Episode 3 
                                                 GYPSY WANDERINGS

(The photographs in color were taken many decades later, by my younger brother, P.S.Gill (Kaka), who was a passionate photographer. We have very few photographs of that period, as they got destroyed in a fire. The few that remain are the ones in black and white.)

                                      

                         

                                                      CLEMENT TOWN                          

                                                           

                                                                

                    APRICOT AND PEAR BLOSSOMS IN CLEMENT TOWN

 
This uncle of ours, after retiring from the army as a colonel, had started working as a construction contractor. He told Daddy about some land for sale in Clement Town, a small settlement, nestled in a valley, on the outskirts, about 8-9 miles before Dehra-Dun, coming from the Saharanpur side by road. Daddy had heard about the wonderful schools there, some of the best in the country. He also thought of how we kids would be studying in one place instead of the nomadic army life and how the salubrious climate would be good for our health. So, he decided to go and see the land for himself, although as a young cadet on joining the army he had undergone training there and had fallen in love with the unspoiled beauty of that place. But a man's perspective and priorities change with a family of growing children.

Clement Town was a pretty little suburban cantonment. It was a quiet and peaceful settlement then. Not only was he impressed by the place, but grateful as well, that the Universe was helping him realize his dreams, with amazing synchronicity.  Excited about the chance that life was offering him, he went with Uncle to meet the owner of the land at Dehra - Dun.

Mr.Graham, a retired British officer, a widower, with only a dachshund called Dash for company, was desperate to sell the land, as he was into bad times. He had just won a case, winning back his land after a decade from the Cant Board. Army officers did not have large salaries, so their savings were also meager. My father, then a captain, with four children, did not have the resources. Daddy told him about his monetary constraints. Finally, the deal was struck for Rs. 30,000, quite a princely sum those days, to be paid in monthly installments of Rs 300 per month, for two plots; one, a large tract of land around eighty 'bighas' ( almost twenty acres) ,along with a smaller plot of ten 'bighas' ( around two and a half acres). What happened after that trip was a dream fulfilled !

It so happened, that as a young cadet, on joining the army and undergoing training at the Joint Services Wing, then placed at Clement Town, Daddy had gone on the first day, for horse riding practice. Many decades later, he related to us his thoughts about what he felt on that day. The words are mine but the thoughts and feelings are his:

“Coming to a narrow 'kutcha' lane, turning from the undulating road from Bharuwala side, I came to a small wooden bridge spanning  a brick culvert, under which a stream flowed. In gratitude, I bowed my head, as I spotted a Gurudwara next to it, thanking the Almighty one more time, for His blessings for my selection in the army and the immediate commission.  Crossing the bridge, I rode onto a large practice ground and looking around, noticed what an enchanting place it was. All around the large grassy 'maidan',were fruit trees, peaches and pears in full bloom with pink and white blossoms, almost like a Japanese canvas, the blooms lending their fragrance to the crystal clear air. The mist rolling down from the hills, and the sound of water tinkling downstream, was like a soothing balm to my jangled nerves, taut with the prospect of having to learn the army protocol and undergo the rigorous training, under the stringent rules of the British Army. 


                 

Dewdrops glistened on the thick carpet of grass almost like pearls embroidered on green velvet, lending the place an ethereal beauty. On the south this land was bounded by dense forest that rose upwards into the hills; towards the north were the Shivalik foot hills, leading on to the range of mountains, where the popular hill station of Mussoorie stretched across.

A clean mountain stream, the same that I had crossed,  almost 10-12 feet wide at places and  about 4-5 feet deep, flowed all round the land, bound on the south side by thick vegetation, dense trees and large groves of bamboo. Thousands of birds had made their home amongst the trees, their chirping and trilling, filling the morning air with the song of many bird calls, singing hymns in praise of their Creator. I could hear no other sound.

                    

                    

                    

                                        

Most of the land was hedged in by bushes of pale pink roses and the fragrance was overwhelming as the bushes were heavily laden with winter blooms. The petals from the older blooms had fallen to the ground and formed a thick pink carpet bordering the whole land. 


                   

                                                                   

Suddenly, a fluffle of rabbits emerged from under a bush, alarming my horse and themselves, scuttling in fright under another bush. As the horse neighed and stamped its hooves in alarm, a cloud of cacophonic, screeching green feathers flew skywards, as a dozen or more startled parrots flew from the gooseberry bushes they had been foraging. Under large ‘Gulmohars’ a few papaya trees stood straight and staid undisturbed by this  sudden hulabloo, each bearing at least a dozen papayas. The large orange and crimson 'palash' flowers set the skies ablaze, providing a sharp contrast to the pale roses on the ground.                    

                                                                     

                                                                  

                   

                                                             

As I looked up at the alarmed parrots, I noticed the changing colors of the sky and the glorious splendor of the sun rising above the hills; I specially noticed what a clear blue expanse the sky was, broken only by a few fluffy, billowy white clouds hovering over the hills of Mussoorie, now tinged with shades of pink and orange.




                




Never had I seen a more awe inspiring spectacle and a silent prayer to the Supreme arose from the depths of my being, to grant me a place like this someday, where I could make a home for my children and educate them.”

Little did he know then, that he would be buying that very land one day and so began my father’s journey of building up a fairly generous venture of investments in real estate.

He came back full of enthusiasm and a great sense of achievement; impressed my mother with the prospect of providing education for their children in some of the finest schools of the country and own a house in an elite town. He related to her about the peace and tranquility and the unsurpassed beauty of Clement Town, his prayer of years ago being answered in the form of that very piece of land where he had stood and prayed.

But the question of raising enough funds still loomed large over their heads.

My mother pitched in by giving a substantial amount of her jewelry and some of the amount was quickly paid off with enough spare, to build a four bedroom bungalow, with a row of servant quarters, cattle sheds, storehouses and surrounded by a large orchard in front, a kitchen garden and fields to provide enough grains for us, at the back, in the smaller ten 'bigha' plot. The larger eighty ‘bigha’ (twenty acres) land was later developed by Mummy, for growing premium quality basmati rice.

She was a plucky little woman, who all her life looked forward to new ventures and adventures.  Never one to bow before any storm, every situation was an opportunity to prove herself, rising taller every time. She was more excited about this huge step in their lives, than even Daddy was.


Our Uncle was commissioned to start the construction of a ‘kothi’, as small bungalows were then called. Plans to move to Dehra Dun were drawn up. Some hurdles stood in the way. My paternal grandparents did not want to accompany us.
The night of a terrible storm, when lightening struck a dead tree standing near the outer wall, convinced my grandmother that it was an inauspicious time and this was a bad omen.
The bungalow was still in the initial stages, but Mummy wanted to be there to supervise work herself. Starting from that bungalow onwards, I do not remember any time in her life when she was not getting some construction or the other done, right up to her death at 85.

 

……cont. as SHIFTING TO CLEMENT TOWN.

In the next episode……The moonlight shining on the rippling water of the silvery streams below on the left and through the branches of the overhanging trees on the right, created numerous magical illusions. Occasionally a fox or rabbit crossing the road would get blinded by the headlights of the trucks and would stand paralyzed, their eyes two fiery red embers which I found quite scary……..!

 

 

 

 

Episode 2

 

                                          GYPSY WANDERINGS 

                                       
                                             
                                                  MEERUT- 1950

 
My first vivid childhood memories date back to the winter of 1950 when I was around five years, 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, with a drive that could accommodate around twenty cars at a time.

Rows of potted plants lined the driveway. A well manicured garden with flower beds full of winter blooms, hugged the semi- circular front lawn. Tall dahlias with flowers 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, white and pale pink flowers with tender tendrils curling around the leaves, were my favorite for their lingering scent. Lower down grew the brilliant red poppies, a profusion of  many colored 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; under their shade, encircling the trunk, I discovered a bed of shy violets, peeping from beneath their large round leaves, lending their heavy perfume to the air. Rose bushes and jasmine dotted the compound all round, vying with each other to enhance the fragrance. Large, tall palms grew next to the wall and besides the two gates. The deep, long verandahs running all around the house, had pale cream colored rose creepers growing along the round pillars and the archways between them. At places where there were bamboo trellises, the creepers grew thick and the fragrance wafted inwards into the rooms also, when a breeze blew. Brasso polished, shining brass containers with potted palms placed in them, stood on high wooden pedestals in the porch and lining the steps to the verandah, and on each side of the doors to the drawing room, where also stood a wooden hat-stand, with a mirror fitted on it. Daddy's collection of walking sticks hung on this.

An arched bower with bunches of small pink roses trailing on it, formed the entrance to the lawn from the porch. The garden looked like a picture book illustration and ever since I have been fascinated with flowers and gardens.

 

                      

                                                OUR MEERUT HOUSE

My younger brother Kaka, not yet three, and I, spent hours chasing butterflies that flitted all over, their colors adding to the riot with their magnificent bright wings.  Once I managed to catch a large, black winged one with multi-colored spots and rings on them. Mummy told me that I should free it as it would die if I held it for long. So, I decided to put it in a shoe-box in which I put some leaves and flowers to create a garden for it. I was heartbroken when I saw it dead after some time.

Sometimes I would pluck a handful of sweet peas and thrust them into a vase on my study table, forgetting to put water in the vase. When the flowers drooped I would sit and cry wondering why they were perishing.

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 go near them or pluck and eat the sour, red berries which were used to add some more tang to the mango pickle mummy 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 to my escapades.

Our only deterrents were the monkeys that jumped and frolicked all over the walls; when not noticed they would carry off any shoes lying outside the kitchen and the servants would have a tough time chasing them. Very often, I was the cause of the monkey’s wrath, making faces and pelting them with stones when they growled and screamed, baring their teeth,  jumping as if to attack me. Running indoors I would hide in my grandmother’s arms. Being a quiet child, nobody suspected me of being the cause of this brouhaha! Now I wonder if the monkeys didn't think it peculiar, that a two legged monkey could make worse faces than they could!

The baby monkeys were so cute, I wanted one for a pet. My granny then explained to me that monkeys being monkeys would tear my books and clothes. This put me off, for books were my most precious possessions; besides, the idea of the babies growing into angry, growling big brutes did not appeal to me.

The demand for a pet however continued, till one day, my father brought a wicker basket and told me to open it. Out tumbled a fat, fluffy, adorable brown puppy and another black one. I did not take a second to decide in favor of the fat one because I liked her color. Daddy named her Whiskey. I was one happy child. She had not even opened her eyes till then and she lived with us for eighteen years, like the fifth child, till the day she shut them forever. Even now my heart overflows with love, every time I think of her. To describe her role in our lives needs much more space than a para or two!

On the side of the left gate were two garages. At the farthest end of the compound, behind the bungalow were the servant quarters, around ten in number, where lived two orderlies, the driver, cook, washer-man or ‘dhobi’, and sweeper. One room was for our two dogs—Rana an Alsatian and Whiskey, the 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 very soon, very drastically!

These servant quarters were surrounded by large fruit trees, usually mangoes, ‘jamuns’ and an occasional guava tree. The whole day, monkeys would be incessantly chattering and gamboling on these trees, messing the fruit, wasting more than they ate. They would crush the ‘jamuns’ to take out the stone or fling them down turning the ground below, pock marked in purple. Scared only of men and slingshots( ‘gulel’) they attacked women and children. Occasionally some ‘langurs’ would come and invade their territory and a lopsided battle would ensue between these two hierarchies of simians. Being smaller, the monkeys were scared but being more in number they screamed and growled from a safe distance till the ‘langurs’ were routed, the monkeys victorious by sheer dint of numbers. While the ‘langurs’ were around, it was ensured that we were kept safely indoors, otherwise I would have happily ventured closer to witness the excitement from the front row!

The washer-man came to the house daily, picked whatever clothes he thought needed washing, including my ribbons (!),and brought them backed washed and ironed. Near the servant quarters was an oven like brick construct with a chimney on top. Beneath was a space where a wood fire was lit. White clothes were steamed in this before being washed. This was called a ‘bhathi’ or kiln. Those were the times when there was no Bombay Dyeing or any other linen companies; no trend of colored or printed bed linen or towels. With the advent of washing machines, terry-cot and colored linen, the washer men slowly dwindled in numbers and are almost extinct now. Gone also is the era of crispy, rustling, white bed-sheets.

Invariably, these bungalows had a grave at the rear end of the grounds, among the fruit trees. Those areas were out of bounds for us, but nevertheless aroused our curiosity all the more. One of the servants would light an earthen lamp at the grave every Friday. From the safe distance of our rooms we watched in fearful fascination, mystified and scared, as the lamp flickered, casting eerie and weird shadows on the white washed compound wall. All types of shapes, created by the swaying branches of so many trees and the rustling of leaves as the winter winds whistled and swished through, would add to our heightened sense of danger! 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 the above photograph of mine taken out of a class group photograph, shows.  Whenever I did not want to wear a uniform I would tell the nuns that it was my birthday! This picture is of one such birth DAY!

One day a distant uncle of ours came to visit us from Dehra-Dun.

       

To be cont. as….. Clement Town.
                                                                        

 In the next episode ….

 All round wafted a sweet smell emanating from the heavily laden bushes of roses that hedged the large tract of land. The older blooms had shed to the ground during the night, carpeting the boundary with a thick layer of pale pink petals. Suddenly a family of rabbits emerged …….

 

 

Episode 1
                                               GYPSY WANDERINGS              
                                                                

    
                                Old age togetherness having shared a great life !

                                 

                              DEDICATED TO MY PARENTS

                        

                                        

 

My mother, married at the early age of ten, 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. The youngest of ten siblings and having spent her childhood in a large household which was both prosperous and well established she was a pampered and cheerful child. 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, on appearance they looked an odd couple for my father was six feet tall, 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.

 EARLY MEMORIES - Part one

 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 dollops of white butter floating on top. Our cow ‘Mangala’ was generous enough to provide large quantities of milk for our large household’s needs to the full and for the servants as well.

Golden delights 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 bundle us all in a station wagon( an army van),taking us for this special ritual twice a year, 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. Having learnt the English alphabets and to sign her name, she said she was well equipped to get along in the world, which she proved true later.

 MEERUT AND OTHER CITIES

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.

            .........To be cont.                                        

                                                     

                                                            

 THIS I BELIEVE –Fostering Global Peace and Harmony

“Do not look outside of yourself to seek love. Look within to see all the walls you have built between it and your heart.”- Rumi.

Talk of fostering global peace and harmony should begin with transforming ourselves first. When we lift our pen or our voice to write or speak about global peace and harmony we actually approach the Divine, offering a prayer for deliverance from this imbroglio.

I believe that my body is a temple of the spirit and my heart the abode of love. Harmony and peace are products of a compassionate approach to one another. Solutions to matters of the heart have to be found through the heart and not the head or the mind. The answers to world problems have not been found in scientific or logic driven world conferences or discussions between nations because of a lack of sincerity. Underlying ulterior motives have sabotaged all attempts at resolutions till now. It is time to find these in spirituality.

The boundaries separating realms of science and spirituality have blurred to the extent that one overlaps the other. The power that is orchestrating the wisdom of the universe is capable of orchestrating our body cells as well, bringing a transformation in the collective consciousness. . For this we must protect our hearts from hardening and becoming calloused; we must listen to the whispers of the heart; we must listen to the whispers of the mind; we must listen to our deeper voices of truth and love and open ourselves to the Source drawing upon the wisdom of the higher realms.

When we heal our personal ecology we start the process of healing collective ecology and collective consciousness. In order to heal we have to feel and for that an opening of the heart towards One Earth Consciousness is the first step. Politics, power, wealth, ambition and twisted emotions with their warped ways do not permit this. If anything, it creates more conflicts, suffering, suppression, oppression and barbaric degradation of human values. Whereas, authentic love does not dehumanize another; it does not devalue another human being; it does not silence, shame or abuse another. In fact compassion and love leave no scope for duality. Where then is the question of conflicts and clashes? The cause of all conflicts is our self. War, terrorism, poverty, social injustice, destroying the ecosystem, extinction of other life forms and most of all risking our own extinction are all self- inflicted. Love is the counter energy to wars.

 I believe, the only answer lies in a sublimation of the individual leading to collective human thought and a shift in collective consciousness, which will take the power out of all forms of violence and give back man a life of freedom, joy, peace and harmony based on the concept of one world, one earth family- the One. In being united as One, wholeness is created which promotes healing. When a group of like- minded people work together they ignite life’s purpose with passion and peace.

 I believe in miracles. I believe life gives us opportunities to learn; let us forgive the hurt, pain and suffering and harvest the learning; it is a gift to ourselves. The only way to global peace and harmony is to be stronger than the circumstances, to create circles of joy which with their rippling effect, create larger circuits of beacons of light and hope. Perceptual and conceptual boundaries must change to show us the path out of this conundrum.

I believe in acceptance, forgiveness and gratitude. Love and only love, can heal bitterness, pain, trauma, and build bridges to better relationships, making the world a better place.

 

 

                                                       WHAT CAN I DO ?                                                         

 

What can I do

when nostalgia beckons and poignancy bites,

 for the fragrance of your breath

has embroidered into the very fabric of my being.

It’s been a sad and lonely journey

yearning, burning.

The rhythm of my thoughts and body

resonate to the rhythms of your thoughts and body,

my tongue speaks the language of yours

and my mind wanders back and forth

into the labyrinth of past memories

and I closely guard those memories

in the sacred temple of the heart

where your abode is.

 

Layers of time delude me into believing

you are around.

It feels like forever

and yet like yesterday

when life swallowed my dreams and desires

and I learnt

to hide my tears before they fall

pining to go back

into the lanes of those carefree days.

Please recall that you loved me once

please remind yourself that I love you still.