My father works for the Border Roads Organization whose job is to build and maintain the strategic roads in the tough terrains of our borders, most notably, those with China and Pakistan. Due to this he keeps getting posted at far off places and I have been to most of them.
I feel quite happy to have seen such places and people. Its great to know that how lives exist at the most distant of places, how there is a whole other reality away from the great cities which occupy most of the sound bytes and the written words generated.
Lately, there has been a trend of celebrating the average, the unknown and the underdog. Phrases like mofussil towns, small villages, little known hamlets have become very common.
The medal hauls of several of our athletes at the CWG has contributing in increasing the limelight glare.
The places these phrases describe have been the places I have lived most of my life in. Here are a few re-collections from that past.
THE BRIDGE
As far back as my memory goes and from the time I remember having memories of the world, I lived at a place called Ramban in the state of J&K.It was a small place behind which the tumultuous Chenab river flowed. Its water white and swirling due to the rapids... It was located on the way to Srinagar and came under the Jammu Province.
There was a small kindergarten school we walked to everyday. Me and my brother. Rehman bhaiya would accompany us to the school and back from there.
On the way to school there was a wooden bridge over a small rivulet. During the rains, the rivulet would swell and take on greater and dangerous proportion. The water would take on a brownish hue due to all the mud being washed from uphills. It always reminded me of the color of tea in a morning cup. It was like a river of tea. Once it rained so heavily that the bridge got washed away. In the morning it was there when we crossed it to go to school but when we were returning back, it was not there.
Rehman Bhaiya carried our bags and both of us one by one on his shoulders and crossed the rivulet on foot. Judging by the fact that he could do it on foot, the water couldn't have been very dangerous, but it did wash away the bridge. I have never found a satisfactory explanation for this but it really happened.
SCHOOL BAG
I loved my little school bag from the first day I saw it.It was green colored and completely made out of cloth except the metal fasteners for closing it. It didn't have the click-shut metallic clips that bags later started having. It was a 'basta' as it is called in hindi.
We used to sit on the floor in our classes as there were no desks or chairs. I cannot remember having ever studied anything. There were a lot of children and a lot of noise in the class. My fellow-students were mostly little girls and boys who came to the school from surrounding villages, the kids of the laborers who worked at Papa's sites and children of his peers. Everyday when the teacher came into the class, I would open my bag to take out the notebook and pencil but everyone around would be busy in clamoring around. The teacher would enter the class and after writing alphabets on the black board get busy with some knitting or other stuff.
The class soon used to erupt into a total confusion and I would be more than happy to join in. At half-break, we would go out for playing. There was a senior girl in the school who would come to our class and play with children. She was particularly fond of taking me by the arms and then swinging in circles.
It was the kind of swinging movement that girls do in groups while holding hands across. You may have seen it in numerous Bollywood depictions of the heroine's home in the village where her pretty sisters and friends seem to have nothing else to do but giggle and run around in groups.
Now when this swinging is done with a little kid, its really thrilling and enjoyable as you can feel your whole body lifted up with your legs extended in the air and going round and round. It was during one of these swinging sessions that my hands slipped out of her hands in mid air and after a momentous mid-air flight I hit my head on a stone. All that I remember after that is waking up to see Rehman bhaiya's and all the kids' faces leaning over me in the classroom. It couldn't have been too long after the fall as I could feel the blood-wet shirt and it seemed my green bag had gone red too.After that I remember wanting to sleep.I just turned over and slept.
The teacher and Rehman bhaiya must have had a hard time getting me to the hospital and getting the forehead bandaged. Surprisingly, I don't remeber feeling any pain. Its the case with most childhood injuries I've had. I don't remember screaming or crying in pain. Maybe its the case with everybody.
But that swing-and-fall injury gave me a scar on the forehead which remained prominent for some years. Unfortunately, it wasn't in the shape of lightning and in my later years, whenever i used to read Harry Potter, I would go upto the mirror and try finding similarity between my scar and the lightning scar. It was mostly gone by then and I used to be pretty disappointed at it.
Another thing that I must say here is that I wasn't a little kid when I first read Harry Potter, I was in the second year of my graduation and I had borrowed the book from a friend, Siddhartha.
I still have this long cherished dream of owning all the seven parts someday.
More on the 'Childhood by Chenab' later.
