Awakenings

Most of the people that surrounded me in the erstwhile village were poor and semi-literate. I was subconsciously aware that they were living in ignorance and fear. In the nights when the owl hooted I cringed in animal fear, for the owl was believed to be the messenger of the god of death. The womenfolk in the household were scared too; they heated iron in the chulha in the hope that it would silence the fearsome bird. One day a two year old boy in the neighboring house died of snakebite. His family lived in a shack of a house next to mine. When I returned from school I heard the women wailing. He used to babytalk to me whenever I looked down from the first floor windows. I felt grief, fear and a vague sense of despair, a feeling that the child should not have died.

Things brightened up whenever my father came down for holidays. Again without my conscious awareness, he represented another way of life.

By the age of five, I had started reading. I did not know what was good, bad or appropriate for children. I read whatever I could find and comprehend. There was a lot of time to read too, as I was left to my own company most of the time. Thus from the bookshelves in the corner room, minds spoke to me of beauty and glory. And unbeknown to me, from beyond the streets and hours along the highway, a bustling city and many cities to follow beckoned to me with their well-lit roads, movie halls, live art performances and a promise of freedom from fear.

Old Men and Ancient Evenings

Both of them were probably in their fifties,so to a child of my age they looked like old men. It was growing dark after sundown when I saw the first standing at the door to his house near the temple gate. He smiled when I passed the temple gate. It was a gay, carefree smile. He asked me something and soon I was talking animatedly with him.

The family was probably there for quite some time when I met him. His youngest daughter, the one with honey eyes and full lips, became my friend.

What is it that often makes children the opposite of their parents? He was a renowned scholar of Sanskrit literature, and known for his wanton ways. His daughter my friend looked quite like him, but she grew into a stern, serious girl. I too became the opposite of my father, the wayward daughter of a stern father.

It was again blue clouded sunset sky when I met the second of the two old men. He was the seniormost of the only Brahmin family in our area, and the priest at the temple owned by the family. I don't remember who in my family took me there, but he greeted me with a laughter filled voice when I was introduced to him. He knew my father and was very fond of him. "Go tell your father I asked of him," he said cheerfully. Though learned, he wasn't known either to be a scholar or an imprudent man, but his eyes shone with glee and his voice rung out in merriment.

When these men laughed, it was way different from my father's thoughful smile. I never doubted my father's wisdom, but strangely I saw wisdom in these old men too.

Little Girl, Interrupted

Thanks to father's frequent postings, mother and I spent some of my early years at our ancestral home when he was posted to remote locations or on short tenure positions. Whenever father came home, he would take me along while going for his afternoon nap. By the time of four, or even earlier, I had lost the habit of sleeping in the afternoon. Guess young children fear losing out on fun by sleeping-they fall asleep only when they can't help it anymore.

This was one of those times when father was home. I had acquired this huge tin that worked as some sort of drum. Don't remember if it had any resemblance to rhythm or music, but I was fond of playing with it. One day when father took me upstairs for the mandatory siesta, I decided I had enough of this spoilsport. I told him I wanted to pee and sneaked out. Within minutes I was on my drum, wreaking havoc to the ears of everyone around. I missed dad coming downstairs. He arrived noiselessly behind me, gave one nice tight whack and dragged me upstairs.

The surprise hurt more than the spanking. But I was too proud to cry,that too in front of my dad. I tore to shreds all that I could lay my hands on, lying there and fuming. From the corner of my eyes I could see dad watching and smiling.

I didn't go near him for the rest of the afternoon. In the evening father beckoned me, made me sit on his lap and asked "it hurt, huh?"