Childhood musings

THE BHOPAL EXPRESS MEMORIES (1977 – 1980)
My earliest memories of my childhood are of Bhopal, of dad coming home in his car and the honk announcing his arrival and my running and or falling down the stairs to meet him every time. My closest near death experience came quite early in life, when, excited by the fact that dad had come home, I tried to cycle down the stairs, tumbled and fell cycle et al and landed right at my dads feet as he opened the door to the stairs. Sometimes these memories are so vague that it feels like maybe its just some movie that I saw long back and am mistaking it to be my own.
I don’t remember much of the house we lived in except I remember living on the first floor and I remember my red tricycle which I used to drive around like a madman and a “hit me” doll which always used to bounce back. I vaguely remember our neighbours, but remember a kind old balding man, a slightly portly woman who used to feed me snacks. I however have no recollection of being called “tinku” which apparently was my pet name.

HYDERABAD BLUES (1980 – 1982)
I remember creepers in the front of our house. I remember a lot of trees and a long road along which I used to run. I used to love the gate to our house on which I used to stand and swing for hours. I remember a neighbor down the road where there used to be an older boy who for some reason used to pick on me. I think he was the first “Moe” (bully) I encountered.
I remember my second near death experience so vividly. I even remember the clothes I was wearing, a blue small checked shirt. There was a squabble and then me trying to play David to my goliath. The result was that I was on all fours on the cement walkway in front of my house and he was playing “horsie” sitting on me. He was pushing my head up and down and on one such exaggerated oscillation, I banged my head to the ground. Now a glass piece with a jagged edge lying somewhere on 1000 sq ft of ground in front of the house is not what one would describe as a remarkable fact, but my head banging 1 square inch of that ground and finding that very glass piece could be classified as a wicked coincidence. Well, that happened and a curtain of blood streamed down my face from an angry looking cut right on my hairline. My bronco bully panicked like he had seen a ghost and ran away running down the road to his house screaming “khoon, khoon”. I was bawling, more out of shock than pain. Mom saw me and rushed me to the bath room and the bleeding was soon arrested. Soon we had a two member delegation to my house, my head banger bully and his very concerned mother. If there ever was a time I felt sorry for that boy it was then, he looked like he had cried so much that his eyes were ready to fall out, his leg was red and swollen from a beating his mother had given him and to which she referred to several times during her apology to my mom as a sort of compensation for my loss of blood. She slapped his hung head a couple of times during her tirade to my mom of how she was fed up dealing with the shenanigans of her son. My mom clearly was embarrassed by this violent apology and kept telling her that it was partly my fault also. At one point of time I actually went up to the deflated bully and put my arm around his shoulder. (Well I don’t know if I actually did that coz I was quite a “harami” when I was young, but I think I did, so we leave it at that). I remember dad being angry initially with the whole event but I did get a lot of attention and love post that event. I think I did get stitches for that wound but have no recollection of it.
Speaking of stitches I did get my fair share during my time. The one occasion I remember with some clarity involves my much beloved gate who turned a villan on one dark night. We had some guests in the evening and there was a girl my age to whom I was showcasing my gate swinging abilities. She was clearly impressed and this spurred on my already maxed out confidence. I was on one gate and she was on the other portion, and using one leg as a push off mechanism, I was easily lapping her over and over again. Then the unthinkable happened With constant increases in gate swinging speed, the performance barriers had been breached and for some reason which I am not clear about even today, I found myself off the gate on the ground and her swinging gate hit my head from behind. Again there was blood, tears and concern. After some candy had shut me up, the visit came to an end and I don’t think I said goodbye to this girl who had seen me fall from a swinging hero to a wounded sulking crybaby. After our guests had left us my mom and dad again examined my wound which they had kept telling the guests was just a small cut. I distinctly remember my mom’s gasp when she parted my hair and her remarking to dad that she could see my skull. Wow, skull was a word that I didn’t know then, and I felt a sense of excitement mingled with fear. “What is skull? Why cant I see it? Will my head open up?” were some of the questions I posed to my already beleaguered parents. The doctor examined my wounds and recommended a stitch. Well my mom held my legs and I think dad left the room while I was reacting to this entire episode like a weak secret agent going through Chinese torture. I screamed, squirmed, bit, kicked, spat, howled my way through four stitches which I felt the sick doctor enjoyed. When it was all over, I was given some candy by the doctor which did little to change my hatred for him. Well that was the end of that and to quote my wife “A stitch in time saves mine”.

Monkeys: There used to be a daily migration of the red snouted monkeys across our backyard. They were fairly fearless of humans and always looked out for a quick grab and run opportunity of food items. Spices left to dry, coconut pieces etc used to be disturbed often by this band of simian pirates. We used to have face offs, general mom engaged in a tug of war with an adventurous monkey who dared to waltz away with her laundry.

Uma Montessori: This was my first school, where I did what was then described as LKG and UKG. I don’t remember much about lessons, but I do remember having pencils and a blade to sharpen them, for some reason blades were more popular than sharpeners. There used to be half and full blades and we used to sharpen them. I don’t know why every vivid memory of mine involves blood but I remember cutting my thumb with the blade and rushing off to the bathroom to wash it off. For some reason I remember the classrooms as dark and damp. I remember mom picking me from school and me walking back home with her holding her hand.