Summers of another era

Lovely, simply heavenly weather!! A cool, cool breeze blowing, gently lifting my hair and fanning my face as I traverse the well-worn path of my solitary evening walk…………the ethereal weather stirs memories and transports me to a long-forgotten (rhetorical question?) era, an age where there was undiluted happiness, where the only language we knew and spoke was that of joy infinite. 

Life in a small colony-where every face was known, every home a familiar, friendly landmark-was a far cry from the present times (when the occupant of the neighbouring flat passes one by- a surly, preoccupied look on the face, harried as s/he is with myriad different challenges of city life.) The long summer holidays, particularly, were days of unadulterated bliss!

Blessed with a lovely climate- where blistering heat was an unknown concept and where frequent showers washed the already beautiful place a lush, clean green-the scenic landscape added to the joy of well, simply doing nothing and living life lazily and luxuriously, one langurous day at a time. The long afternoons were truly and absorbingly well-spent, in reading an unending supply of whodunits, thanks to the rich library in the Club (which had this terrific practice of eliciting lists from voracious readers, twice a year, and updating its stock) and mouth-watering, summer specials (light stews, mango and mint chutneys, all kinds of flavoured shakes, ice-creams and exotic desserts) churned out by our ever-innovative and doting mother, who was ably assisted in her pursuits (no, not by lazybums like us) by the faithful, full-time minion-and the evenings were a saga of fun and games-hide and seek, colour colour, cricket, football, endless hours of Monopoly and many others- spent with friends who remained friends for life. 

On some days, there were long walks through the verdant lanes of this picturesque paradise, on others, one played truant and dashed across the long, winding car drive at home, drinking in (figuratively and literally) the beauty of a sudden downpour and getting drenched in torrential rain and yet living to tell the tale, hale and hearty and none the worse for the adventurous tryst with the elements. On rare occasions, the creative urge would get the better of us and all the brats of the the colony would be collected under one roof, for orchestrated practice. Two weeks down the line, a perfect concert would be presented in the club, having all the integral fun quotient-an action-packed, full-of-suspense, English one-act play, an energetic African samba, a lively Urdu quawwali, rib-tickling Hindi mimicry, a Bangla folk dance, a couple of western numbers thrown in for good measure and presto! a veritable, variety-entertainment programme would be ready! Costumes, music et al. And performed on oiled-wheels, with no gaps, no glitches, no goof-ups-no mean task, considering that the participants would range from an IIT Kanpur almost-graduate, a BITS Pilani ditto and lesser mortals like undergraduate Arts/Science students, to little ones barely in the third or fourth standard. Variety in more ways than one!! 

There were some quieter days spent with and within the family, when we just stayed at home and waited for Papa’s return from office. Then the six of us (Bhaiya’s being home for the hols. used to be a high point in itself) would sit in the lawn that would’ve been sprinkled with water earlier in the evening, exuding the strong, earthy smell that only a freshly-watered lawn can, amidst the plants and flowers that Mummy had so lovingly nurtured, with the thick hedge shielding us from the dust and grime of the colony road. Tea for Mummy and Papa was an elaborate affair, as the tray laden with all the paraphernalia of evening tea-the tea-cosy covered teapot, the accompanying milk and sugar pots, all part of a delicately flowered china set with aesthetically matching cups and saucers; the tea-strainer and the dainty teaspoons completing the trappings, were a far cry from the masala chai that we seem to have fallen prey to, and which we gulp out of sturdy mugs, perhaps symbolizing our perennial hurry and the inability to linger over and relish the small pleasures of life. But those niceties didn’t really register, as we were fairly focused even then. All our energies would be concentrated on the loaded plates of yummy munchies that accompanied the parents' tea. A lot of friendly banter formed an essential part of these occasions, as everyone would chip in with his/her narration of the day’s events. Till Papa would get up and regally stroll into the house to read the newspaper (yes, live as we did in that God-forsaken place-oh we wouldn’t have changed it for any place else!-the newspaper came only in the late afternoon, and was called the dak edition) and this meant that we all scattered in diverse directions, all within the house, of course. 

Life was a song, literally: one mellifluous, harmonious melody where our parents formed the mainstay of our lives. They were always there for us, taking care of every need, humouring us, encouraging us, being with and for us: always. Today, as parents, perhaps we do as much for our children but with a huge difference. In those days, when every rupee was hard-earned and counted, when other family responsibilities were heavy, they never had the time or inclination to think of themselves, they didn’t ever spare a thought for themselves or their needs. No shopping, no fancy clothes/ jewellery, no big bashes, no pleasure trips, not even a house constructed to provide shelter after retirement. It was always us-our needs, our food, our education, our health, our well-being, our happiness …………… 

Having lost them both within a few years of one another, I often find myself harbouring a sense of deep resentment: why? Why did they have to go so soon, why couldn’t they have been with us for a few years longer-to have seen us, their children, settle down better, taken deep pride in their much-loved grandchildren grow up and carve out their respective career paths…….why did they leave us when they did? 

Then I consciously drive away such disturbing thoughts and make a valiant attempt to come to terms with destiny. I allow my mind to relive each moment of our glorious, carefree childhood and take solace from the fact that, perhaps, no one could possibly have asked for happier times and feel grateful for what Life gave us. Such wonderful parents and such sublime growing-up years. 

The memories of our parents and those idyllic years at Maithon act like soothing balm; cherished, indelible thoughts of those treasured years expel the disquieting darkness and I again am strong.