GYPSY WANDERINGS
Dedicated to my parents
 |
| Enjoying the fruits of a life well lived---great teamwork |
25th March 1921- 9th January 200
My mother
was married at the early age of ten and came to live in my father’s house as a
child bride of twelve; she never had the opportunity of a formal schooling.
However, her intelligence and common sense proved that academic education has
nothing to do with wisdom and a life well lived. At four feet ten she often
stood taller than many others. She was the youngest of ten siblings and rather
pampered and cheerful, having spent her childhood in a large household which
was both prosperous and well established. Taking on family responsibilities
with a step mother- in- law must have been both challenging and intimidating
but it honed her into a determined, courageous and enterprising woman who was
the wind beneath my father’s sails.
My father on
the other hand, was an only child who lost his mother at a very young age,
while my grandfather was almost an absent figure, serving in the British Army.
Having remarried after my grandmother’s death, he presumed that his son was
well looked after. But that was not to be, as the second mother had no love or
caring for my father who grew up lonely, uncared for and with only one goal- to
better his lot in life. Without the emotional support of a family, no parental
guidance and hardly any financial backing he went out into the world, to carve
his own destiny, with the support of his matriculation certificate and my
mother’s unconditional love.
Together
they looked an odd couple for my father was six feet but my mother kept pace
with him physically and mentally; they brought us up as a team with great
confidence. Having joined the army during the Raj, he was soon promoted after
Independence and got the perfect platform from where he could launch on his
journey to change his life.
1st September 1916-13th January 2003
Daddy was authoritative not only at work, but
at home also. As his jeep entered the gates of our home, my mother would
scuttle all of us into our rooms, not to be seen or heard till lunch was laid. Having
been built for the needs of the previous British occupants, these bungalows were
large, so it was easy for children to be invisible to the strict parental eye.
Meals at our place were always hearty affairs
with my mother whipping up wonderful recipes with the whole world’s love to
lace them with, into pots of wholesome, mouthwatering Punjabi food. The aroma
of freshly cooked vegetables and ‘dal’ tempered with oodles of ‘ghee’ mingled with
that of mint chutney, tangy spicy mango pickle, served with fresh, hot buttered ‘rotis’, whipped our appetites; the
four of us would tumble into the large dining room—quite a hungry lot ! To wash
it all down were large glasses of frothy ‘lassi’ with butter floating on top.
Golden pleasures
with a touch of green or saffron colored ‘dussehri’ or ‘sindoori’ mangoes,
chilled in large tubs of iced water would complete the meal and we could not
ever have enough of those. But, we waited for Daddy to finish and go for his
afternoon siesta. Mummy would put a ‘durrie’ or mat on the floor and join us,
remove our top clothing and set us free to eat the succulent fruit with the
juices slathering our mouths and faces, dripping down the chin and flowing from
our tiny hands up to our elbows, squeezing the last drop of the sticky, sweet
thick pulp out of a small hole bit into the mango skin. Then the stone would be
attacked with a relish that only Indian children have tasted, smacking and
sucking till the seed shone bare. Stuffed and satiated we were washed and
changed, happy to sleep for an hour or so in our rooms cooled with ‘chiks’ and
wet ‘khus khus’ shades which the orderlies would keep wetting from time to time.
Five in the
evening, we all trooped into our study after a wash and a glass of milk shake.
Two hours later we were free to play for an hour till dinner was served at 8
PM. Daddy always liked a well laid table, so my mother who was a simple lady
from a small town, Nurmahal, had a tough time. But the sturdy little woman did
not give him any chance to look down upon her, either from his physical height
or mental acumen. He had joined the army during WW2 and been commissioned an
officer; he wanted to change his standard of living. So Mummy steadily and
laboriously learnt the ways and mannerisms of the snobbish and sophisticated
army culture prevalent during the fifties, a hangover from the colonial rule.
He would regularly take us out for dinner to one of the best hotels every month,
so that we learnt table manners and felt confident to socialize. It paid us
well as adults.
While posted
at Pune, when I was around three, Daddy employed an Anglo Indian ayah who would
teach my mother to wear a sari and experiment with different hairdos. Mummy’s
stylish, high heeled sandals and our shoes were custom made by Chinese shoe
makers (the best during those times). Daddy would take us in a station wagon,
select the softest calf leather for each one of us and put his signature on the
reverse side to ensure that the leather was not changed by a crafty shoe maker.
We were never allowed to wear ‘chappals’ or open sandals; this was to ensure
that our feet grew correctly shaped. In spite of or probably because of all these
precautions, I’ve had problem feet and can rarely find a pair of well fitting
shoes or sandals!
An English
tutor was also hired. After a few lessons Mummy terminated her services saying
that having learnt the English alphabets and how to sign her name was enough to
get along in the world, which she proved true later on.
Because of
Daddy’s frequent transfers we were fortunate to see many cities including hill
stations like Kasauli, Srinagar and Shillong, but more of that later.
I have vague
memories of cantonment life at various places like Lucknow, Jhansi, Meerut and
many others. Everywhere we lived in large rambling bungalows with huge
compounds and long drives which could accommodate around twenty cars at a time.
MEERUT
( Pic taken out from a school group photo at Sophia School, Meerut, 1950.Whenever I did not want to wear a uniform I told the nuns it was my birthday--just another one of those birth--days !!)
My first clear memories date back to the
winter of 1950 when I was around five years of age and our life changed into an
adventure that appealed to the gypsy in me.
Daddy was stationed at Meerut where we lived
in a typical army bungalow , large and sprawling.
A well
manicured garden with flower beds full of winter blooms encircled the semi-
circular front lawn. Dahlias, larger than saucers, stood at the back, nodding
their large yellow, pink and mauve heads in the cold winter winds. Next to
these were the rows of sweet smelling and fragrant sweet peas, trained on a
trellis of reeds anchored with hemp string. The deep purple, magenta and pale
pink flowers with tender tendrils curling around the leaves were my favorite
for their lingering scent. I would often pluck a handful and thrust them into a
vase on my study table. Lower down grew
the brilliant red poppies, a profusion of asters, golden nasturtiums bordered
with the snowy white candytuft which shone like spangled stars as the dew
nestled in the tufts, glistened in the rising winter sun. Large ‘gulmohar’
trees canopied part of the lawn and under their shade circling the trunk, I had
discovered a bed of shy violets, peeping from under the large round leaves,
lending their heavy perfume to the air all round. Rose bushes and jasmine shrubs
dotted the compound all round vying with each other to lend more fragrance and
the garden looked like a picture book illustration. My brother Kaka, barely
three, and I spent hours chasing butterflies that flitted all over, lending
more color with their magnificent bright wings.
A very high
wall ran all round the large compound with a hedge of thorny ‘karaunda’ shrubs.
Brambles and burrs grew underneath and we were forbidden to pluck the sour, red
berries which were used to add more tang to the mango pickle my mother made. Of
course this added to my sense of adventure and I never missed a chance to spice
up life with doing the forbidden, resulting very often in a sore throat. Kaka
was an innocent accomplice in my escapades. Our only deterrents were the
monkeys that jumped and frolicked all over the walls the whole day; when not noticed they
would carry off any shoes lying outside the kitchen and the servants would have
a tough time chasing them. The kitchen was some distance from the main house connected with a covered corridor. Fortunately the monkeys did not venture near the house, probably scared of Daddy's rifle which he had fired to caution them . They got the message alright !
On one side
were the garages. At the farthest side behind the bungalow were the servant
quarters, around ten in number, where lived two orderlies, the driver, cook,
washer-man and sweeper. One room was for our two dogs—Rana an Alsatian and
Whiskey, a retriever. The cow and buffalo with their calves had a large shed to
themselves. In today’s world I cannot imagine living in such abundance with so
many in-house servants. But at that time we knew no other way of life and took
it for granted, not knowing how all this was to change soon.
The servant quarters
were white washed and surrounded by large fruit trees, usually mangoes and
‘jamuns’. Invariably these large bungalows had a grave at the rear end of the compound, among
the fruit trees. We were forbidden to go to those areas of the house.
Every Friday one of the servants would light an earthen
lamp at the grave. From the safe distance of our rooms we watched
in fearful fascination, mystified and scared as the lamp flickered, casting
eerie and weird shadows. I would imagine white figures floating and hovering
among the trees, having been fed on stories of ghosts and spirits by my
grandmother and the servants. Probably they did this to keep us away from parts
of the compound not safe for little children. This fired my wild imagination to
conjure up stories of the worst ghoulish nature a little five year old could
cook up.
I was
studying in Sophia Convent probably in kindergarten in the year ’50-’51 as one
school photograph of mine shows. I have no memory about my elder sister and
brother, Didi and Bhaji’s schools. Kaka was too young for school then.
One day a
distant uncle of ours came to visit us from Dehra-Dun.
-----to be cont.
