I was born in
1947, a couple of months before the tricolored flag proclaimed India’s
independence. My father was twenty three
and in his final year in the Mysore Medical College. My mother was fifteen. I was born in my maternal grandfather’s house
in Secunderabad. They named me Chaya,
after the Sun God’s wife, because I was born at sunrise. Chaya also means shadow and on the Indian
railway platforms, a cup of hot tea!
The political
scenario in Secunderabad, around that time, was volatile. The twin cities of Hyderabad and Secunderabad
had predominantly Muslim population and the Nizam wanted either an independent
State or to merge with Pakistan. The
Razakar movement – the uprising of the army of Nizam against Independent India,
provoked police action resulting in breakdown of law and order. There were rumors of babies from both Hindu
and Muslim communities being massacred.
My grandfather, a leading advocate of the Andhra Pradesh High Court,
sent me, under tight security, to Mysore.
I was four months old. My
grandparents (father’s parents) became my guardians till my eleventh year, when
my parents moved from Secunderabad to Mysore.
***
All my
childhood memories are linked to 43 Nazarbad, my grandparents’ house, where I
grew up, along with my uncle Gopal and cousin Vasuki. They were both ten years older and bullied me
a lot but also pampered me!! My
grandfather (thatha) was my greatest friend and grandmother, a benevolent
dictator. Everybody was afraid of her,
even thatha. She was a meticulous home
manager. Cleanliness was the motto of her
regime. Up at the crack of dawn, she
would milk Harini, our spotted cow and while the milk boiled, she would dust
the entire kitchen, including all the containers on the shelf. It was then time to supervise the maid as she
cleaned out the cow barn, garden and the rest of the house.
With my grandfather and dog Liberty
Talking of
cows, Harini had her calf in our backyard. I was just seven and grandmother prohibited me
from coming anywhere near. Curiosity
drove me to a ‘porthole’ on the staircase, overlooking the backyard. I stood on a stool and peeped. What a glorious experience it was. Harini mooing while grandmother gently coaxed
the tiny calf, Sudha into the world.
Harini started licking her babe.
I could never get over the thrill of seeing the birth of a new life. Years later, when our dog Tanya gave birth to
puppies in our guest room, I made my sons Arjun and Anil, six and five years
old, watch the miracle. I believe kids
will have more value for life when they see the agony of a mother in
labour! But, Tanya’s puppies, all four
of them died as she slept with her paw protectively thrown on them. Tanya went berserk, running around the room,
looking for her pups which we buried. I
cannot help thinking of some parents who smother their children with two much
love, not giving them enough breathing space to lead the life they want. Seeing Tanya’s agony, I decided never to keep
a dog. Her mute suffering reflected in
her weepy eyes, continue to haunt me.
My upbringing was more a
commitment than a labour of love for grandmother. From braiding my long hair to giving me oil
bath every Sunday to subjecting me to fortnightly stomach wash with cod-liver
oil (ugh!) to nursing me to health after the usual chicken pox-mumps-measles,
she never slackened her pace. I had no
choice but to eat whatever she made. She
was a great cook and took pride in feeding the family with the best. Looking back, I wonder how she managed that
because thatha was an honest, retired government engineer with a modest
pension. He owned very fertile land in a
village close by and I remember how our store room was always piled high with
rice. My cousins and I loved squatting
on the ‘mountain’ of rice, as it was taken in a bullock cart to the rice mill
or wherever, for ‘polishing’. We poured
measures of rice grains on each other’s head like we were bathing and threw
handful of rice at each other, like snowballs.
Today, when I buy a handful of rice after paying a bagful of money, I
recall those days of plenty, with anguish.
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