Memories are made of these...

I belong to the family of confused desis who know no God. Have always thought that my rebellious tendencies as a kid who refused to enter temples while parents, other family members went in to pray, were more to do with boredom and audacious cheekiness. I was allowed to get away with it ’cause fortunately my parents never tried to stuff religion down my throat. School was equally ‘cool’. While one school had endless prayers, scripture sessions, they were happily spent shooting spit balls at each other or in other such uplifting activities. The Convent school one attended was even ‘cooler’. They had classes on ethics, which began by giving the students the option to walk out or sit. No prizes for guessing which option me and my band of brigand friends chose. So having thus well spent a lively youth, one did not think much in terms of God and its ilk.

The general theme of taking life as it comes, with a song or a mulish kick, as the situation demanded, continued and no serious thought was given to the debate whether there is a God. ‘Ki fark painda’, was the refrain!

Then many many moons later, why is it that there are strange stirrings in the soul when one hears faint strains of Ramcharitra Manas or even Lata’s bhajans? My whole being revolts at the thought of me turning religious short of getting close to old age! Am I turning a new leaf? Or is it the bouquet of memories associated with these tunes and words that stirs the pot of my consciousness and sprouts this new sapling of a strange me? Much as I cursed those hollering loudspeakers which spewed bhajans and sermons at ungodly hours, they have somewhere frozen an era of mushy memories within me. Where I was in the safe cocoon of my parents’ home with literally not a care in the world! Where irreverence was the buzz word and laughter and tears competed with complete abandon. Days were lazy, hyper, happy, despondent, giggly, cosy, dreamy… innocent. Most of life was black or white. Hardly any grays that afflict this adult world. The smell of hot homemade food, mother’s soft, oh so soft a pallu, father’s delightfully don quixotic take on the world, warring brother and oodles of love from every corner of the world. Sigh… you do get spoilt into believing that the world runs as per your writ!

So today, I find myself a little moist eyed when melodies bring back those love-draped years. A strange peace descends as Mukesh’s voice begins singing ‘Mangal bhawan amangal haari…’. The weary tread of the daily grind stops, becomes still, tense muscles relax, eyes droop, a smile steals its way across and the world is not so gray anymore!

A Late Blooming

I had spent most of my childhood and youth in the single minded pursuit of play and pals! Books, literature and academics were part of a much suffered necessity of growing up in a world that put an unnecessarily excessive emphasis on such things. Earning enough marks at the minimum cost (read ‘hard work’) was what kept life ticking. Things moved too fast for any serious thought, leave alone regrets! Then suddenly it was middle age knocking at the door and some strange books dropped in…. I was surprised at first that people other than Alistair MacLean and P. G. Wodehouse could hold my attention. Life was suddenly different…

Books started creeping up the psyche till I reached such a stage of addiction that there were serious withdrawal symptoms if I did not have an exciting book to return to everyday. So Books insidiously won the battle against matter (or what mattered!). So much so, that today I am attempting to read ‘The Splendour that was India’, the size of which would have sent me into deep shock in the earlier days! For this affliction of the historical kind, I must lay the blame squarely at the doorsteps of Mr. Dalrymple, whose ‘The City of Djinns’ made me sit up and take a fresh look at history. All the damage that years of schooling does to history (there should be a ban on history teaching in school – there’s no greater disservice to the subject than being made to mug up those wretched dates with no end in sight!) is undone in the masterly recountal Mr. Dalrymple style.

So here’s to the pages of words… may they conquer all ignoramuses like me! Amen!!