The Lost World

Once upon a time there was an innocent world....


She sat benumbed on her prayer mat. The picture on the mantlepiece across looked back at her. The child in the picture was the picture of pure innocence. A small shy little boy bravely facing the cameraman. Tousled soft brown hair, sunshine angled at the lens so that the face was half illuminated, half in shadow.  How she loved the picture, how she had loved the child, as had everyone around them.

"Oi Mukhtaarey ! " resonated around the house, as she chased him across the rooms, trying to get him to finish his milk. "Oi maaaaa... Pehley dhoond to sahi mujhko.." the little boy would chortle, as his mum pretended to search for him...

The first day of school. His Abba and his mum, holding onto his little fingers, as he wrapped them tightly around theirs, refusing to let go. Where had time flown. Childhood evolved into teenage. The child who had been content to listen to bedtime stories, now preferred his laptop to his mum. She who anxiously still queried his meals, only to be told brusquely that she need not bother. He still could not sleep without hugging her tho, and she sought solace from his friends mums who reassured her that their children did just the same.

He had been her only child, and they had tried to give him the best that life had to offer. Being Muslim and young was no longer easy, in an increasingly hostile world. She knew that he spent long hours discussing the scenario abroad, the US, Australia, even France, after the Charlie Hebdo attacks. That he had made it abroad, to a university of his choice, in spite of it all, showed his dedication to his studies. How proud she was of him !

Yet. Within her heart she knew. They lived in a dangerous world. The internet had brought home all the angst and violence that prevailed in the world. How safe was he, was a question she asked herself everyday. All it would take was one zealot, one madman, one racist police officer, one shot from one gun. Everyday anxiously they waited for night and the skype, to reassure herself he was alive and well. His choice of subject did not help. Journalists were constantly at risk of life and limb.

Where was the world of her youth ? Where did the innocence go ? Questions that she asked herself often. The only rebellion then had been a stolen ice cream, a party with girlfriends on the sly. Fathers word was law. For her and her brother. Marriage was a happy arrangement. Maybe the thought that it was for keeps brought security and love. A journey she was contented to share with a good man who cherished and loved her. Of  the child she beget him. The son who grew up happy. Until the advent of the computer. That it made a recluse of him, she could forgive, that it took her away from them, opened up the vistas of wild and dangerous adventure, she never could. Yet if she was to keep up with him, she needed it. Vitally.

 Then  it happened. For the next five days there was no contact. Skype, phone calls, even e mails were not responded to. Only after she had panicked and called her cousin there, did he call her. The call came from an unknown number. An he told her that she was not to contact him. He would whenever he could. When she demanded to know why, he impatiently replied that he was busy with exams, job interviews.

So she waited. Prayer beads in hand. These days, they were never far from her hands. Her otherwise carefree husband seemed to be retreating into his own world. He came and went, silent as a shadow. They avoided looking into each others' eyes, lest the fear she felt was reflected in his too. The tenth day, he came home with a ticket in his hands. He was off to the United States. To bring him back. Joy and trepidition, her heart filled with mixed emotions, but she was relieved that he was going.

The wait became longer. Her husband no longer picked up the phone too. And still she waited.

When the door bell rang, she went to answer it. Outside stood her son, and her husband. But why the wheel chair. A thousand questions shrieking in her mind, she gathered him in her arms, going down on bent knees to embrace him, their tears mingling within her dupatta.

The society he had joined, had demanded of him that he use his expertise to make a bomb. Oversee the explosion. He refused, his mothers love and anxiety had saved him in the end.  But he had to pay a price. The next day as he crossed the street, the car came swiftly, silently. He was thrown into the bushes nearby with the impact. When he came to, he lay in hospital. The stub of his amputated leg, a grim reminder of how lucky he had been.

His father had been called by his relatives to bring him back home. Back to the innocent world of his mother's love.

A Valiant Man

The trip to Ahmedabad had been uneventful,  pleasant even. Dad and mum, in their eighties now and Sakina were with me. After a halt at the Shrines of Syedna Kutbuddin Shahid, we rested and prayed. I was almost relaxed because this was the final leg of the journey. Dad walked slowly with the help of a walking stick. Afflicted with degeneration of the knee cartilage,he walked with a great deal of trouble. pain was a constant that he battled with pain killers.  

We reached the platform at about nine p m. The train was scheduled to leave at ten. Concerned a little about time i anxiously scanned platform l where the train was supposed to arrive. To my horror i was told it would only go to Platform Five instead. The coolie, with our considerable luggage started to run ahead, sakina in his wake. I started to hurry the parents towards a lift which would take us up to the footover bridge. Crowds notwithstanding we struggled slowly along. Dad must have been equally anxious, but was calm, concentrating on hurrying as much as possible.

After what seemed an interminable wait for the lift, we alighted on the footover, only to be faced with the prospect of a long stretch of corridor to take a lift down to the platform. Nine thirty. We were just descending on to the platform. Nine forty. We were finally on the platform with the train alongside us. B 2. B 2. Almost obsessively my mind repeated those words. The number of the bogey we were supposed to be in. Panic stricken we turned left and struggled along amidst the teeming crowds, Sakina was nonstop on the phone hurrying me on. All of a sudden i stopped. To my horror i realised we were heading right instead of left. Towards S 2. Panicked Ileft the parents and raced in the opposite direction, abandoning the folks, reaching the right bogey in a flash. Swinging up, my daughter took one look at my face and took off to find the folks. I collapsed on the seat, my entire body trembling with the surety that they would miss the train.

Five..... Minutes to ten. Anxiously peering from the door, i got a call. "Ma, put your head out. Do as i say. Fast." I did just that. Miraculously, dad's head emerged from the door of the adjacent bogey. Mum was pushed in literally, followed by dad. Finally in flew my brave daughter. Just as the whistle blew and the train started, we sat stunned and laughing almost hysterically. We had made it.

Sakina it seemed had the sense i lacked. Having flown across the entire platform, she had located the folks, and got them to climb in the nearest bogey. Then. pushing people aside, brandishing one of dads two sticks, she hurried them along until they reached B 2.

Having caught our breaths i anxiously turned to dad. Only allah knows how his feet must have pained him, Only Allah knows how tired he must have been. But nary a word of complaint from him. He kept reassuring me that he was fine. Everything was fine. Any other old person in his place would have blasted me off. Not my dad. That is the stuff he is made of. 

Wardrobe Malfunction !

Wardrobe Malfunction...Ah. Those words ! Man or woman, those words jumps out into the consciousness. Images of women clutching at falling dresses assails the voyeur in most all of us. But ah, gentle reader, this one, this blog is about malfunctions of a different kind. One only Indians are afflicted with. Bemused ? Don't be. I refer to the Indian dhoti. As worn by Indian men.

All of sixteen, I was. Travelling with an old highly possessive aunt, who glared at every male who happened to even look our way.  We had just landed at Ahmedabad station with only about fifteen minutes to catch our connecting train to Mumbai. Off we raced behind our spritely coolie, or raced as fast as her old legs and panting heart could carry us. Holding my hand firmly in hers, we trotted along, when suddenly she realised that a man was calling after us. Aunt looked back, consternation giving way to indignation as he waved at her. Clutching my hand tighter still, she forbade me from looking back and tried running faster still.

So off we sailed , trotting as fast as we could behind the coolie, with aunt darting killer looks at the now desperately running after us man.  In spite of myself I looked back. What I saw made me stop in my tracks . Skidding to a halt, dragging aunt also to a stop, I pointed behind us. Pulling at me,  her ranting stopped midway. The poor man's dhoti was caught in aunt's trailing purse. Clutching at his rapidly opening dhoti, the man gave a hard tug, dislodging the errant edge of cloth caught in the hook of  her purse. Glaring at her he whirled away, muttering expletives under his breath. A sheepish aunt tugged at my hand as we carried on towards our train. This time I trailed behind her. You see I was trying to run even as I clutched at my stomach, I was laughing so hard.

The rest of the people travelling with us thought us to be quite mad. Aunt and I. Every few minutes we kept bursting into giggles, aunt wiping tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks now that we were safely ensconced in our train.

Fast forward to 2014. My daughter had just joined college.  The admirable thing about this college was that many differently abled students were given seats.  In her first year, she was highly excited about a guest professor from abroad who would be giving them a lecture that day. He was an Indian and proclaimed himself thus, by his attire. A dhoti and kurta.

Anxious to meet him, she and a friend waited at the gates to catch a glimpse of him as he entered.  Expecting a venerable old man, to their consternation, in strode a youngish man in his thirties. However for some reason he seemed to be rushing in behind a student. Looking at their watches, they wondered why he was hurrying so much when there was still a good fifteen minutes to the lecture.

Their wonder  turned into peals of  quickly stifled laughter as they realised the reason for his haste.
Ahead of him walked a blind student in whose cane was caught that time bomb of a garment, his dhoti.  Fortunately, they reached the foyer where the student halted with the  harried professor in his wake. Catching hold of his shoulder, he made polite conversation with him while surreptiously  pulling his errant garment together.

So gentle reader, now you know why the Indian male abandoned this garment altogether. The imagination boggles at the plight of a local train jam packed with males wearing dhotis and trying to emerge from it with both dhoti and dignity intact !

Yours.. Mine.. Who's...???

The station, Mumbai Central, was its usual chaotic self. Locals,(as in trains) thundering in with throngs of people hanging on for dear life. The masses on the platform desperate to get in, surging ahead. Like grains of sand being brushed off, the train shed its passengers, amongst who was me. Heaving a sigh of relief, straightening my clothes and patting my hair in place i took a second to catch my breath.

Ahead of me people raced towards the exit. Joining them, i wondered why they were veering off into two branches, left and right, much like a  fast flowing river dividing into two before converging to  spew its waters or humans , into the ocean of people outside. Moving involuntarily to the right, thoughts racing faster than my legs, some part of my brain registered shock, horror. The obstacle that was dividing the river was a body. The body of a young man, lying inert on the platform. Withdrawing into myself, more emotionally than physically, i too prepared to race past. Curiosity , inherant in every human being, that which makes us look even while we withdraw  from a situation, a kind of latent guilt at not involving oneself, made almost every person going past, look at the man before rushing past. I, too, found myself looking down as i reached the man. A stranger, a drunk, a victim of violence an almost everyday occurence in our city. I expected to  witness all of this. What i saw, stopped me short. Jostled from behind, yelled at even, for stopping , i dropped down in front of the man. 

The child playing in the mohalla, was a boy of about six. A beautiful child. Gold brown glistening hair. Eyes of the same color. He played quietly, all by himself, running a small car around in circles. His mother, of whom he was a splitting image, sat across keeping a close eye on him. From my perch on my gran's home across, i too sat, reading a book. Compulsively my eyes would be drawn to him now and then. He was that pretty a child.  

After a few days of familiarising ourselves thus, i  exchanged smiles with the mother. I could see that her life revolved around him mostly. She never tired of sitting outside while he played, she fed him with the single minded devotion of a single parent. They would emerge together from the home whenever she went out, and return together. The house they lived in belonged to her mother, who was now too old to do much, except heave great sighs at the misfortune of having  her daughter return after a divorce. The daughter who ran her home for her, who had lived with her for most of her life, except the past eight years or so, was perceived  a burden. In those days, divorces were frowned upon, spoken of in hushed tones. Destiny was cursed, tho, and a home offered reluctantly to the woman, who was divorced and whose husband had abandoned both mother and child to marry again for love. Or lust.

I built up a rapport with both the mother and child. At seventeen, and  vacationing in the back of beyond town of Palanpur, i was studying and in total sympathy for her. The child was delightful. We played hide and seek, catch and cook and marbles. I would buy him biscuits or share a baraf gola with him. He would sit in my lap happily slurping away at the gola, while i hugged him and held him close. Why and how do we develop an affinity for some ? A latent maternal need ? Whatever. He was so easy to love, such a delight to talk to. Such a happy, good, little boy, who, if you loved him, would love you right back.

After the summer holidays were over for me, i left Palanpur. The next time, i returned was a good decade hence. As soon as i stepped into Gran's mohalla, my eyes sought out the lady across. How was the little chap. Surely a handsome teen. Truth be told, he was the one i had thought of often. How was life treating the mother and child ? How were  the two ? To my  great disappointment, the house was locked and barred. Looked uninhabited and ramshackle.

As soon as i could, i tackled Gran. She told me that the mother had remarried. The child she had loved, with all her heart and soul, she had left with her old mother. As time passed I continued to glean information about him. That he had set up shop in Madras. That he had married. Then disturbingly, that he was extorting money from his dad. That he was into drink. He see sawed between ups and downs. At some point he had cleaned up his act. Got married and had kids. I continued to get snippets of news. For a while he was stable. The wife and kids gave new meaning to his tortured life. This didn't last for long however, as he lapsed into drink and even worse.. drugs.

Absorbed in my own life, i relegated him to memory. Having come into some kind of contact with his dad, now married to a distant relative of mine ( his third wife) I knew he was a sober, responsible man. Guilty about his child,( he now had another son ) he bailed him out as often as he could. Sent him to rehab.
The wife, tiring of his misdeeds, left with the kids. Divorce meant he was foot loose and floundering once again.

It was his eyes, that stared at me now. His eyes from his lifeless face. I accompanied the police to the hospital. From there i contacted his father. Unable to come himself, (or was it unwilling to come?)  he asked a distant relative to complete the formalities. The timing was a kind of revenge he had taken on his dad. His half brother was getting married on that day. Dad. And Dead. Ever notice how only a small vow..el.. separates the two.

Two of us. The distant and the not so distant, for had i not always cared..., we took him to the masjid, from where they buried him. I wept then. Wept for a life not wanted, wasted, abandoned. Even by those who had given birth to him.

A Distant Past

 The view from the wimdows was panoramic. The sea, with its vistas of waves.. Ebbing and flowing, horizontally, stretching out endlessly, lay on one side. On the other, there were the skyscrapers. Stretching vertically, again endlessly up..Naina stood at the window, staring  out with unseeing eyes. An eagle soared in the skies, majestically, master of both land and sky. It swept over her head, as she stood. Its wing span, a huge brown blur, broke her reverie. With a start, she came back to the present. Ravi, lay on the bed. Slight snores indicated that he was fast asleep. Nearing the bed, she sat down beside him. Her face softened as she looked at him. In repose, at least, the frown lines were erased, giving his face a boyish look, belying his forty odd years. Tenderly, she touched his soft, black hair, sweeping it gently away from his face. If only, she thought to herself, life had been as idyllic as she had envisaged it. She loved him. Always had, since she had been a little girl and they  had lived and studied in the same neighborhood. When he married Divya, her whole world had come crashing down. Calling upon strengths of reserve she didnt even know she had, she attended his marriage. Died a thousand deaths seeing the elegant but shy bridegroom, so in love with his wife to be.  But even then she had known, somehow, that if she waited long enough, he would be hers.

In her heart she knew. Destiny would not be denied.

The years passed. Was she still in love with him ? She didnt know. All she knew was that she couldnt have stayed in the same city as him. So Mumbai became her new home. Time blurred her images. Of him. Of herself as she had been. Young, heart broken, with zero self confidence. Mumbai, that detached jungle, had been the saving of her. She got absorbed, its tentacles wrapped itself around her and the highs and lows of the stock market, the skills she learnt there put her back on her feet. No affairs for her. Her passion now was her work. As the years passed, she grew. Older, wiser, wealthier

No time for love. Parental pressures not withstanding she was not willing to give up her working life for marriage. At thirty five, everyone including herself, had given up on her getting married.

The day had been a very busy one. The markets had been on an upswing. She looked up as she heard her name being called. Then slowly rose to her feet. He stood there. Much the same, only more handsome with age. The callowness of youth replaced with a casual insouciance. Eyes riveted she could'nt tear them away from him, as he wended his way to her office. They stood smiling at each other, before he drew her into a hug, impulsively.

She dressed carefully that night.  It was her first date ever. With him. She got her reward when on opening the door, she heard him draw in his breath sharply. "You are still the most beautiful woman i know.." he said softly. "Liar." she reproached him.  "But I will admit its good to hear that from you.
You never saw me that way before."



Maybe distance does make the heart grow fonder. There we were, sitting across each other over a candlelight dinner. Friends from decades.. Yet strangers. Youth then and a mad passion, albeit one sided. A culmination of sorts, after two decades. The conversation flowed easily, like it always had between us. The difference now was the palpable undercurrents, the shaking of my knees, the slight tremor in his hand when he touched mine accidentally. Oh yes , a hitherto absent chemistry was in the
 air.

Reluctantly I asked about his wife. Then stopped him from answering. This evening was mine.. Ours. I was indulging a fantasy.

The night ended with him in my bed. But not quite as imagined. In the bathroom along with nature's call I  attended a  longish call from one of my investors. Emerging in my room I found
him fast asleep. All I had to do was to get in beside him. So why was I whiling time. Why was I not making the vital move.

He moved so that his back was now turned to me. I stared at him, the whole concept of having a naked man in my bed was so alien to me. Did I really want him there ?

The next day we sat across each other , yet again. Unfinished business I lied glibly. I'm really sorry. Maybe we could have dinner again sometime ? When he was next in town ? His eyes bore into mine.. My steady gaze must have convinced him for he left. I switched on the computer. Good gosh! The market was also cartwheeling towards the magic 25000 mark. I pulled my chair closer to the console. Im my heart was a strange kind of surge. Of pure happiness. I was the master of my ship.. The sole custodian of my destiny.

Sacrifice

Vulnerable. Why was I so vulnerable. I stood in front of the mirror, staring bitterly at my reflection. Forty going on twenty eight. Or so people told me, envy writ large on their faces.  If only they knew. Envy was something that ruled my life. That and frustration. Resentment. Guilt. These were my companions. day in and day out.

The mirror showed a petite fair woman. Long straight silken hair pulled back tightly across the nape. The figure was immaculate,  unspoilt by child birth. For I have no children. Married since I was twenty eight. But living the life of a spinster.

When did I lose control of my life ? How insidous is the passage of time.

"Mehwash !" The voice was low, imperious nevertheless. Reverie broken, I was up instantly. Conditioned by years of subjugation. " You are a terrible person, " I told my reflection." That there, is your mum. The lady who after years of suffering endless medical treatments, bore you and your sister. Treatments that savaged her body and left her a chronic asthmatic, a severely overweight diabetic confined to a wheel chair. It wasn't her fault ! None of my wasted life could be her fault. For I, as a responsible adult had made my choices. Now I was living them.

Entering the dark room, I snapped on the lights. "Ma ! " I said, a trifle rebukingly," At least leave one light on. " Her voice, initially cold, snapped, " You have to remember and switch them on, right ?" Then, " You will have to call the servant, my pamper has to be changed. I tried ringing the bell, but she never hears it, does she ?"

Contrite, I bent by her bed. "Turn over Ma," I said gently. "I'll do it. "

"What do you pay her for, why cant she stay by my bed ? You know I hate for you to do these things." Her voice was angry, the frustration evident, as was the helplessness.

"I don't mind ma, you know that. " As I finished and rose, I could see the tears in her eyes. Bending over and hugging her close, I allowed a few of my own tears to fall unseen, before I composed myself. " Shh. Don't cry ma. I know you love me, I do too. We don't need anyone else, when we have each other, right ? Hey, you know what happened today ? Aisha mausi fell down while chasing the pigeons ! " Ma was aghast. "What ! Sit here and tell me all about it." So began our evening gossip session. Soon, she was laughing animatedly, while I sat beside her,  assembling her nebuliser. It was easy to distract ma. After all I had a decade of experience handling her.

 After she was asleep, I retreated to my room. Book in hand, I tried to read, but found myself drowning in reverie. It hadn't always been like this.  Growing up, with my sister for company, mum had been sickly. Multiple miscarriages, and infertility treatments left her bloated and overweight. But she managed to lavish all her care and attention on us. Our childhood had been near idyllic. Holidays abroad, a wonderful holiday home near the sea, where we holidayed almost every week end. Dad, who is a doctor himself, made sure we studied well. Shaheen was now a qualified orthodontist, I had a degree in chartered accountancy. Earned after dedicated backbreaking study. A colossal waste. Of studies, time, finance. For all I ever did with it .

Then came the proposal. He was a young chartered accountant. He had seen a photograph of me from a cousins marriage and he was taken by me. So was I when he came home with his mum to meet us. The marriage happened a year later. On my wedding night, I sat on the marital bed, a shy , coy, bride. For that night I had forgotten my sick mother. She had cried, had been crying from  many days. More at the thought that now she would be at the mercy of the servants, I sometimes thought cynically, immediatly feeling guilty and torn. For I was worrying about her too.

A year after, Akram dropped the bombshell. He had been offered a job in Dubai. A fantastic salary and all the perks of a job working for one of the biggest realtor in Dubai. He looked at my face as he announced his decision to take it up. My face lighted up. Away from the confines of family, I still spent a good part of the day at my mother's home. I would finally be able to set up my own home. Maybe even take up a job and have a fulfilling career ! Oh, I was happy, as we lay awake that night discussing our future. Both he and i loved travel. We would explore Europe, the world, before we had children. I slept that night blissed out with my dreams. The only cloud on my horizon was the thought of my mother.

Entering her room, I paused. Was she asleep ? I was just about to retreat quietly, when she spoke, "Come in, beta.  you are late today." I sat beside her, took her hand in mine. "Ma, I have great news ! Akram has got a job in Dubai ! " Full of my happiness, I lay down beside her, airing my dreams. So full of myself  was I that I didn't notice her lack of response. Suddenly I realised that she was still. Too still. Leaning over to see her face, I saw that it was ashen, The eyes closed. Yelling for the nurse, I cannoned out of the room, grabbed my cell phone, calling the emergency numbers. Soon the ambulance wailed into the lane, mother was taken to hospital. "The heart attack was  almost fatal. We managed to save her this time. Good you were with her, Mehwash. " The doctors voice was grim. The recovery was not easy. Ma turned even more fatalistic and cranky. I had to stay with her almost continuously, as she would not tolerate anyone else caring for her.

Akram was understanding. At first. We decided he would go alone. After he settled in, I would follow. As soon as Ma improved.  The day he left was the bleakest day of my life. Never had I been so torn. Ahead was a life full of promise. Behind was my sick mother.

The months turned into years. Each time I approached my dad or my sister, they would beg me to stay just that much longer. Busy with their flourishing careers, they balked at the thought that they would have to handle ma.

Akram meanwhile, grew more distant. The once a day phone calls turned into once a week, then once a month. Then came the letter seeking my consent. For him to take a second wife. I cried for weeks. My agitated family now decided that I should join him as soon as I could. Shock sank in when he refused to have me join him. He was in love and was willing to divorce me. Fearing the shock would be too great for my mother, the family decided to let things stay as they were.

Here I was then. "Main aur meri tanhaai, aksar ye baatein kartey hain...." Amitabh Bachhan's deep tenor resonated from the television. What would he know about this gut wrenching loneliness I carried in my heart..
   

Capsule of a Life..

She stood towering over me. When i dared to look up, i could see only her thick dark legs with the prominent varicose veins, before i lowered my gaze again. All of five, it was my first day at school. Twenty odd students, of which i was one. That day i discovered that drawing was not going to one of my skills. She was the drawing teacher and she had commanded us to draw a... a Chilly ! Which for the life of me i couldn't.. my hand was shaking so much. Thankfully the bell rang before my turn came to display the sorry squiggle that i had drawn, which i would have had to display to the class ! We were herded out to the water taps, where in this room milk was served to all the children. Big mugs which we had to down before we were allowed to file back to class.

Lunch hour. Nobody told me that it was that, and that school was not over. There i sat, weeping silent tears, on the bench, before i heard her sweet voice. My sister. whom i had presumed had left without me, and gone home. She sat down beside me, held my hand in hers and opened my tiffin box, assuring me all the while that she would never leave without me. Smiling broadly thru the tears, i made short work of the biscuits before happily bounding off to class when the bell rang.

The rickshaw ride back home was fun. Both of us climbed into the first available one and off we went. After having paid him the princely sum of fifteen paise, we embarked and rushed up to the home and mum.

Welland Gould Smith. My first school. Where the fees were something in the region of thirty odd rupees.

And so we studied. I until class seven, ben until ten. For some such paltry sum. Then first sis shifted then i did to Calcutta Girls High School. Nearer home and walking distance. Our Principal there was an American. A fine lady always accompanied by her fierce dog, Mesca. Not that she needed one, because all us girls were already in awe of and highly intimidated by her. A tall lady, sparkling eyes glinting behind her spectacles, who mwas queen of her domain, indeed of all that she surveyed. You never knew when you would meet her, around which corner of school. When first i went for admission with my dad, i was a shoo in.. "Oh, Tasneem's sister."  And admission was that easy. In those days. I was bad at maths, scraped thru with a woeful 45% in the boards, ICSE in class ten. Topped in English with 90, though. But then, we studied in candlelight most days, because of six and seven hour power cuts that lasted entire nights sometimes. I remember working on problems at twelve at night, with two candles on either side of my desk. I, who was normally in bed by eight p.m. No Television, and the government made sure our night vision was honed !
Taking tuitions was a big NO. An insult, because only very poor students took them, and that too was hushed and never spoken of publicly !

In spite of the pathetic marks, i ended up in class eleven, with maths and science as my subjects, the aim being to give the medical entrance exams, which dad had decided we both would give. My pathetic math scores put paid to those plans. But i greatly enjoyed my years at CGHS. I was one of about eighteen students! We were thick pals. Our group consisting of a punjabi, two sindhis, one bengali, a south indian, a christian, a marwari, and a muslim, myself ! Talk of national integration. We ate greedily from each others tiffins, organised parties and raffles, even a junk sale, and sold drinks, rasna, at break times, thanx to our enterprising President, and my best chum.

Winter was in the air when i casually strolled into school, wearing my black cardigan, as we called sweaters in those days. Early October. Until January. Climate change ? Whoever heard of it. The P word had not been sighted as yet. The ozone layer was very much intact and the world rotated along peacefully, as did ours. We were nor scared to walk the roads, and as children played happily and safely together, while our parents went about their work. Books were our sole companions. Pods meant peas, and pads meant periods! For music we tuned radios and fine tuned them to 'catch' our favorite stations. Hippies were the rebels, and only the beatles really made us go weak in the knees. Junk food ? Was ice creams on sundays, and if dad was feeling relly indulgent a coke, to which i always preferred a pineapple drink. Then we went home, dad climbing the stairs, with his two girls giggling atop his shoulders !