A water droplet finds its way through my window, the wind makes its presence felt, the earth slowly surrounds itself with a soothing dusty flavour, and I know, even before the droplets fall, that the monsoon is here.
The twenty–fifth monsoon of my life.
Just as the rain starts, I see people hurrying to find shade, shopkeepers putting up rainproof sheets to cover the unauthorised parts of their shops on the road, some cautious civilians holding their umbrellas with pride, and a few casual rain lovers standing still in the middle of this pace, smiling silently and enjoying this sudden change in weather. Being born in the month of July, a love for rain comes naturally to me, I suppose. I can write volumes on my thoughts about the monsoon, on kinds of rain, on waterfalls, on freshly filled ponds and the beauty of lazy water buffaloes floating in them, as if the day would never end. But the real pleasure, I believe, is to be out there and feel the serenity that comes with it.
If you observe carefully, you can see nature’s response to rain. The plants and the trees that had patiently been waiting for the first shower turn green. The cuckoo birds rejoice with their favourite song. Mountains gleefully bathe themselves with waterfalls. Rivers and lakes come to life again. Creatures like insects, reptiles and frogs come out of their homes to experience this bliss – each of them singing their own song.
Having lived the first twenty-five years of life without much trouble is an achievement in itself, I proclaimed loudly at the dining table. ‘Yes, twenty-five years is a long time, son. It’s time for you to settle down,’ replied Daadi, who is eagerly waiting to see me married. She is getting impatient with relatives enquiring about my marriage plans all the time. ‘Of course, Daadi, as soon as you find someone who can cook sabudana khichdi (a Sago recipe) as well as you, I will surrender.’ No one can cook khichdi like Daadi. The secret, she once told me, is to let it cook at its own pace – slow and steady. ‘Why rush, when you have all the time?’ is Daadi’s cooking mantra. She cooks it mildly spiced (she knows my taste) and adds extra peanuts to give it a light crunch.
However, our cook – Raju Bhai, who for some unknown reason is always in a hurry, would readily deny Daadi’s cooking technique. He would rather make a meal in minutes to keep up with this fast-paced world. Within a few days of his stay with us, it was apparent that our appetite for food would be affected by Raju Bhai’s ‘in a minute’ cooking techniques.
“Raju Bhai – I am hungry!” I would say.
“In a minute,” replied Raju Bhai.
“Raju Bhai – Is the tiffin ready? Getting late for work!”
“In a minute.”
“Raju Bhai – How far is the station from here?” I enquired one day.
“It’s very close,sir, within a minute’sdistance.” I decided to take a leisurely walk to the station. Giving up after some thirty tiresome minutes, I raised my hand to stop a cab.
I wonder if I should time Raju Bhai cooking Maggi noodles (a two-minute noodle recipe) to test his cooking abilities. Perhaps that too can be cooked in less than a minute’s time with Raju Bhai’s mantra.
The earliest childhood memory that I can recall was my strong resistance to school. I was just three years old then. My cousin and I would cry in succession every day just before the rickshaw arrived (no school bus but cycle-rickshaw during those days – which accommodated fifteen of us at a time; a nest of our bags and water bottles hanging out at the back), but despite all our efforts we were always sent to school.
In those days, school started quite early in the morning, so during winters we would spend hours boiling water on the chulha (earthen stove – for no LPG in our town). During late evenings, locals would gather on the road, create a bonfire and spend hours talking about cricket and politics. Tendulkar was in good form those days, as he still is. And, not a single politician was considered worthy, which they’re still not. I guess, some things never change. I usually joined a noisy gang which burst out with laughter every few seconds. I would nod and laugh along, even though most of the discussions were absurd to me.
A few years later, I came across a medical term called laughter therapy. I had no doubt in my mind that the noisy gang of my town had a role in its incredible discovery. Sometimes when the discussion was not of my interest, I made myself useful by finding papers and wooden sticks to keep the fire alive. As I write about it, the joy of finding a piece that could keep the fire burning, the joy of standing with a bunch of adults discussing life, laughing at their sorrows, sometimes laughing at themselves, makes me think, sometimes all that we need is good companions to keep the fire alive.
From old school days, I distantly recall the face of an arrogant girl in my class. Soon after the mid-term exams, the teacher shuffled the seating arrangement and made me sit beside her. I was shy and she had too much pride, so we rarely spoke, but one day just like that we started talking and soon became friends. I taught her Maths and she showed me her tricks for memorizing Social Studies. Before we could start something special, I moved to a boarding school. Even now after over eighteen years, she comes to my mind in her own special way. I would like to remember her as my first love. Does she remember me after all these years? Perhaps not! But what we shared must have been special, for me to still remember her. Maybe, some memories do not need to become anything. They only need to stay quietly where they are.
My stay at boarding school lasted two years. Every morning, our sports teacher would make us run five rounds of the campus, followed by fifteen minutes of yoga and relaxation exercises. Most of my classmates and I preferred only the first and last round. The other rounds were spent hiding in the school building preferably inside the corner washroom, while other athletes worked on building their stamina. One fine morning, the teacher caught us hiding and increased our number of rounds to ten. Only half the class stood up after yoga practice – the last asana performed being Shavasana.
Being raised in a small town had its own advantages and disadvantages. Some of the most incredible memories of my childhood were created due to lack of technology in our town. During those days, power cuts were very common, so most of my time was spent playing outside with the neighbourhood boys and girls. All the games that we played were not only great fun but each game had an exceptional name.
We played Gilli-Danda, Nadi-Pahad, Saankal, Pittu, Lukka-Chuppi, Kanche and Langdi. Each game had its own rules, its own fights, its own heroes, and its own unfinished arguments. We did not need much – a rubber ball, seven stones, a wooden stick, a few marbles, and a street that belonged to us until someone’s mother called us home.
Soon after, the great invention of the doorbell filled our lives with great adventure. When neighbours around school enjoyed their afternoon siesta, our restless gang made every effort to ring the doorbells. Most of the families would open the door to their surprise and soon realise our prank. However, Dada (a short-tempered man in his fifties, who loved his afternoon siesta almost as much as he loved using swear words) on being disturbed one afternoon came running to our classroom with his face turned red and disrupted the surprise history test. The event turned out to be great entertainment for the school, including the principal (who, I later found out, was himself fond of swear words). So, our names were kept under wraps. As a favour to the class, we rang Dada’s doorbell only on special occasions such as class tests and assignments to save everyone from the burden of preparation.
During summer vacation, the size of our gang would swell to more than twenty. The games would usually lead to a fight or an argument, but by the evening we would be friends again, and by night we would remember only the good parts of the day. Forgetting and forgiving the mistakes and quarrels of the previous day, and we eagerly waited for the next day with more excitement.
I sometimes wonder if children today get enough time to waste, fight, forgive, and begin again the next morning. In this fast, tough world, they need to keep up with the pace. Achievements are measured relative to a neighbour’s performance. In the process, innocence is slowly lost and, sometimes, even considered impractical in this current competitive world.
Daadi, even at the age of eighty, carries her innocence and lives her life with humility and so does our cook Raju Bhai. Even though he magically cooks meals with his ‘in a minute’ technique, deep inside he is patient and applies Daadi’s mantra of ‘letting it cook at its own pace’ in life. With a small salary, he is happier and more content than many of us.
If there were only one lesson I could take from these twenty-five years, it would not be a religious teaching or a grand philosophy, but a simple tool called patience.
On this landmark of my life, I thank you, my friends, for I have lived my childhood with great adventure and fun. I have memories of people and places that I will cherish in my own small ways.
May you have the patience to let it cook at its own pace.