Musings - III

How painful would it be for a butterfly if its wings are burnt? What would go through its mind (because I am sure it would have one - if nothing else, there would be sense in it) in such a cruel moment? Years hence when I was in standard first, I witnessed Gaurav (he lived nearby) setting the wings of a yellow butterfly on fire as it helplessly tried to free itself. The absolute cruelty killed me but since I was a small kid atleast in front of him, all I could do was to shout and call him heartless.

I still remember that sight very vividly. And whenever I remember it, I see a very sad facet of humanity - people hurt other people. The worst part though is, most of the times, it is for no reason whatsoever. At most of the times, it is uninitiated - maybe even done for kicks. Frankly, I have never understood why they do it.


I guess I was a thoughtful (in the manner of I-used-to-think, something, anything but something) guy right from the beginning. For instance, when it used to rain heavily (and that happens a lot in Dehradun), the sewage ducts would overflow and the whole road would get submerged in a stream of muddy water full of garbage. I distinctly remember standing at bauji's windowsill, watching the water flow, observing its movement and that of the garbage that would flow along in the stream. It used to fascinate me. I would sit for an hour or more maybe looking, through the window, at the water flow, thinking about it and maybe about many other things - who knows? I don't really remember now.


This overflowing stream of water, by the way, was a great entertainer. All of us kids in the lane used to make lots of paper boats out of all kinds of paper and in all kinds of looks possible. We would each sit at the entrance of our houses, outside the main doors (there was no entry gate - the houses were small, like individual apartments lined up along a road) and then race our creations in an effort to reach the big yellow garbage collection container that marked the end of the lane. One two three go! It was great innocent fun.

Come to talk of the big yellow garbage collection container, I am not sure whether you guys have ever seen something like this in your lives till date. Basically, imagine a small hut, similar to those we used to draw when we were really small, and instead of the door and the chimney and the windows, have four windows, two on each side along the slope at the top. That and four tyres to make it a movable structure. This was an excellent garbage collection system frankly - impressive in some respect too. The only downside however was that since there was one of these for maybe a hundred plus houses, it used to get full very quickly. Not all garbage would land inside this - and some would fall out, and that practically defeated the purpose of having the thing anyway. That, and the pigs that would come along in the heavenly location.

I was passing through the lane an year or so earlier and the garbage container was not there. And that had in a queer way, changed the look of the whole lane - it was able to achieve a kind of sub-urbane to urbane look, but definitely not the one I knew or the one that fitted. But well, change is a natural course of life and change happens. Can't challenge time, can we? After all, even I have changed so much - in fact, quite a good bit.

More...later...

Musings - II

29/1 Khurbura Mohalla was a small house in a narrow lane flanked by open naalis (open sewage ducts) on both sides. The lane served as a perfect alternative to a cricket pitch and somewhat rectangular ground equal in size to the width of the lane. Lets be fair to me and my friends of those times, the pitch was also somewhat hard and rough and uneven. And the ball used to find its way to the naalis many a times too (mostly the one on the other side of the lane from my house - most of the batsmen were right handed and leg side was eveyone's strength) Despite all this, we managed just fine.

Cricket was a passion among the Khurbura residents. And since there were lots of residents, there were many players. That too of all age groups. Had Kapil Dev decided to open his cricket academy in our Mohalla, it could have been a super-hit instead. Everyday at four forty five, Sunny used to come calling my name. Actually he used to call me ningi-tingi. Likewise, I used to call him singi-mingi. Now guys,. I have no idea in the least as to why we used to call each other that and wherefrom these names had sprung up, but they had stuck on. And we were happy calling each other that. Singi-mingi and Ningi-tingi. Sounds almost like Timon and Pumba!

Singi-mingi was a natural when it came to cricket. I am not even in touch with him now, but frankly he was the first person I really appreciated. I liked to see the way he batted and the way he used to spin the ball. Plus he was a good teacher and he taught me my first bowling lessons and taught me spin bowling. Of course, later on I learnt to play some decent cricket - but still, singi-mingi did a good job of getting me started. That, and cycling. Singi-mingi taught me to cycle as well. At least for the first few sessions where we would go and rent bicycles from that cycle shop near Blue Bells (my first school, which was located on the road above the huge chadaai-wali sadak, the road with a slope) for a rupee an hour and two rupees for two.

Of course, soon after I began my bicycle learning sessions withma. We used to take the cycle to the playground of Mahant's school (Mahant is a religious head of some sect in Dehradun) where from ma would hold the carrier of my bicycle and run along with me as I pedaled. I still remember the moment wen I told ma I want to pedal faster, and finding no reply turned my head to see her standing way behind me smiling and waving from a distance while realization dawned upon me as to what had just happened. It was a feeling of elation and joy and freedom that went right through me. Great moment. One of the most cherished moment of my life. Thank you ma.

I was gifted my first bicycle by my chachu. It was a Hero make and had cylindrical pads that went around the frame and got attached by velcro. I used to love it! I remember that whenever we used to wash the bicycle, I would carefully detach the pads and keep them aside before commencing the washing. Come to think about it, I suppose it was my favourite bicycle out of the three I ever had - better than my Ranger Swing too that had 15 gears.

Of course, by the time I got off Ranger Swing, there was papa's Hero Honda CD100 SS. I began driving it in standard eleventh - and yeah, it was too good. If I were to compare a moment equaling the one where ma left me all to pedal by myself, it was the one where papa let me have a go at the bike in standard tenth. We were in FRI (Forest Research Institute) and pa gave me a long lecture before letting me have a try. It took me three tries before I finally whirred the machine into motion and it was wonderful when it happened. And in that moment, I felt that release, that freedom once again - and it was worth every millilitre of petrol in it and each moment of the adrenaline rush in me. And when I came back and brought the bike to a halt in front of pa, he was smiling too just as ma had some ten years or so earlier.

But this is racing too far ahead in time. Back to the old days the next time.

So long...

Musings - I

Now I really don't know whether you have ever been to Dehradun. Neither do I really know whether you know anything about Bindaal Bridge. I for one have known Bindaal Bridge since I was a small kid. I loved having ice-cream or gol-gappe or papri-chaatstanding outside the Bindaal Shopping Complex (which is named after the Bindaal Bridge) with papa. It was a great experience everytime. To feel the cool breeze of the summer night, look at people skating in the skating rink in the Complex and watch the few cars zoom past me.

I remember I had always wanted to have a car and to learn how to skate. Of course, now papa owns a car and I have driven quite a good number apart from that. I have two pairs of skates, both inline and rollers (the latter is dumped somewhere in the Vijay Park home and the former in the box of papa-ma's bed), though I am still at the same level of skating prowess where I was some seventeen years hence.

Bindaal Bridge, now that I think about it, has been a very important landmark in my life. It has witnessed me growing from a small Mohalla kid (colony, or rather a cluttered colony) to a teenager ready to embark upon this life I am living now.
That and to some extent, Khurbura Mohalla.

Khurbura Mohalla was the name of that colony, where it all began for me. Since you guys may or may not be familiar with it, in short it is one of those inconsequential places in DD (atleast it was then; they tell me its changed a lot now) where you would definitely not want to live unless your budget is very small in quantum and/or you are coming straight from some partially modernized village. Truth be told however, famous or no, consequential or no, important or no, Khurbura occupies a special place in my life, maybe not as special as Bindaal Bridge, but it does.

It began on 28th December, 1986, a Sunday afternoon when most people were busy having lunch and had probably just gotten up from watching the famous Ramanand Sagars's Ramayana. I was born in the Doon Hospital, the landmark public hospital of DD. And I was then brought straight to our Khurbura Mohalla home in a rented auto-rickshaw, as Calenders were being changed in many a houses, including ours. Ma tells me, everyone in our family was very excited. I was the first child of a new generation in our family, and a son to top it. My dadi, even though she still maintains it doesn't matter to her that I and the rest of the kids are boys and would have been equally good if I or the rest of the kids were girls, always wanted to have a grandson (and grandsons later on, but a grandson to begin with for sure). 

Ma  has loads of photographs of that time stashed in the bed-box. Sometimes when I go to DD, me and ma just sit flicking through the albums chit-chatting about something or the other. I have the questions and ma has the answers. Its great and I love talking to ma about it. My childhood and the early years of my life that is.

I used to call ice-cream aatap and Parle-G glucose biscuits toodap when I was small. I have tried to work out the logic behind those names. But then, that's the beauty of it all anyway - there is not logic. Who would have though so much about logic back then anyway. Not me.

And yeah, I am told I was mortally afraid of cotton, rui. Apparently, I used to make a very funny half-afraid half-confused face on seeing rui and with a uuuuu sound, would cry out loud. I still don't know why! I guess, no one can really guess that part anyway.


More...later...