Chapters From My Childhood : Sealed With A Six

May 1997, Udaipur, Rajasthan

Even though it was 4.30 in the afternoon, the damp grass still had the smell of last night’s rain emanating from it. Rains in the month of May in Udaipur were a blissful rarity and the fragrant mix of the moist soil and the wet grass helped soothe my frayed nerves at present.

A cricket match was currently in progress in the massive backyard of my naani ghar (maternal home) and I was nervously waiting for my turn to bat. My team was batting first and I sat in a small shed at the extreme end of the field: our makeshift ‘pavilion’. A few other cousins, who had been dismissed, sat behind me egging on the batsmen on strike. Cricket in the afternoon was the most common pastime here and being the avid follower of the game, I looked forward to participating in every match. Things weren’t that easy here, though.

Almost all of the players here – my cousins and their friends, mostly – were very adept at playing the game and as a 12-year-old, I was overawed by their skills. Moreover, all of them were in their late teens and of bulky frames and I, the tall, gangly and shy kid, was clearly the odd one out.

Since I was here for my month-long summer vacation, my cousins would take me in their respective teams more out of pity than for my skills at playing the sport. The matches would usually be 6 players-a-side and I was taken just to fill the numbers of the respective team I was selected in. It was embarrassing to be selected this way, but I would just be excited to get an opportunity to be a part of the games.

The matches were 6-over contests and most of my time in the field was consumed in chasing the balls to the boundary as I was never allowed to bowl. Whatever little chances I got of batting - something I dearly loved - I fared extremely poorly in them. I was no match to the pace, bounce, and guile of these bowlers and my stay at the wicket this season had mostly been shorter than a few minutes.

Nevertheless, being the eternal optimist, I always believed that on one glorious day I would smash these bowlers to all parts of the ground and win matches for my team. In fact, before coming to Udaipur every year, I would envision some rather thrilling situations: that my team is in a precarious position and I lead them to victory with my coruscating batting performance and my cousins then come rushing towards me and carry me on their shoulders, off into the glorious sunset.

A loud cheer from the center of the field brought me out of my reverie. A wicket - the last recognized batsman - had fallen and I was now the last one in. Himanshu, my elder cousin, had been dismissed in the second ball of the last over. The score was 34 in 5.2 overs.

“Only four balls left. Just take a single and give the strike to Mirchu,” said Himanshu to me while handing me the bat. I took the bat from him and sighed deeply. Cousin Mirchu was glaring at me menacingly from the non-striker’s end. He could be extremely snarky if he didn’t get enough balls to bat. This was going to be a tough challenge.

***

The match was being played with a Croquet ball and the fear of being hit on the legs loomed large in my thoughts, as I walked up gingerly to the wicket. There were no pads to wear and my spindly legs were exposed. We just wore chappals to the game and as I saw my cousin warming up to bowl, I gulped.

My cousin Paritosh, all of 17 years of age, was a sturdy young kid who could bowl really fast. He was easily the best and the fastest bowler of the entire family and not many preferred facing him. He could curl the ball in the air at pace and had a lethal yorker that had destroyed many a stump. I had already been dismissed for naught on several occasions by him this summer apart from being hurt quite a few times in the unmentionable area.

No one in the field expected me to do well. Not even me. But I had no choice and face the inevitable.

“Cover me lagake bhaagna sidha (Hit the ball to the covers and simply run),” shouted cousin Mirchu from the non-striker’s end. I nodded solemnly.

Paritosh ran smoothly, leaped in the air like an eagle and hurled the ball at me. The ball whizzed past my nose much before I could even lift my bat to play a stroke. I must have looked rather silly flailing my bat wildly in the air as the opposition fielders sniggered loudly. I could feel my team members rolling their eyes behind me in the pavilion and then saw Mirchu just shaking his head.

The third ball pitched on the middle and straightened. I attempted to cut the ball but missed and it just went inches over the off-stump. Paritosh left out an anguished cry even as the others of his team smiled, probably at my ineptness.

Flustered with myself, I could feel my palms getting sweaty. I rubbed my hands on my shorts and quietly resolved to at least get bat on ball run to the other end.

The fourth ball was a little slow and a tad outside off. This time, I somehow managed to plant my bat in the line of the ball and played a stroke towards the cover region.

Unfortunately, my stroke did not have much life in it and the ball was easily fielded. I had taken a few steps out of my crease to run but Mirchu wildly gestured me to go back. There was no way either of us would have made it on time.

“Should we declare, you moron?” hollered one of my team members from behind. I chose to ignore his jibe and concentrate on the task ahead, not willing to give up. The bat now felt heavier than usual. I rubbed my palms dry on my shirt and gripped the handle firmly.

The fifth ball was a yorker, aimed right at my toes. I wasn’t prepared for it and was wildly looking to slog. The ball hit my right toe at pace and I muffled my cry as a searing pain shot through my right foot. There was no way I could show anyone that I had been hurt. Nonchalantly, I picked up the ball and lobbed it back to the bowler while gently rubbing my foot without anyone’s notice.

I could now see Paritosh smirking a little. He had me hopping like a cat on a hot tin roof and was mighty pleased with that. Mirchu, meanwhile, had given up and continued shaking his head. I felt irritated and a little helpless. Something had to give.

 The wise words of my father then suddenly swam back to me. “Watch the ball very closely. Watch it until the very end,” he would always tell me sagaciously whilst I played cricket back at my home in Calcutta. I had never quite paid heed to those words but somehow it seemed this was the moment I was destined to do so.

The last ball from Paritosh was fast. This time, I followed his hand closely as he released the ball, which was short of a good length and landed a few feet away from the off-stump. I danced down the track and following the line of the ball, swatted it straight, with all the strength I had, before it could rise up.

The bat made a resounding ‘craaack’ as it met the ball right in the middle, the sound reverberating across the field. There was a stunned silence in the arena as everyone’s eyes rose in the air, watching the ball rise high in the orange sky. The little round thing soared and kept going high, crossing the field and the street beyond the field, before finally landing on top of the terrace of a building opposite it. It was a ginormous six, as big as anyone had hit here.

I stood rooted in my position. My bat still held firmly over my shoulders. My eyes still searching for the ball that had now disappeared. My chest heaving up and down.

There was loud whooping from behind me and I saw my teammates rushing towards me. They patted my back and ruffled my hair. Even the opposition team had smiles on their faces. My eyes, though, were fixed on Paritosh. He was the only one who looked too stunned and deflated to react. Befuddled, he was still watching the building beyond the terrace; refusing to believe that he had been hit for such a massive six by a 12-year-old. The air had clearly been winded out of him.

The ball was lost and could not be retrieved. But nobody cared. It was my moment to savour now. It was the first ‘proper’ six of my life.

I held my bat aloft in the air and proudly strutted around with it to the pavilion. It was my highest score of the season here. Just six runs. But at that time, those runs meant the world to me.

The remainder of the match went by in a whizz – we won by 5 runs. But only the sixer kept playing in my mind over and over. Everything else was just a daze.

***

Dinner that night was memorable. We used to have dinner in a large central hall of the house. Around 15-20 of us would gather around in a circle and share our stories at the end of the day. Today, I was the only one who was speaking and was clearly the star of the house. The high of smashing that six had enveloped me completely.

I animatedly recounted my heroics with the bat to everyone who would care to listen. My naana, my maasis, and maamas had to bear the brunt of my pompous retellings of the six I hit.

“I just came out of the crease and ‘Bam’,” I re-enacted the shot from my sitting position to my family members who listened to me keenly.  Food had never tasted so good to me during the entire vacation.

The only person conspicuous by his absence was Paritosh. A bruised ego, after all, takes some time to heal.

Chapters From My Childhood: When Papa Bought Me A Car

It is Father’s Day today. And I see almost everyone writing great things about their respective fathers. That is very natural. Most of the stories are centered on how their father has been their rock, or their friend, or their guide or protector.

When I think of it, I can’t really explain what my father is to me. He is certainly not my friend. I don’t see him as my guide either. So, what do I see him as? I see him as my father. An honest, loving and caring father. And nothing else matters, really.

My father is a very simple man. He speaks very little. He emotes rarely. And it isn’t very easy to break through his exterior to get a peek inside.

We share a very unusual bond, my father and I. We don’t express much to each other about what we are feeling. We generally stay to ourselves, speaking mostly about cricket or politics or the deplorable condition of Calcutta. I let him enjoy his space. And he lets me be in mine. For some reason, we have always had this strange wall between us. A wall that holds us back. It has been like that for ages. And we are used to it now.

Since its Father’s Day today, I wonder if I should have bought him a gift. I have never really done that, though. We don’t just bring each other gifts. Gift-giving, in fact, is an awkward exercise between the two of us. On my birthday, he simply asks me to get something online. On his birthday, I generally buy him something useful online.

Going out of our way to buy a gift for one another, out of the blue, is something we don't indulge in.

Except for this one day about 25 years back.

I remember this day pretty clearly because it remains the only instance when the wall between the two of us had broken for a few moments. And it had felt good.

**

It was Saturday evening. I entered my room and switched on the television, eagerly waiting for a cartoon show to begin. My father sat on the bed with a huge, red notebook in front of him and a pencil in between his fingers.

I was glued to the television screen when my father asked me to lower the volume. The words barely registered in my head and I just nodded.

“Chiku, lower the volume. I am working,” he said, more firmly this time.

“One minute, Papa,” I mumbled.

“When you're with the Flintstones

Have a yabba-dabba-doo time”

The lyrics of my favorite cartoon show screamed loudly back at me and I swayed my head along with it.

“A dabba-doo time

We'll have a gay old…”

I heard a ‘thud’ and the next moment saw my father get up and switch off the television. His notebook lay sprawled on the floor.

“What part of lowering the volume did you not understand?” said my father angrily. He looked frazzled. And his eyes were red.

I was stunned. My father was known to lose his temper. But he never lost it on me.

“But… I just…” I sputtered.

“No buts…Out you go. I don’t want any disturbance,” he thundered. I had never seen him lose his cool like this.

It felt like he had slapped me right across the face. I got up and left in a huff, my body shaking in fury.

I had just about reached the verandah when I ran into my mother.

“Ah! I was just looking for you. Get me a box of sandesh for bhog, will you? Quick!”

It was dark outside and she couldn’t clearly see the contours of my face. I breathed in a little, and muttered, “Okay!”, making sure she couldn’t see my wet eyes.

She handed me a ten rupee note and left to tend to her gods and goddesses inside the temple room in the verandah.

I stood there for a while, allowing my breathing to normalize. But my insides still stung.

**

Fifteen minutes later, I was standing outside the local mishti shop right opposite our home.

“Five Kalakands, please,” I said thoughtlessly. As I turned around, I noticed a familiar face standing right beside the shop, smoking a cigarette. It was my father. He blew a puff of smoke in the air, looking quite worn out.

Our eyes met for a second. And then, I immediately turned around, intending to get away far from him.

“Chiku! Hey, stop,” he called out.

I ignored him and hurried away.

He caught hold of my right hand. “Hey! Listen, please!”

“Let... Me…Go…” I struggled to let my hand free from his firm grip. But he caught both my hands and turned me around.

“Hey! Hey, I am sorry…Please…I am sorry.”

I couldn’t look at him. But kept staring at the ground below while he held me. My breathing was heavy. But my anger was dissipating. I wasn’t used to such conversations with him. It was awkward. It was embarrassing. I just wanted to run. But then, just like that, I burst out.

Wrapping my arms around my father, right there on the busy pavement, I bawled my heart out. I wept into his shirt, while he caressed my head. “I am sorry, son! I am sorry!” he said again.

After what felt like an hour, he pulled my hands apart, wiped my face and asked me, “Listen, do you want anything? Tell me,” he asked kindly.

I shook my head. But taking me by my hand, he took me to a retail shop nearby.

“Here! Choose anything,” he said.

I was completely taken aback at the turn of events and still felt a little groggy. I looked around at the tiny shop. There was a sea of colorful items. But my eyes instantly fell on the one thing that I had been lusting over for the last one week – a red car. It had been placed strategically on the top shelf of the shop for more than a week and had caught the fancy of many boys in the neighbourhood. The words “James Bond 007” was printed in glossy black letters on its bumper. For the past few days, every afternoon after school, I would get down from the school bus, cross the road and spend a good few minutes just gazing at the gorgeous car.

My father caught me ogling at the car and asked, “You want this?”

I couldn’t say anything. I wasn’t used to such an offer from him.

He got the car from the shop owner and handed it to me. I held it, dazed and confused while my father handed over some cash from the chest pocket of his shirt to the shop owner.

The car looked shiny and smooth and perfect. Every single part of it dazzled. I smelled it. It felt fresh and ready to use.

“Okay, you run along now,” my father said. “I will come in a little later.”

I nodded and turned to leave, my eyes still fixed on the car. It felt surreal.

“And listen,” he called out. He looked a little flustered for some reason. “Um…Don’t mention anything about the cigarette to your mother, okay?”

***

That red car. That was a huge part of my childhood.

I held that car very dearly with me for years. I remember playing with it every day for years while being fed dinner by my mother during dinner. It had a special place in my cupboard for a very long time while I was growing up.

And it wasn’t just because it was a magnificent-looking car – it was. But because it was the first and only gift my father had bought for me on his own. And because of the memories attached to it.

The only time I had hugged my father after that evening was about 15 years later on the morning we were bidding my mother a final adieu. And that is it.

We continue to share an unusual bond, with that wall between us. But after my mother’s passing, we have grown much closer than we ever were. He continues to express his love in subtle ways – drawing the curtains in my room so that the rays of the morning sun don’t fall on my face directly; serving me dinner; making my breakfast. 

I wouldn’t change anything in the relationship we share. Like I said earlier. He isn’t my buddy. And he isn’t my guide. But he is my father. An honest, loving, sincere and caring father. And nothing else matters.

From time to time, however, I will look back on that evening from 25 years ago. My father would have no memory of it, I am certain. But I will remember the red car. I will remember the hug. And I will remember how the wall had broken between us.  Even if it was for just a few moments, it meant the world to me.

Of those Diwali home cleaning days

There‘s just so much to love about Diwali, isn’t there? The lights, the colors, the sweets (oh, yeah!) and the overall feel-good ambiance. And while I don’t necessarily participate in all the intricate festivities of this beautiful tradition these days, I simply love the cheerful atmosphere this festival brings with it.

However, there is a little-appreciated practice within this lovely tradition that I reminisce about with great affection these days whenever the festival is round the corner – the Diwali home cleaning. Yes, back in the day it was one of those festival activities that I would really dread initially but then, somehow, I would find myself relishing it they moment it would commence.  

Our old Shovabazar home wasn’t massive, but it sure did have a lot of rooms in it. And, unfortunately, my mother was a stickler for cleanliness. This meant that almost a fortnight prior to Diwali she would begin pestering the children of the house to prepare themselves for the strenuous task of cleansing the home. And this wasn’t just simple cleaning, mind you. My mother ensured that each and every little nook and cranny of our house was tidied up by our poor hands.

We would grumble in displeasure, of course. Because who wanted to spend their precious Diwali holidays devoting hours on cleaning the house? We could have whiled away our time in reading comic books or watching cartoons, instead. But maa would have none of it.

“This is an important aspect of Diwali,” she would exclaim sagely. “Before Maa Laxmi arrives at our place, we need to keep it immaculately clean for her.”

So, against our wishes, we would have to succumb to the laborious task in front of us. And thus would begin the Diwali home cleaning spree.

My mother would meticulously plan the cleaning schedule; one day would be allotted to each room and a rest day would be given in between so that we could recharge ourselves. The children would primarily be deployed for the following: the two main rooms of the house, the massive living room and the temple room in the verandah.

The Diwali cleaning would commence from our main room. The thing with our room was that it didn’t require much cleaning as my mother would usually keep it spick and span all through the year. Regardless, she would still make us do the job. Buckets filled with soapy water along with two separate ragged banyan tees – one for mixing in the water before applying on the cleaning area and the other for dusting – would be handed out to each child and we would then launch on our cleaning mission; with my mother carefully supervising the proceedings.

I was always assigned the loft of our room while my elder brother and the other cousins would take the walls and the cupboards respectively. I loved our loft during this time – it was about ten feet wide and four feet in length – and for the Diwali cleaning most of the space would be cleared out. Things like old rugs, handbags, and suitcases – which usually took up most of the space in the loft –  were removed and only a solitary black metal trunk would remain. Since this trunk was too heavy to be brought down, we usually left it there and I had to maneuver my body deftly around it in that little loft to make sure I reached every spot.

And that trunk, meanwhile, was a treasure trove of memories. It was enormous and contained the various toys and board games I and my brother had used growing up but had not discarded for some reason. So every year, as I would be tucked up on the loft, I would inadvertently find myself with my nose buried deep inside the trunk, trying to dig out all the toys and games we had become too old to play with. There would usually be my little green scooter, a red James Bond car (this one has a special history and I have planned a separate write-up on it soon), a basketball game, my old snakes and ladder board game (that had rockets instead of snakes), some old pencil boxes, along with countless other similar items in that trunk. Every year, as I would observe my old games and toys with great interest, it would bring back a sea of memories and I would wonder why I had ceased playing with these in the first place.

I would be forced out of my reverie with my mother’s stern voice from down below: “Stop wasting time, Chiku! Stop wasting time!”

The toughest challenge of our Diwali cleaning ritual was taking on our living room or, as we used to call it, ‘Dadu ka room’ (it used be my late grandfather’s room). That was one massive place with five walls and it required the diligent dedication of each household member to get it spotlessly clean. The color of its walls was light purple and it was bone-crunching stuff, getting them clean. But, for some reason, it gave me great satisfaction in putting all my effort to scrub the area that had been designated to me and then bask in glory after I would ensure that it had been made spotless in every way possible.

Exhausting though it was, cleaning ‘Dadu ka room’ would be quite a joyous experience as almost every member of the family would be involved in it. Some Hindi songs would be played on our old cassette player to help ease the strain on our minds and someone would often break into an impromptu jig every once in a while. The children also indulged in sprinkling dirty soap water every now and then around much to the chagrin of my mother. Then, late afternoon, some snacks would be brought as no one would have the energy to cook anything and all of us would devour on them like ravenous wolves; relishing each morsel as a reward for our hard work.

The last day of the Diwali home cleaning would be reserved for the temple room of our house. It was a tiny room, but the most precious space for my mother. Hence, it required extra caution from all us while dusting anything inside it. The temple room was located at the right end corner of our verandah and the walls inside were coated plastered yellow. All we could do, hence, was dust it with brooms as water could damage the color. That wouldn’t take much time as the room was so small. But I found it fascinating observing my mother who would take added caution to cleanse every little part of the huge temple inside. The little idols of the deities, especially, would be washed and tended to with utmost love and care with Diwali round the corner.

The best time of the Diwali home cleaning days, though, would always be dusk. We cousins would slouch down on the pile of mattresses kept on the verandah - taken out from the respective rooms because of the cleaning that would be going on inside - and give our aching bones some well-deserved rest. We wouldn’t speak much. But just lying there comfortably on the soft mattresses and watching the skies turn red with the hope of a pleasant dinner to placate our tired souls would be quite satisfying.

Every year, once the Diwali home cleaning spree would be over, I would feel a tad empty. It was a tradition that I refused to accept I liked – forcing myself to believe I hated it – and yet it was something that I secretly wished could last longer. I didn’t exactly know why, but I loved how it brought almost all the members of the family together, albeit forcibly, for the same toilsome purpose and how we bonded over the back-breaking work. Then there were those memories of the past that would inevitably be discovered hidden in some nook of the house and in different shapes and sizes – a book, a toy or even a ball – courtesy this activity.

While Diwali was obviously a big event, the entire day, though, would whizz past in so much commotion and extravagance and in such haste that I wouldn’t really have time to sit back and savour things the way I wanted to. The days preceding it, however, with the cleaning activities, were much simpler. Much more fun.

Later in life, I parted with my cousins and moved to a different home. These days, I celebrate Diwali more as a formality than out of genuine happiness. And the Diwali home cleaning ritual is hardly performed. I simply dust my working table and bookshelves and leave it at that. I just don’t have the motivation for doing it with great passion at present. My old house is gone and most of the people I used to carry out those activities with are long gone from my life, too. Someday, perhaps, I will find the drive to celebrate Diwali with aplomb again. And, hopefully, also find the people to fulfill the Diwali home cleaning tradition with.

For now, all that remains are the memories. And a part of me will always cling on to them dearly. A part of me will always remain on the loft of my old Shovabazar home; eagerly scouring that huge metal trunk for his toys. A part of me will always be giving it his all while cleaning the walls of my ‘Dadu ka room’. A part of me will always be found relaxing on the heap of fluffy mattresses on the verandah of that home at dusk.

And even as I will be flipping through a few pages of a long-forgotten book while dusting my bookshelf this year before Diwali, a part of me shall be hoping to hear a female voice waft in through the windows, call out to me again and say, “Stop wasting time, Chiku! Stop wasting time!”

Chapters From My Childhood: My Father’s Motorcycle

I have always had a fascination for motorbikes. Much more than cars. Although I have never driven one in my life, I have had the pleasure of being the pillion rider for a good part of my early existence. Primarily because of my father’s motorcycle. That bike played a significant role in my childhood and riding on it with my father, I created some indelible memories that I had somehow forgotten to reminisce about these past few years. Until last week…

A friend had shared a collection of pictures of vintage bikes on Facebook recently and among those pictures was the model Rajdoot 350 – the bike that my father used. The moment I looked at it, I was drowned in a flood of memories; very poignant ones, really. Some things have that effect – they take you back to an era that appears to be from a different lifetime now. That particular photograph became my time machine right then. And even as I could feel my eyes welling up while looking at it, my face had a slight smile on it. A smile that contained countless delightful recollections which I hadn’t taken a peek into for a long, long time.

Now I do not have much technical knowledge of bikes, but I do remember that my father’s Rajdoot was a second-hand model that he had bought in the mid-80s, was light red in color and was overall a pretty smooth motorbike. The one image that has distinctly stuck with me of the bike is my father riding it while wearing a blue synthetic jacket – something that served him for more than a decade – and an olive green helmet. The blue jacket, my father, and the Rajdoot have, in fact, become synonymous with each other from my memories of those days.

This image is for representational purposes. The actual bike was quite different in looks.

Like any other kid would, I too loved riding on my father’s motorcycle. He would take me to all sorts of places on the bike: a friend’s house, to Burrabazar or some other far-off market to buy some supplies, the doodh mandi and sometimes even to his office.

Initially, I used to sit on the front, with my legs just about resting on the steel bars of the vehicle in the front and the hands holding a little part of the handle where I would keep making weird faces in the rearview mirror. And whenever my father would halt the bike at a signal, I loved pushing the little red honk button near the right handle for no rhyme or reason. My father would remove my hand from the honk button whenever I would so, but the moment I would find an opportunity I could never restrain myself from pressing that little red button.

Another thing that I loved doing with my father’s bike was thrusting on the starter pedal to kickstart the machine. It took a lot of effort at times and my father would keep telling me the precise way to press down on it. Most of the times, I would just keep kicking at the pedal without any results but it gave me immense satisfaction when, on some rare occasions, I managed to successfully start the motorbike with the starter.

As I grew taller (and that happened very, very quickly, really) I took the position of the pillion rider. Sitting on the back, and lightly clutching my father’s shoulders, I loved being driven through the different streets, and nooks and crannies of Kolkata. My father rode very smoothly and that slight dug-dug-dug sound of the Rajdoot actually lulled me to disappear into my own world without bothering about the destination. I loved gazing at the people, shops, houses, birds, and trees rushing by us. The vistas, despite being so simple, would appear so alluring to me that I never wanted those journeys to end. In fact, I hated it when we would reach the destination and always loved it when my bike rides would be extended for some reason.

The most special moments from those bike rides with my father, though, generally were my birthday eves. I remember waiting excitedly for my father on the balcony of our old home in the evening on the 22^nd of September. My eyes would be locked at the crossing near our home trying to spot my father’s Rajdoot. And sure enough, at around 7.30, I would usually find a red two-wheeler gliding towards our house with its rectangle yellow headlight beaming cheerfully at me. Unaware of my presence at the balcony, my father would begin honking from underneath it - it would be a signal for me to get ready. I would excitedly rush down, hop on the pillion of the Rajdoot and my father would then drive me to a toy store at a little distance from our home. It was a tiny little store, cramped in a nook of a bazaar and I loved visiting it every year.

But more than the gift itself, it were those 20 minutes on the bike – first while going towards the shop and then while returning from it with my birthday gift held firmly in my hands – that I actually looked forward to the most. It was me and my father’s special little thing; something that he probably didn’t even bother much about but something that I really treasured.

These days, my father asks me to buy my own birthday gift using his card from any of those countless e-commerce websites. It is convenient and effective. But, at the risk of sounding schmaltzy, I do wish sometimes that my father would return home on the evening of 22^nd September one of these years on his Rajdoot, with his blue jacket and all, and honk at me to get ready for buying my gift. You see, those 20 minutes… I still wish to relive them dearly someday…

***

My father, like with most of the other things he possesses, loved tending to his motorcycle. Every weekend, he would devote a couple of hours to his Rajdoot where he would do some repair work, basic servicing or even some paint job on the fuel tank. On late Sunday mornings, with his tool kit in his hands, he would ask me to assist him with his servicing and try and teach me about the different parts of the bike. I would pretend to be interested while my mind would still be on the cartoon show I had just watched. Some words like radiator, shock absorber, exhaust or carburetor would sometimes register in my distracted brain while my father would dedicatedly go about with the tune-up of his beloved machine.

There is a little incident that I have never forgotten which is linked to this particular aspect of my father and his servicing of his Rajdoot.  

It was a Saturday afternoon and I was returning home on my school bus. As the bus came to a halt near my house, I noticed my father outside servicing his bike. A couple of my classmates noticed him too and pointed that out to me as I was about to disembark from the bus.

“Hey, isn’t that your father?” they asked. I nodded and progressed to move out of the bus. Perhaps it was my overactive imagination, but I could sense them sniggering behind my back, scoffing at my father and even imitating his actions on the bike.

As I got off, I looked at my father, dressed in his usual worn out pale gray half shirt, navy blue trousers and slippers. He was bent over and completely lost in his motorbike. I felt embarrassed and angry. “Why can’t my father dress properly?” I thought angrily and ran up the stairs of my house. “Why can’t he hire a mechanic to repair his bike and do such menial tasks?” I was fuming and did not want to even look at my father then.

The next morning being a Sunday my father asked me to accompany him downstairs to tend to the bike. Apparently, he wanted to give the fuel tank a new paint job. Begrudgingly, I picked up his painting equipments and headed downstairs.

Within no time, my father began to efficiently apply deft brush strokes of the red paint all over the fuel tank while carefully ensuring that no part of the red color got smeared on to the title RAJDOOT which was written in bold letters on the tank.

He seemed so invested in his task, my father. It was as if this meant the world to him. Crouched on the ground, he was squinting hard through his spectacles and with pursed lips was now painting the letters RAJDOOT in white color on his beloved bike. A single bead of sweat trickled down his left eyebrow. He wiped it with his thumb and continued with his job. I don’t really know what happened exactly but just standing there and looking at my father working so dedicatedly on the motorcycle moved me. He was wearing the same set of worn out gray shirt and blue trousers and was oblivious to everything around him. He seemed so simple and pure…Just like my father had always been…

Hot shame bubbled up inside me and my eyes welled up without warning. It wasn’t as if he had said or done something to make me feel so. In fact, my father had absolutely no inkling of what I had felt the previous evening. But I couldn’t stop the guilt from permeating every cell of my body right then. I hated myself for allowing someone else to dictate my feelings for my father.

I quietly wiped my eyes from the sleeves of my t-shirt and then bent down close to my father.

“Papa, can I paint the last two letters, please?” I requested.

He stopped and looked at me. “Yeah, sure,” he said matter-of-factly and without a single change in his expressions. But I could sense that he was pretty delighted from inside. I could always sense that.

I gripped the brush firmly in between my fingers and proceeded to paint the letters O and T on the fuel tank. Everything suddenly seemed so right and simple then. It became the perfect Sunday morning. A light morning breeze caressing our faces. The local saloon nearby playing a soothing Bengali song that I did not understand. The Rajdoot… My father… And me…

***

As I grew up, the rides on the Rajdoot became few and far between. In fact, the only significant one that I can recall was this day when my father drove my friend and me to an amusement park when I was in the 6^th standard. It was a Sunday and a group of us were supposed to reach the amusement park by 10 in the morning. Since there were no school buses available, my father drove me and my friend, who lived nearby, all the way to it.

This model comes pretty close to the one my father had.

After he dropped us off, I remember my friend telling me, “Your father is an amazing driver. The ride was so smooth…”

After that, though, I hardly found time to have any rides on the Rajdoot. School friends and all the other trivial things in life at that point became much more important to me rather than having a bike ride with my father.

However, both I and my elder brother would be furious at my father if he ever dared to take any of our cousins for a ride on his bike (which would be on several occasions, really). It would touch a raw nerve and we would throw tantrums at him for doing so, failing to appreciate his generous nature that allowed him to open his heart to everyone.

As a few more years passed, my father, too, stopped taking out his bike. Apparently, parking issues and the long distances forced him to stop taking his Rajdoot to work. And then, just like that, a time came when my father decided to sell it off. Within no time, he even found a buyer for it.

When my mother first told me this news I was quite shaken. I think I was probably in the 9^th standard then. And even though I hadn’t taken a ride on the Rajdoot for a while, I still had a soft corner for it and felt distraught that it was being sold.

I remember the night when the buyer had come to take the bike away. 

It was kept in its usual place in the local garage near our house. My father was in conversation with the buyer who was confirming last minute details about the motorbike. I looked sadly at the Rajdoot, standing at its regular position under the garage's shed with several other bikes. The moonlight was bouncing off its fuel tank and it looked like it was relaxing, unaware that it was to be sold off to a new owner. 

I moved close to it and could still make out the various coats of red paint that it had been smeared with over the years. I stroked my hands gently across the seat, which was a little tattered in places now and the foam inside could be seen. It was old, yes, but despite the years of service, the Rajdoot looked as good as ever, like a sturdy and handsome horse that had aged but still had that charisma about him.

The bike’s headlight was tilted towards me and it almost felt like it was looking up at me, consoling me that he would be okay. I knew it was, after all, just a machine, but it had been a loyal aide in so many of my childhood adventures and it was hard for me to let it go.

The buyer and my father had finished their conversation and were now moving towards the motorcycle. I patted the Rajdoot on its head one last time, thanking it for all that it had provided. “You did a good job, my friend! I will miss you.” I muttered to myself and then allowed it to be passed on.

***

I never saw my father’s Rajdoot after that night. Although I do remember that a year after the bike was sold, my parents met the man on the streets…with the Rajdoot. My mother told me happily that the bike appeared to be in very good condition. I longed to see it as well but pacified myself with the fact that it was being well taken care of.

I do wish, though, that I had had the opportunity of having one last ride with my father on his motorcycle. That regret gnawed at me for a very long time after the Rajdoot bid me adieu.

Then, a couple of years back, when I was in Vadodara to visit my brother we were supposed to go to a restaurant one evening. My father took my brother’s bike and I sat on the pillion to travel to the said destination.

I can’t really put a finger to it, but this bike ride just didn’t have the same charm as the ones from my childhood. We were the same two persons and my father was still driving a motorbike smoothly through the streets of a city. But…Perhaps it was the missing Rajdoot, or that we were in a different city or possibly the fact that I had grown up into an adult now. But that bike ride with my father really did not have the same effect as it once used to have.

And today, as I am reflecting back on those days, I really wish I had a picture of my father’s bike to look at. It would have certainly added more texture to my memories. Looking at that picture shared by my friend on Facebook, there was a deep sense of regret in me that I don’t have even a single photograph of my father’s beloved motorcycle. Especially because I have countless other photos from different phases of my childhood, but none of them feature that red Rajdoot.

But, thankfully, this sharp memory of mine helps me conjure up some great visuals of my past in my mind. And if I had to paint an image of my father’s bike it would be something like this: It is a somnolent Kolkata afternoon. A simple, red motorcycle is gliding through a busy street, a swirl of smoke puffing out of its exhaust pipe. On its fuel tank are written the words RAJDOOT in bold white letters. The motorcyclist – a 40-something man with a tuft of curly hair and spectacles – is wearing a synthetic blue jacket and has his eyes focused on the road ahead. Behind him is a little boy, about 10 years in age, clutching the man’s shoulders with both his hands. His mouth is half-open and he is looking skywards, in wonderment, at something on his left that is beyond the frame. The figures on the street are all engaged in some activity or the other. Even the birds on the trees and the orangish-yellow sky above seem occupied. But the boy…The boy is oblivious to what is happening around him. He is lost in his own little world…The world of his father and his motorcycle…  

Memories of Those School Bus Days

There’s a little kindergarten school at a short distance from my house. I hadn’t really given it much attention in the ten years I have lived here. But of late, whenever I go for my morning walks at around 8 AM, I notice their school bus whiz past me every day. It’s a tiny yellow bus, containing very tiny little inhabitants, but it manages to hold to my attention every time I see it. Perhaps more so because the children inside are now familiar with me. They seem to be fascinated with my extra tall frame and wave at me excitedly almost every day. I smile and wave back, laughing at times when I see them scrambling towards the end of the bus just to get a good look me with their excited little faces.

Interacting with these kids on the school bus every morning naturally makes me reflect on my own, very charming, memories of those school bus days. I think every single one of us will most certainly have some special memory or the other of those hours spent while riding to school and then returning home on the school bus. I, too, have a fair share of them as I traveled in it to school from my kindergarten days till the 7th standard. And those ten-odd years gave me enough moments and memories to reflect back on fondly from time to time.

I remember my first school bus quite distinctly. It was a big, navy blue bus with a streamlined front. There were just two rows of seats, parallel to each other on the inside and the name of my school was prominently displayed on both the sides of the bus.

While most of my memories of moments spent inside this bus are quite hazy, one, in particular, stands out. I was in kindergarten, Jr. B to be precise, and had stood first in the final exams. With the report card firmly held in my hand, I was elated and wanted to share my moment of joy with someone. Unfortunately, I hardly had any friends back then and had to contain my simmering excitement. I sat inside the bus and was admiring my report card when Ramakant, our scrawny and strict bus conductor who wore a big black square pair of spectacles and had really short wiry hair, came up to me.

“Is that your report card?” he asked.

I nodded. “I came first,” I said and showed him the card.

He took a look at it and said “Shabbash!” while ruffling my hair. I was extremely pleased as Ramakant was known to be this stern man who hardly ever smiled. Often during the bus rides, he would holler at the children creating a ruckus and even had a famous catchphrase - “Bada behuda baccha hai tu! (You are a really detestable child)”. Appreciation of this kind coming from him, hence, made my day. And through the years, even when Ramakant grew old and markedly subdued, I never quite forgot this gesture of his.

The school buses changed as I grew, having flat fronts and more space with countless rows of seats one after the other. More than its structure, though, the school bus became an important tool during that phase of my school life to exhibit my freedom. During my primary days, we had some very strict teachers and there would be days where we wouldn’t be allowed to speak even during the Tiffin break. The school bus, consequently, provided great refreshment and a chance to bond with my friends properly.

And speaking of friends…It was primarily courtesy of the school bus that I bonded with two boys who went on to become my best friends throughout the course of my early school life. One was a plump guy with a slight penchant for tantrums and the other was a rather canny fellow having wavy hair and an impish smile. Both lived at a little distance from my house and thus, as we would travel back and forth from school, we forged a great friendship.

The distance between our home and school was close to an hour and this gave the three of us enough time to bond over myriad things: sharing Tiffin, discussing cartoons and comics, and bashing the school teachers. We would really hate it when some teacher, too, would get on board the school bus as it would then force us to be silent or converse in hushed tones. Being the tall one, it was always difficult for me to conceal myself from the teacher and I would have to really bend behind the seats to talk to my friends. But the effort was still worth it.

It was bonding at its purest and we even began to hang out at each others’ homes soon. Both of their houses came after mine and when I would board the bus in the morning, I would usually go to the right end corner and reserve a couple of seats for them along with mine near the window. In the late afternoons, after disembarking from the bus on reaching my home, I would go straight towards its end where two hands – both belonging to my best friends – would be waiting for me to slap them as a mark of goodbye. It’s a method we had devised and followed quite proudly. Sometimes, some other fellow, too, would poke his head out from the window and offer his hands to me to slap and I would oblige; albeit a little half-heartedly. For the most passionate ones were always reserved for my two best friends.

There were quite a few other aspects that made life in my school bus quite interesting those days. Foremost among them would be the races we had with the other school buses, even from our own school. While entering Red Road – a long stretch with wide spaces that allowed vehicles an extensive and unhindered run – our school bus would generally come face to face with another one. And thus would begin the race which would last for just about a couple of minutes but would give all the inhabitants of the bus a great adrenaline rush. We would hoot and cheer raucously, egging the driver on to overtake the opposite bus. Children from the opposing bus would do the same and both the drivers would get caught in the moment and do their best to catch up with and possibly overtake each other. We would win most of the times and then mock and boo at the children of the opposite bus that often contained our classmates and friends. It was all great fun.

Another aspect that I found fascinating whilst traveling on my school bus was observing the other children. There were so many different faces with distinct traits and idiosyncrasies: the silent type, the brooding type, the always crying type, the always smiling for no reason type, the one who would mimic the bus conductor to enrage him regularly, the one who would pick up fights at the drop of a hat,  the one who would keep the proceedings in the bus alive with his incessant quips; all of them as a whole made the school bus a menagerie of intriguing creatures that left an indelible mark in my memory. Most of these were people I wouldn’t see or even interact with in school. But the school bus gave me the opportunity to spend some good time with them.   

Also, for some reason, I used to find observing the homes of the children in the bus quite fascinating. As each child would get off the bus and run towards their respective house I would peer at them even as the bus would move on, trying to imagine what the insides of their residence would be like. With the little imagination powers I had back then, I would mostly envisage the structure of their dwellings to be much like my own. Sometimes, there would be some parent – mothers mostly – to pick up the child and I would look on at them, to try and find if they had traces of my own mother in them.

Then there were those interactions of mine with the senior students inside the bus. Blessed with a rather tall frame, I would always come to the notice of the seniors. “Lambu” was my nickname and I would often be teased, quite harmlessly, for my extra long legs and pants that would get short ridiculously soon. These seniors were feared by the others in the bus. They would often be the last ones to enter the bus after school and would force anyone out of the seat – primarily near the windows at the back – they wished to plant themselves on. With me, however, they never did so and, in fact, went out of their way to make slight conversations usually bordering on “Ye height mujhe de de, lambu? (Give me this height, lambu.)” or “Padhai kaisa chal raha hai tera, lambu? (How are your studies going on, tally?)”. These were some of the moments that I didn’t actually curse myself for being tall.

There were a particular set of days during the school bus rides that had very distinctive flavors for me: the exam days, the end and beginning of the summer holidays, and Saturday afternoons.

During the exam days, a hush would descend on the entire bus with students mostly doing last minute cramming. The tension would be palpable and one could clearly hear the whirr of the bus engine amidst the tensed silence of the children gearing up to face the battle ahead of them. I wasn’t one of those who preferred last-minute cramming and whilst I would always have the course book in my hand, I would hardly be able to concentrate and would find ways to diffuse my tension by pestering my two friends. I desperately tried to hold on to that hour long ride in the exam mornings, as it kept me safe from the peril I was about to dive into.

Then there was the last day of the holidays, one of my ultimate favourites as the mood would be so light and buoyant. Everyone would be chirpy and giving each other backslaps and hugs while sharing details of what they were likely to do during the holidays. Starkly different from this mood, at least for me, would be the first day post the end of the holidays. I would sulk in gloom and would find a corner window spot where I could quietly wallow in my sorrow. Even as my friends would try and regale me with their tales of the summer, I would hardly find any interest in them and would just gaze outside the window at the streets whizzing past me, trying to find traces of my pleasurable moments from the summer gone by in them.

My most memorable moments of those school bus rides, though, came overwhelmingly from Saturday afternoons. I have some really pleasant memories of bubbling with excitement on the ride back home on Saturdays while leafing through the library book I had picked up that day and discussing how I was going to relish it with my wavy-haired friend. Saturdays, in any case, were my favourite day of the week. And the hour on the bus ride back home would give me enough time to plan and visualize how I would be spending my night reading a book and the Sunday morning watching the cartoon shows I adored. That is the one hour I really wish I could get to relive today.

In fact, just writing about these experiences makes me want to board a school bus, find a corner window seat, and just stare at the world whizzing by, without an ounce of tension in my mind. Sadly, I shall never be able to do so. But the memories I have had of those school bus days will always have a special little place in my heart, a place which I find myself visiting on some occasions when I wish to take a ride down a particular part of my formative years.

And with those memories lovingly tucked in my heart, I will continue looking forward to my morning walks and greeting those children in the tiny yellow school bus. In the hope that someday, perhaps, I shall see two hands hanging out from a window, waiting for me to come slap at them.