A Piece of Umbrella

Once upon a time a boy in my high school class asked for a piece of my umbrella. I was walking in the rain... he was close behind. I didn't give him the umbrella.I wouldn't have minded though...but in that place and time it wasn't a done thing for girls. I gave him much more later, notebooks, storybooks, cassettes. We walked a long distance together.We grew up. We went our separate ways. We didn't go our separate ways because we grew up. We would've grown anyway, together or separate.

Seven Days with Him

Every summer, the temple near my home held Bhagavata Saptahas. Those seven days were devoted to reading out the Bhagavata and interpreting the story to a rapt audience that mostly consisted of children and old women- more children during my childhood and mostly only old women in more recent times. The Saptaha masters- sanskrit scholars or monks- came in duos. The guy who interpreted the story assumed a leading position, maybe because it needed greater skills-oratory, the ability to capture the essense and imbue emotion. By the time Saptaha started the summer season of goddess festivals were mostly over- the fields were dry and vacant, houses smelt of ripe mangoes and yellow laburnum blossoms showed up everywhere. Those seven days took an entire generation of children around the temple, as yet unaccustomed to television, on a trip to distant lands and ages- populated by great kings,mighty demons who dared challenge even the Supreme One, and children too. Above all, the stories spoke of love for the One. The master sang and wept and called out Govinda Govinda and the audience couldn't help but be moved to tears. Right from my childhood till now I attended Saptahas whenever I could. My understanding changed with time; every time I came back with something new to mull on. The attraction never ceased.

The School by the Pond

Unlike the primary school where I started formal schooling, the school near my ancestral home had friendlier people. I was shifted here for the second year of schooling. Teachers were kinder and the kids were more friendly. There were vast stretches of sand between the makeshift classroom structures. Some class or the other were out playing, running about in the sand all the time. On the southern side the vast temple tank bordered the school. Vines carrying faintly fragrant pink and white flowers hung on the eastern wall. The gate was on the western side of the school and it opened to the street that went to the mainroad. School children went home in throngs happily chatting during afternoon breaks and school closings in the evening. Unlike the high school that was two kilometers away, this school never had much of a reputation for academics. Nevertheless the teachers somehow commanded a sense of awe. Children ran about freely; sun or rain, the school shed a gentle, autumnlike golden glow that held me safe. In summer the school held an annual fest after so many years. I participated in many contests and won some prizes too. Sweetest of all memories was the practice for the action song-the pink satin dress and the makeup smelling of candy. The performances lasted late into night. After my performance and collection of all the prizes I walked home with mother, aunt and uncle under the moonlit skies.