She was small but vivacious. He was smaller, turbaned and about to become my best friend, but i didn't know that now. They were Baby and Bittu. Our new neighbours and our playmates. We had just shifted into our new home. I was all of five, my sister eight. Baby was my sister's age and Bittu was my height. So we settled down to being playmates, rivals, friends. Baby and her infectious giggle, Bittu and his scowl, entered our home almost every evening. Thereafter an hour of two of 'sent a letter', skipping, hide and seek followed.
They were Sardars and we were Muslims, but that hardly mattered to us. We were a mixed lot in the building, Parsis, Muslims, Sardars. But we were in every sense of the word 'mixed.' We kids played together, the Parsis were old, and either babysat for our mums or else tutored us whenever needed. For free. India was truly liberal, and liberated in those days. As we grew up, we still kept together. Exchanged notes from school, helped each other, while still competing for ranks. As he grew older, Bittu was alienated, maybe because he was male, and we girls were busy with things feminine, like sewing classes and Mills and Boon. His antics were however forever etched in memory. How he entangled himself in the long turbans hung out to dry in the verandah. The time he got the hiding of his life, because he pretended for a long time that he had washed his long hair, but had not for about a month. They discovered his maggot filled hair one day, which had to be sheared from the scalp. For a Sardar that was the biggest sin ever. How he sailed high into the air on my swing only to bring it crashing down.
They were five brothers and a sister to our two sisters. Their mother was step, their biological mothers' much younger sister married off to her brother in law, after her sister died. She was young herself and resentful of her much older husbands' slow life. Bittu and Baby bore most of the brunt of her vicious anger.
Then came marriage. My sister's. Thereafter, Baby's escapades became increasingly wilder. One day, she eloped. Commited the cardinal sin of marrying a man not only much older, but also a Hindu. She was ostracised initially, then accepted when she got kids. Two boys. She seemed a little too flamboyant when she visited us. The loud make up and forced giggles, the daring blouses and sarees hid a desperation that ultimately drove her to suicide. Or attempted. She lived. But painfully, having contracted cancer. She died wasted. A Wasted life.
The happiest was Biir. The eldest. Married to a beautiful sardarni, they raised two beautiful daughters. If only he had lived to see them grow up. A heart attack claimed him when he was in his early fifties. Parminder, or Pummy, as we knew him was the suave elegant one. The joker of the family. He married a Sindhi, and then took to drink, as a duck takes to water. Sitting duck. He died of liver failure, after his wife divorced him, and left with the kids.
Raju was the shrewdest of the lot. The conniver, who controlled the finances and the two shops they owned. His family consisting of his wife and single son, moved to another home. Unfortunately, his death was sudden too. He foresaw his business, usurping the shops, while throwing out his youngest brother with a pittance,but not the heart attack that killed him.
Mohan, at number four was the womaniser. The roadside Romeo. He met his match in the plain looking, but clever Marwari girl, whose father made him marry her. He lives however to continue the lineage.
Bittu. Ah, Bittu. He too married a Marwari girl, but the curse followed him too, as he became a compulsive drinker. An alcoholic, who surrendered his life and his children's future to drink.
Finally, the father called it a day, too. The now old but still sprightly, mother lives on, fiercely protective of her grandchildren, Bittu's offspring and his wife. Strange that the nascent mother instinct should blossom so late in life. But then, she had been a child nearly herself, when she married. She didn't conceive any off spring of her own. Her husband didn't want any more." Kismet," she often said resignedly. A small sigh of regret escaping her. Kismet.
They were Sardars and we were Muslims, but that hardly mattered to us. We were a mixed lot in the building, Parsis, Muslims, Sardars. But we were in every sense of the word 'mixed.' We kids played together, the Parsis were old, and either babysat for our mums or else tutored us whenever needed. For free. India was truly liberal, and liberated in those days. As we grew up, we still kept together. Exchanged notes from school, helped each other, while still competing for ranks. As he grew older, Bittu was alienated, maybe because he was male, and we girls were busy with things feminine, like sewing classes and Mills and Boon. His antics were however forever etched in memory. How he entangled himself in the long turbans hung out to dry in the verandah. The time he got the hiding of his life, because he pretended for a long time that he had washed his long hair, but had not for about a month. They discovered his maggot filled hair one day, which had to be sheared from the scalp. For a Sardar that was the biggest sin ever. How he sailed high into the air on my swing only to bring it crashing down.
They were five brothers and a sister to our two sisters. Their mother was step, their biological mothers' much younger sister married off to her brother in law, after her sister died. She was young herself and resentful of her much older husbands' slow life. Bittu and Baby bore most of the brunt of her vicious anger.
Then came marriage. My sister's. Thereafter, Baby's escapades became increasingly wilder. One day, she eloped. Commited the cardinal sin of marrying a man not only much older, but also a Hindu. She was ostracised initially, then accepted when she got kids. Two boys. She seemed a little too flamboyant when she visited us. The loud make up and forced giggles, the daring blouses and sarees hid a desperation that ultimately drove her to suicide. Or attempted. She lived. But painfully, having contracted cancer. She died wasted. A Wasted life.
The happiest was Biir. The eldest. Married to a beautiful sardarni, they raised two beautiful daughters. If only he had lived to see them grow up. A heart attack claimed him when he was in his early fifties. Parminder, or Pummy, as we knew him was the suave elegant one. The joker of the family. He married a Sindhi, and then took to drink, as a duck takes to water. Sitting duck. He died of liver failure, after his wife divorced him, and left with the kids.
Raju was the shrewdest of the lot. The conniver, who controlled the finances and the two shops they owned. His family consisting of his wife and single son, moved to another home. Unfortunately, his death was sudden too. He foresaw his business, usurping the shops, while throwing out his youngest brother with a pittance,but not the heart attack that killed him.
Mohan, at number four was the womaniser. The roadside Romeo. He met his match in the plain looking, but clever Marwari girl, whose father made him marry her. He lives however to continue the lineage.
Bittu. Ah, Bittu. He too married a Marwari girl, but the curse followed him too, as he became a compulsive drinker. An alcoholic, who surrendered his life and his children's future to drink.
Finally, the father called it a day, too. The now old but still sprightly, mother lives on, fiercely protective of her grandchildren, Bittu's offspring and his wife. Strange that the nascent mother instinct should blossom so late in life. But then, she had been a child nearly herself, when she married. She didn't conceive any off spring of her own. Her husband didn't want any more." Kismet," she often said resignedly. A small sigh of regret escaping her. Kismet.
Beautifully penned..
ReplyDelete