Smells from Bombay

Many people from my ancestral family lived in Bombay. They'd all left much before I was born, in search of jobs. Closest relatives among them were my mother's brother and sister. They were both married, but didn't have children when I was young. I was the only child in the entire family at that time. Everyone doted on me.

My earliest memory of uncle U was around the time I was three or four. Visits from Bombay were festive occasions for me- they all brought sweets and new clothes. Sweets attracted me more than clothes- they had a rich aroma and bright colors. All sounded happy- there was a lot of chatter going on in the otherwise quiet household.

I would hover around when uncle U opened his suitcase. The suitcase smelt of toothpaste and fresh plastic- but it also had an indefinable element. To me it was the smell of Bombay. His suitcase always carried that peculiar smell through all his visits over decades.

Uncle M

My ancestral home's a huge place. Different seasons, weathers and times of the day created many different moods around it. One morning I was perched on Uncle M's lap and chatting with him. He was sitting on a huge armchair. He had a beard. He'd answer all my questions smilingly- the smile was almost a permanent fixture on his face. I don't recall when he slipped out of the place. Then after sometime someone new appeared at the gate and called out to me, to go to the temple with him. He didn't look familiar. Someone said it was Uncle M- but this new face was clean shaven. I concluded there were two Uncles M- this one must be the junior Uncle M. The senior appealed better to me- I refused to go with the junior, no matter how he coaxed me.

Room in the Train

It must've been one of the visits to my hometown. Felt like it was a room. In my memory the room was empty, but for father and mother-there was lots of space. I flitted to and fro between their seats. There was a slight frown on father's face. One of them told me to sit still.

Silhouettes

For a small child, there is little or no boundary between the self and another.

Father and mother were both silent figures. I don't remember hearing them talking. Father had a gentle smile whenever he looked at me. Mother was brooding and gloomy. I felt a sadness come over me when I looked at her moving about. But she couldn't have been sad, for she had energy for a lot of hard work. She cooked nice meals and insisted on teaching me slokas.

Mother says aunt K was there with us all that time-but I don't remember her as part of those days. Father would take me for evening walks after he came back from office. I remember standing in front of a zoo cage- it must have been the owl.

Hey owl? Ugh ah..
You ok? Ugh ah..
Headache on knee? Ugh ah...
Fever in tummy? Ugh ah...
Wanna peanut? HMMM!

Father sang for me. He still entertains small children pretty much the same way.

City by the Sea

I was born in a small city by the sea. It's a beautiful place in my mind- clear blue skies, blue sea, clean sand, clean, green-fringed streets. It's not really memories- I was too small to remember. I have no idea how this impression came about-perhaps a few visits to the beach...father took me for walks too.

I have faint memories of the house where I lived. It was sparsely furnished. I remember a room where there was perhaps only an armchair. I remember the armchair because father used to chant his morning stotras there. I liked to sit on his lap and listen to him. Mother says I even learnt some slokas from listening...they must have felt proud of my phonographic memory. Maybe that's how mother got the idea of teaching me slokas. She knew quite a lot. I don't think I liked being taught.

I remember looking out the window, into a brightly lit day. A figure passed by the window. I think I called out to her. Mother says it was the maid Kamalamma. I used to ask her to bring me flowers it seems.

Another time, I was looking out the gate. The light was yellowish- perhaps it was evening. A child was sitting on a pushcart that was moving. I thought I was the child.