करूँ, पर किसी न किसी कारण से टालता रहा।

लेकिन आज मैंने एक अंक scan कर ही लिया ! आशा है आप सबको पसंद आयेगा। अगर आप लोगों को यह पसंद आया तो मैं बाकी के अंक भी upload करूँगा।

http://www.esnips.com/web/MadhuMuskan/

गौरव

Memories, chapter 1

2005-12-10T17:29:00.000+05:30

Note: This actually is a mail that was sent to a friend, but since I'm talkitng about myself in it, I thought"why not post it as my blog?" And so here it is...

At last I get a chance to sit on a PC with nobody peering down my back or a meter running somewhere. This mail comes to you, courtesy of a neighbor Bhaiya, while Bhabhi is away. I hope I’ll be able to write something worthwhile, especially when so much is running in my head. But sitting here on the PC, I have certainly warmed up to fulfilling my promise.

On each of the three tries that I’ve made of fulfilling my promise to you from a café, I wanted to write about my earliest memories. Not because there is some memory of a great incident in it, but simply because I had to begin somewhere. Though these memories of mine are the foggiest, they are the dearest to me. Partly because they will never come back, but mostly due to the fact that they constitute my very core- the basic thing that I’m made of. I’m sure you’ll find yourself agreeing to me.

My earliest memory probably is of my home at Daltonganj which I was born into. It was one of a set of six similar houses, with tiled roof, a courtyard in the front and a little space for gardening at the back. These ‘homes’ were arranged in sets of three houses facing each other. They together made the colony of ‘Tapeshwari Ashram’ –the name still lingers- and is near my present home-though it stands in a modified form. My earliest memory of the place is probably from the hot summer afternoons when Ma won’t let me out due to ‘Loo’-the howling winds, in summers and I’d lie besides her on the cool floor, while she slept, looking at the dust particles making myriad shapes in thin shafts of light that would find its way-probably just to keep me amused- through tiny cracks and gaps between the tiles. I never liked sleeping in the afternoons and I still remember with amusement that every time I fell asleep on such sweltering afternoons, I’d wake up in the late afternoon to find the sky overcast with clouds. Although it stopped occurring as I began to understand the ‘virtues’ of sleeping, I’m sure that it occurred every time, without fail. On holidays, Papa would rest with us and he’d sing to make me sleep. The song that still lingers on is “Hey…. Neele gagan ke tale, Dahrti ka pyar pale” probably from the movie “Humraaz”.

Summer nights were another thing that I remember very prominently-chiefly because it set in me a deep desire to study the sky. In our parts of the country it is not very unusual for people to sleep in their courtyards or on rooftops on summer nights to escape from the heat, at least during the night. I usually got to sleep with Papa whom I have always been inseparable from, if he is around. Ma always jokes that he is my ‘real’ mummy. So, as we would sleep in the open and as it used to be merciless, cloudless summers, there used to be a sky full of stars. Those dazzling, winking beacons seemingly pinned on to a black curtain always made my jaws drop wide open. The ‘Aakash Ganga’ with its sky spanning extent of milk used to be so clearly visible in those days that I really feel sorry of living in a city-full of pollution due to dust and light. I remember I’d ask Papa a lot of questions about them and he’d patiently answer my questions from his knowledge-that seemed immeasurably deep at that time. He taught me to identify the ‘Saptarishi’ and the change in the pattern of stars as the night wore on and as the summer progressed. Consequently, before I knew it, I had fallen in love with it. It really feels worthwhile when we still sit under the night sky and I point out the prominent constellations and the stars-though I still can name really very few of them. I really want to do a serious study of it, throughout the year. I also have a hazy memory of seeing the Haley’s comet, somewhere on the western sky(I seem to remember seeing it from my courtyard, towards the right of the house). Maybe it is a cumulative effort of these and many more(I want to come across them in due time) sightings that I’m still in love with the subject.

Now let me tell you of the people around-my oldest acquaintances, and maybe a few incidents. But I’m afraid many incidents are too many and embedded deep in my heart and no time is enough to write it all on paper. Anyway, it was a closely knit community at that time-everyone knowing almost everything about the neighbors and rising up magnificently in their times of joys and sorrows. Papa works in a college and my town has three colleges, one of them (which I went to for my B.Sc.) not very far. Consequently a lot of professors had homes in the area. Out of the six homes in our campus-four, including us, were occupied with them. No wonder then that there were a lot of children around. And what a bunch we were! Playing, fighting, picnicking, quarrelling, boasting, laughing- in short having fun- in every conceivable way, together. I need not go into the games that we played, for you must have played them all. I especially remember that at that time we used to have a nice field full of ‘Palash’ trees (Maybe you’ll recognize them by the name Dhaak in the saying “Wahi Dhaak ke teen paat” or as Gesu- it is used for making colors in holi, it is also known as the ‘flame of the forest’ and was the state tree of Bihar) after the monsoons and the beginning of winter. What fun it used to be playing hide and seek in them. You could spend the whole day hiding in them while playing or if you had run away from home. The memories of the almost palatable ‘Puris’ we used to concoct out of them still lingers on in some corner of my head and comes winding out when the mind needs to think of something innocent and really pure. Believe me, it works like a tonic and refreshes you unfailingly- each time you take a draught of it.

It is not that the people were all of the same age. We were a mixed bunch-right from us tiny tots to big guys. And I was the loved one of all- pampered in every way, all the time. I’d be included in everything-big boys games as well as girls fancies. The former would let me play with the big bats and through full tosses at me(though just for one or two times) while the later would dress me up in different attires and make me stand in their songs. One of the families’, a forest ranger’s daughter used to be the leader of it all. I’ve almost lost touch with them but I know that they have a treasure with them. At that time cameras were rare equipment and they were the proud owners of one. I know that many of my photos of that golden era are in their home and I am trying to get hold of them- at least to get them scanned.

Let me tell you of an interesting incident. We used to have cultural programs during occasions like Dashehra-dance, drama, singing and all that- complete with a stage and lighting-all put together with combined efforts of members of each family. On one such occasions while the final show was going on, one of my seniors called me and told me that one of their partners had suddenly taken ill. They were a group of three, presenting nursery rhymes, and each had to say a line from the rhymes while gesticulating. Since we all went to the same school and I was in KG, it was not a big deal when they invited me to come along. I just went onstage with them. And the first rhyme they began with was “A B C, tumble down D. A cat in the cupboard, but cannot see me”. Now I do not remember the reason why but I had not read the rhyme-maybe the book had changed or maybe the rhyme had not been taught to me. I stared blankly at them when the turn to sing out the third line came. The peals of laughter that ensued still rings in my ear. I secretly swore never to set foot on stage-EVER again! There is no use mentioning that the item was a flop and I went back sulking and sat besides Papa. As the evening wore on and I was engrossed in watching a drama, the Ranger uncle’s servant tapped me on the back and said that one of the ‘bhaiyas’ was looking for me. He was playing a part in the drama and had just gone offstage so I innocently followed the servant. The next thing I remember was being pushed onto the stage-right in the middle of the drama! You may laugh, but imagine my predicament when I saw that the Bhaiya that has supposedly called me was acting ill, he lay dying on a cot with a doctor and, I don’t remember who else, crying besides him. I wanted to run away but was caught like a deer stands stunned in headlight of passing vehicles and before I knew it, I burst out crying. Now, I might not have been doing it on purpose, but it fit into the situation perfectly. I was supposedly playing the part of the son of the dying man and my tears just were the perfect material a director could demand in such a situation; tears with real heartfelt emotion sans any artificial aid. I do not recall how the scene ended but there was a loud applause and I was later told that it was due to my ‘original’ act. I had proved my stardom!

There are many other such incidents. Maybe you’ll not be excited to read them all but all of them hold equally precious positions in my heart. Another of them is my first day in school. Sacred Heart School was the most prestigious school of our town and until recently, I do not know about now, its students were liked all over the town. My brother was a student of it already- being four years my senior and I ‘had’ to get admission into the school. I do not remember much of the admission day except seeing a sprinkler fountain running for the first time, but Ma tells me that all that happened on that day was that the teacher who was supposed to interview me pinched me on the cheek, commented “Lovely Baby”- and my interview was over. So, I was bought a bag and a blue, plastic tiffin box. I remember it specifically as a plastic spoon was clipped on to its exterior and that fascinated me very much. I remember taking my favorite ‘Halwa’ as my first meal in school. There is nothing much to remember though. I remember descending from the school bus and noticing the beautiful hedging on the fringes of school playground. We were ‘herded’ into the class and soon it was time to go back. We were ‘herded’ again and taken to the hall, where I remember my brother coming to me as I sat eating my “first” tiffin at school and telling me to sit in the proper bus i.e. the Brown Bus. We had three buses painted in single colors of Blue, Green and Brown. You could just go around the town and anyone would tell you if a particular bus had passed that way of not.

One more memory relating to my early school stand out prominently. It was when I was beaten by my class teacher for the first time. We had a lot of eagles in our school. They would perch on the high roofs of the school building or flew in circles overhead and were notorious for swooning down upon hapless tiffin eaters only to fly away with their meals. Due to this reason, the kids of KG were made to have their food while sitting in the veranda. But adventurous kids always ventured out and I was certainly NOT amongst them as they were beaten when caught. So one fine day when I was busy savoring my lunch, I almost jumped out of my skin as I felt a sudden ping of pain on my back accompanied with the sound of scale meeting flesh. I turned around only to look into the eyes of my Anglo Indian class-teacher. Before I could react in anyway, I felt her rubbing the affected area and apologizing at the same time. Apparently, some daring guy had ventured out into the open and mistaking me for him I got my first of the two beatings at school- both of which were for silly things.

Alas! but I believe I’ll have to stop now as it is quite late in the evening and I have to go have my dinner. I am still to talk about many things-hopefully they will follow. Do feel free to ask me to expand on anything in particular. You are also welcome with your suggestions. Till the next mail…. Have a nice time!

First Post...

2005-05-05T18:44:00.000+05:30

I have begun my online diary! I hope I will be able to keep it posted regularly.

So, my primary concern today (ie on 05/05/05, nice date!) is to get into study mode as soon as possible. I have done almost nothing in the past 20 days or so. I have beel lying to all that I'm collecting the books so I can sit down and bury my head. But that coveted day hasn't come yet. I hope it comes round soon. All I keep doing these days is play songs on my Mouthorgan. Not that I've become a great player, but I have nothing else to do that does not bore me. Today I kept practicing "Jeevan Ke safar me rahi...". I know that Narayan Bhaiya must be really irritated with it. I really appreciate his patience. But I am glad that I was ultimately able to get the song right.