Trishul Park, a requiem

Golden Memories: Part II - The End of our Musical Days

Raju, with his boyishly handsome looks, was the closest childhood friend. I miss him the most, though I miss every one of them.

Raju and I have spent a prodigious amount of time together exploring the world beyond the premises of our backyard or, to put it another way, known horizons and skylines: early morning jogs through the deep and dark green meadows, grasslands, green glades, and desolate fields of the Army Sub Area; stopping by the ancient-looking Krishna Mandir to slurp on charanamrit/ panchamrita and halwa prasad blended with kismis (raisins) that the temple priest poured into our eager cupped palms; loitering around the Trishul Park’s Water Tank, to look in at these massive rock solid heavy-duty industrial water channels and pipelines gushing furious drinking water. 

Often we’d get drenched in the showers due to faulty valve joints or leaking hoses a great deal, but that was no problem at all. Hanging out at the Water Tank was such a blast.

While in the Sub Area, we delighted in plucking ripened imli (Tamarind pods) straight from the tamarind trees and occasionally eating the raw ones too. Hunting Girgitis (Chameleons) with sticks on the big rocks and pre-historic boulders strewn around the residential campus; searching for the famed Jungle Jalebis; Army swimming pool; frolicking in the mud at the jhulla (children's park); stepping on the moist flawless greens of the Golf Courses. We have done it all together.

We never played golf, however, we loved taking off our shoes and giggling as we strolled across the dewy grass, trying to get out of the way of the rotating sprinklers!

Songs for A Lifetime

‘Aji Rooth Kar Ab Kahan Jaiyega,’ ‘Mujhe Teri Mohabbat Ka Sahara Mil Gaya Hota,’ sings Sadhana in the film Aap Aye Bahar Ayee. ‘O Mere Shahe Khuban,’ and ‘Aaja Re Aa Zara, Lehra Ke Aa Zara,’ sing an extremely handsome ever romantic actor Joy Mukherjee to the beautiful Asha Parekh in the unforgettable film Love in Tokyo.

‘Diwana Hua Badal,’ sings a wildly playful Shammi Kapoor to play-hard-to-get, uber-cool Sharmila Tagore in Kashmir Ki Kali, one of the Hindi cinemas most charming romantic films ever made. And songs like ‘Deewane Ka Naam Toh Poochho’ and ‘Raat Ke Humsafar’ from the late 1960s film An Evening in Paris are such marvellous songs that the film was shown on the Doordarshan at least once every year. Tanuja opens her heart to her love interest by telling him that she doesn't like it anywhere except being with him, ‘Yeh Dil Tum Bin Kahin Lagta Nahin.’ Amol Palekar sings 'Aane Wala Pal Jane Wala Hai’ to the girl-next-door Bindiya Goswami: in one of the most genuinely comic capers, Golmaal (1979 film). The soulful song, sung by one of Hindi cinema's legendary singers, the great Kishore Kumar, is nothing short of pure magic; it pours into your heart. 

(Who can forget the sensitive, lyrical Hindi films such as Baaton Baaton Mein, Chhoti Si Baat, Chitchor, Geet Gaata Chal, Jaane Bhi Do Yaaron, Chashme Buddoor (1981 film), Nadiya Ke Paar, Mausam, Gharaonda, Parichay, Angoor, Caravan, Saagar, Ek Duje Ke Liye, Sadma, Aap Ki Kasam, Agar Tum Na Hote, Razia Sultan, and others like Hum Kisise Kam Nahin, Hum Se Badkar Kaun, Naseeb, Tohfa, Betaab, Disco Dancer, Tarzan. Even the comedy horror flicks of the late 1980s was a treat to watch in those days: Purana Mandir, Veerana, etc.

The 1980s were an era of the polite company: not ‘globalized’ as they are currently, preoccupied with online gossip, games, and harassing web-based media, but contentedly private, nearby, wonderfully conservative human feelings of love and respect, deliciously adventurous, and a quiet, serene, incomparably smooth sense of time passing.)

Raju and I grew up listening to ‘Tere Jaisa Yaar Kahan,’ ‘Humhe Tumse Pyar Kitna,’ ‘Mere Dost Kissa Yeh Kya Hogaya,’ ‘O Majhi Re… Apna Kinara,’ ‘Mohabbat Hai Kya Chees,’ ‘Husn Pahora Ka,’ ‘Mehmaan Nazar Ki Ban Ja,’ ‘Pyar Mein Dil Pe Maar De Goli Lele Meri Jaan,' ‘Ek Raasta Hai Zindagi Jo Tham Gaye Toh Kuchh Nahi’ and ‘Pehle Pehle Pyar Ki.’ These are only a few examples. Back in the ‘80s, we used to loiter around our favourite Music Stall located across the main road.

Apart from the melodies from the 1950s, ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s that I can’t get enough of listening to, some of the most significant hit numbers that currently dominate my playlist are the power ballads from the 1990s. Songs such as ‘Saat Samundar Paar,’ ‘Dil Deewana Bin Sajna Ke,’ ‘Mere Dil Bhi Kitna Pagal Hai,’ ‘Mere Dil Ka Pata Tumhein Kisne Diya,’ ‘Dil Kyon Dhadakta Hai,’ and countless others have left an indelible mark in my heart. Talking about the past makes one very emotional at once, and nostalgia hits you hard. That’s the kind of hold these songs continue to have on me; they evoke nothing but pure nostalgia for childhood and adolescent memories. If Raju had been there at the Trishul Park during the ninety-nineties, we would have had a good time listening to these Hindi songs...

My good fortune I was a part of that golden era. I loved listening to the songs that boomed out from the music stall across the road while we played cricket, flew kites, played marbles, and ran around everywhere. Nonetheless, all of my favourite recollections from the past continue to overwhelm me. So much so that I take time off to reminisce about happy memories from my past, which I often recall and appreciate. The more I think about them, the more I want to talk about them.

Poonam and her family moved out of Trishul Park in the early nineteen-eighties. It was a reality with which I struggled to come to terms, but hardly was I able to do so, partly because she meant a world to me. Even as a kid, I did have that distinct feeling about her. What was it? Was it love or something spiritual in the name of love? Yes, it was love, by all means. Ruby and her family left almost immediately after. Their going away meant that our playing days were over, and we had to learn to navigate the desolate landscape of loss of childhood companionship with heavy hearts. Soon our days were filled with longing for them, also consumed by a desire to see them, play with them. Day after day, month after month, year after year, our hearts ached for their presence. We realized, however, that they would never be able to return to our beloved Trishul Park. We were never going to see each other again.

When Raju, Mintoo, Chhoti, Meena, and sister duo Susheela and Suguna came to stay at No. 6 block, my melancholy days instantly became joyful after Poonam left us permanently. But Poonam was never forgotten, nor did I forget our playing days with Ruby, Susheela, and Suguna. My heart will have its reasons for my dear Poonam, but destiny will have its way, tossing the sad reasoning of time and distance between the two of us. I still miss them a lot.

(Raju and I used to watch a world of great TV programs and unforgettable advertisements on Doordarshan television at his house. Classic TV serials aired on Doordarshan in the 1980s, such as Yeh Jo Hai Zindagi (which remains both Raju and mine most favourite comedy TV serial ever), Malgudi Days, Khandaan, Hum Log, Dada Dadi Ki Kahiniya, Kahan Gaye Woh Log, Vikram Aur Betaal, Circus, Neev, Katha Sagar, Ramayan, Mahabharat, Buniyaad, Nukkad, Hakke Bakke. Detective series like Karamchand, Ek Do Teen Char, Byomkesh Bakshi, Tehkikaat; animated series like Spider-Man, Duck Tales; Potli Baba Ki, Rajani, Mr Ya Mrs, Wagle Ki Duniya, Gul Gulshan Gulfam, Chitrahaar, Tenali Rama, Bharat Ek Khoj, Ganadevta, Mr. Yogi, Mirza Ghalib, Surabhi, Kakaji Kahin, Farmaan, Talaash, Darpan, Chunauti, Kacchi Dhoop, Lifeline, Oshin, and so many others; English ones such as Didi's Comedy Show, Star Trek, Diff'rent Strokes; or watching Asian Games, Olympics, Cricket, Wimbledon matches were all part of our growing-up years. 

Ah! Good old Doordarshan days. Can anyone forget the signature tune and Doordarshan montage/logo form into a moon? And the regional movies in Bengali, Malayalam, Telugu, Tamil shown on those Sunday afternoons were a treat. I miss seeing the old Doordarshan television commercials: ‘Kavithaji’s’ Surf; ‘I am a Complan boy, I am a Complan girl’ Complan. 

One of the most loved ad jingles was the ad of the family health food drink Maltova which I never forgot. The jingle goes something like this: ‘Watch them grow, watch them play, they are winners all the way, you become a Maltova mom. Health, strength, and energy, with malt, wheat, cocoa, and barley. You become a Maltova mom’. 

Vintage adverts of Horlicks; Liril; ‘kuch khaas hai zindagi main…’ Cadbury's Dairy Milk Chocolate; Forhan’s fresh mint toothpaste; Promise toothpaste; ‘peera hari balm’ Zandu Balm 'ek balm, teen kaam'; ‘kabs, acidity aur sardard’ Kayam Churna; ‘neighbour's envy, owner’s pride’ Onida, Pan Pasand's Toffee; Gold Spot the zing thing; Campa Cola; Limca; Rasna; ‘take the world in your stride’ Dinesh Suitings; Vicco Turmeric ayurvedic cream; ‘buland bharat ki buland tasvir’ Hamara Bajaj scooter; Bajaj Electricals 'jab mein chhota ladka tha, badi shararat karta tha…'; ‘doodh ki safedi…’ washing powder Nirma; ‘baa baa baa bulb’ ECE ‘ECE bulbs aur ECE tubes’; ‘hum itna chahte hain ki aap baratiyon ka swagat pan parag se kijiye” Pan Parag; Pan Pasand ‘shaadi aur tumse? Kabhi nahi!’; ‘mango Frooti, fresh & juicy’ Frooti; Maggi Hot & Sweet Tomato Chilli Sauce, ‘it’s different’; Lijjat Papad ‘ah-huh-hah Lizzat Papad’; Cinkara; ‘arrey Raju, tumhare daat toh moti jaise chamak rahe hai!’ Dabur Lal Dant Manjan ‘Dabur Laal Dant Manjan se, mookhra khil-khil jaaye!’; Dabur Amla Hair Oil; Dabur Hajmola ‘Hajmola Sir’; Dabur Chyawanprash; ‘asli vanaspati ghee Daldaa…’ Dalda ghee; ‘khao Gagan raho magan… gagan hi khao, gagan hi khilao’ Gagan Vanaspati (1981 ad); ‘yeh mehki mehki taazgi saara jahaan mehkaye…’ Pond’s Dream Flower Talc and innumerable others can never be forgotten. The list of old vintage ads is as you can see is endless. Unarguably, the 1980s were the golden era, the pinnacle, of the television viewing experience. Never will such an era ever come again.)

Telugu devotional songs like 'Ghana Ghana Sundara… Panduranga Panduranga…,' 'Sai Saranam Baba Saranam Saranam,' and a few melodic others have a high recall value for me. (Ghantasala padina pata…).

‘Ghana Ghana Sundara Karunarasa Mandira
Adi Pilupo Melukolupo Ne Pilupo Melukolupo…
Vedaga Koniyadaga.. Panduranga.. Panduranga
Ghana Ghana Sundara.. Karunarasa Mandira..’
    (Sung by Ghantasala)

In the mid-1980s, these soul-stirring melodies spanning old-time genres like Telugu Bhakthi Geethalu (or Telugu Devotional Songs) used to blare from the loudspeaker cones during Ganesh Chaturthi and Deepavali festivals. Such music played publicly on a loop was my first awakening to vernacular music as it opened up a new world of cultural interpretations, the earliest stirrings of what would become a profound nostalgic experience. Words sometimes fall short of expressing how much joy you get listening to local music. 

Songs like these provide a wealth of meaning to the time and place in which you live as you grow up listening to them.

The End of Our Musical Days

When the Music Stall (it remained nameless throughout its blessed existence), which at one time stocked up to the brim with Hindi and Telugu music cassettes, was closed down in the mid-1990s, I took it pretty hard.

I felt deeply saddened and yearned for the usual staple of music I had always enjoyed listening to for free every single day of my boyhood. The stall was gone, never to come back in business. Since it was a big-sized box-like piece constructed of sheets of tin nailed on timber frames (it could easily fit a person inside), it was not so difficult to be removed and loaded at the back of a long Tempo in less than a day. I wouldn’t have witnessed its dismantling, nor when the stock of all the cassettes and the two black sound boxes carted away.

‘Kya mausam hai,
Aye deewane dil
Arre chal kahin door nikal jaayein
Chal kahin door nikal jaayein
Koi humdam hai
Chahat ke kaabil
Toh kis liye hum sambhal jaayein
Chal kahin door nikal jaayein’
    (Sung by Kishore Kumar/Lata Mangeshkar/Mohd. Rafi)

Raju and his family relocated to Baroda when his father received his posting orders. He never came to know that the music shop where we hung out a lot listening to film music had closed down in the mid-1990s, seven to eight years after he left Trishul Park. Afterward, I too had shifted to a nearby place not very far off from Trishul Park before coming to know that the proprietor: the bearded man of the music stall, was going broke and had finally decided to fold his business up for good. Sadly he hasn’t been seen since. (I hope the bearded man is enjoying his retirement. I'd have liked to express my heartfelt gratitude to him, where ever he is, for treating us to the music from the 1970s, ‘80s, and '90s eras that left a profound impression on our minds, but we never had the opportunity. I wish him good health and happiness). In all those years, we never knew his name. 

The music stall, like Ramu bhaiyya's unforgettable kite stall, probably closed around the time I shifted my home. As I walked down the main road one evening a few years after it went out of business, I cried, my eyes heavy with tears. A tightness gripped my throat as the location of the music stall (and the kite stall) came into view. I remember I choked back the rising sobs as I stepped forward on the way, my heart pounding, realizing that the music stall of my boyhood days had vanished into the twilight of treasured history, preserved in the vault full of childhood memories from the 1980s. Their once modestly occupied space was now empty and deserted, without even a hint of the cherished existence they once enjoyed when they were in their prime, right next to the main road.

As if on cue, it brought back memories of an era that I thought had disappeared forever. Back in the golden days of the 1980s, Raju and I have regularly spent the greater half of our holidays and leisure time catching up with the new and old songs, especially the Hindi ones. I still recollect with a smile the way he and I used to marvel at the melodic sounds of Hindi and Telugu film songs that the music shop reverberated from its old retro sound boxes. We occasionally browsed through the polychromatic cassettes/tapes with vivid portrayals of the movies like Yaarana, Oonche Log, Sharaabi, Love Story, Ilzaam, Souten, Prem Rog, Aap Toh Aise Na The, Noorie, Ahista Ahista, Poonam, Kranti, Trishul, Shaan, Dostana, Desh Premee, Laawaris, Pataal Bhairavi, Satte Pe Satta, Kaala Patthar, Silsila, Kabhi Kabhie, Doosra Aadmi, Coolie, Amar Akbar Anthony, Karz, Namak Haraam, Mahaan, Ghulami, Bemisal, and many others. The bearded man, accustomed to our presence at his stall, used to smile at us in recognition as we smiled back. Hardly any words did we ever exchange with him. Perhaps, words didn’t matter when listening to great music was enough. Both Raju and I, as well as the bearded man behind the counter, had an excellent ear for it.

‘O Yaara Tu Pyaaron Se Hain Pyaara,
Mera Hain Mera Hi Rahega Dildaara…’
    (Sung by Kishore Kumar/Anupama Deshpande)

The musical booth was no longer there: it's gone into the annals of my cherished childhood recollections, which I would adore forever. I remember feeling depressed for days because a music shop that generously gave me and Raju unbridled nostalgia was lost: the most inherent element of which was Raju and our close bond of friendship. I am eager to know where he is now and what he is doing. More than thirty years have passed since we last spoke. If it’s not too much to remark on, I still long for those golden years, as also I’m infinitely saddened remembering the bearded man of the music shop and the long-gone Ramu bhaiyya’s kite booth of our good old days. In the midst of all of these emotional upheavals, I miss our days of exploration and discovery, the music stall, not to forget Ramu bhaiyya's kite stall at the front yard of which we were in the habit of spending a lot of time neglecting studies. I wish Raju and his family were here and all our younger days of the 1980s.

I can still recollect the tall slim man who owned the year-round, all-season musical stall: he had a finely-shaped black beard and a humble appearance with a light, old-fashioned hairstyle of the eighties period.

‘Kitni Khoobsurat Yeh Tasveer Hai,
Mausam Bemisal Be-Nazeer Hai,
Yeh Kashmir Hai, Yeh Kashmir Hai’
    (Sung by Kishore Kumar/Lata Mangeshkar/Suresh Wadkar)

‘Tere Chehre Se… Tere Chehre Se
Nazar Nahin Hat Ti
Nazaare Hum Kya Dekhen
Tujhe Milke Bhi Pyaas Nahin Ghat Ti
Nazaare Hum Kya Dekhen’
    (Sung by Kishore Kumar/Lata Mangeshkar)

After a brief encounter on a bus on my way home from college in the early 1990s, I never saw the music dealer again. My long leisurely spells of listening to music from that nearby audio shop ended more than 30 years ago. I’m heartbroken. I’m sure I know how Raju, my long-lost buddy, feels about our good old days when we did everything together, that friends do; he’d be just as sad as I am right now.

Every so often, I long for the happy and guilt-free hyper-activity of my childhood spent in the company of intimate girls and boys who have since migrated to far-off unknown places, never to meet again. I realize it sounds too clichéd or feels like I’m wallowing in self-pity, but I’m saying it from the bottom of my despairing heart: Those were the days that will stay with me for the rest of my life. And I’ll never forget my once close childhood friends.

Wish I could go back in time to the safety of the good old days, never having to come crashing into the liminal space of our own precariously imperilled present. If only wishes were horses, but they aren’t.

The End.

By Arindam Moulick

Click here to read Part I: "The Music of Childhood".

End of Part 2 of 2

Dedication: This memoir is dedicated to Raju (and his family), a childhood friend I have lost touch with due to time and distance. I still remember you and all our days of exploration and discovery… I will never forget our days.

The Music of Childhood

Golden Memories: Part I - A Music Stall, Friends, and Kite Flying

Time and again, I long for the past.

Snuggling down into the abyss of pure joy and leisurely living allows for a time for every purpose: remembering shyness, emotions, laments, moments of glee, smiles, the glimmer in the eye, fleeting feelings of passionate eros, recalled and reminisced over and over again whenever I can, whether in the clear light of day or the inky darkness of night, has always been, and will always be, the way I want to be in my nostalgically inclined life.

By recalling the past, I am able to leave the present out of my daily lexicon. Whenever I’m feeling down about the difficulties of the present moment or the distant future, what it will be like, or what it holds for us, I long for the warm glow of indelible nostalgia of the long-gone 1980s and ‘90s period to carry me through the highs and lows of the present moment.

Life has lost its charm, and love, the greatest joy of life, is fast ebbing away. This is kali-yuga, the age of downfall.

A Deep Sense of Nostalgia

Nostalgia is in my DNA; it runs through my veins. Slowing down and appreciating life for what it is, in my opinion, adds a new dimension to it. I’ve begun to see myself as someone who lives in the slow lane rather than one from the crowd living in the fast lane. That’s what the Coronavirus (and all its variants) did to me. So, I can’t let go of the past; it won’t ever happen. The past serves as a steady wellspring of sustenance in the kiboshed humanity of the present.

For me, the past is the ultimate guidebook for relaxing, unwinding, and reflecting and is infinitely more important than, say, the possibility of the future or the chance of things to come. The Unknown Future holds no promise and is no more well-positioned than the Self-Conscious Present; the Enlightened Past can vouch for that. Unfortunately, economic progress, financial growth, and modern technology, collectively known as change, have forever ruined those simpler times. To live in the present is to suffer.

(Parenthetically: In my opinion, and I’m not a pessimist, the past is infinitely more interesting, more familiar, more knowable than the future will ever be. While I am a romantic at heart and am not blindly nostalgic, there is nothing wrong with longing for the good old days. The past is what will set me free. I’ll never be able to let go of the past to enable my future, which may (or may not) be one of ruin and empty desolation. The future is significant, but how can we comprehend it without first understanding the past from which it emerges? Our past will determine our future. So keep your past close and refuse to let it go.)

Suffice it to say I connect the past and present to see the future. If you were to ask me, what's your guilty pleasure? Your indulgence? (Having just one or two is insufficient; I could indulge in a slew of guilty pleasures.) But, to be honest, I spend far too much time dwelling on the past: I do it because it provides me with quality, productive ideas, inspiration, expectations, perspectives, and love, to name a few of the many things I recall from the past.

I still long for the solemn beauty of the 1980s and early 1990s.

Being hyper-focused on the past prepares me to go forward in life, and also to keep looking back is the natural motivation that keeps me rooted in the present and get by the difficult times it inflicts upon me.

Therefore, I need the past more than I need the present or what is to come: the future, one that is not worth arguing even it manages to look bright or, for all I care, bleak. You continue to live, no matter what the future has in store for you. Thankfully, the fragrance of the yesteryears never ceases to overwhelm me regardless of how old I get year after year: tossed about from one hell onto the next, I will always seek out its balmy solace, its tranquil sense of embrace, the profoundly felt moments of love and longing, lost friends and relationships, sights, sounds, smells, and scents.

The past nourishes my soul in a manner that it is impossible for me to fully articulate how deeply it is intertwined with my sense of self, my nature, and my personal inclination. The past, which, I believe, is synonymous with nostalgia, provides me with a feeling of profound spiritual fulfilment. (Of course, not in the way that enlightened swamijis or sadhu sants/sadhvis or rishi munis are prone to affirm their spiritual ecstasies. Far from it.) Be that as it may, the past or nostalgia keeps me rooted in the affirmative energy of hope and longing that I know will make my fears of self-doubt, regrets, laments, scattered focus, inner demons gradually cease. As a family man, I live in gratitude: grateful to be alive in the romanticism of the present moment: glad to be a part of God's project called Humanity, and glad to love and be loved in return.

Without sounding a bit too hard done by, I like pretending to be a little bit mysterious regarding the nostalgic subject of looking back to the past or going down memory lane. Well, I suppose it is nothing but a deliberate self-care need.

Also, as naïve as I am, I do not pretend to be an expert in anything, but how much better it was before all this digital invasion, computerized intrusion, or whatever else. Anyway, enough of my yakking, let’s sing some songs.

When I hear the words of these songs, I think of my childhood home and how much I miss those days. The following are some of the songs I grew up listening to and singing to myself as a child:

'Chhookar Mere Man Ko
Kiya Tune Kya Ishara…'
(Sung by Kishore Kumar)
~~~
'Pal Pal Dil Ke Paas Tum Raheti Ho,
Jeevan Meethi Pyar Tum Kaheti Ho…'
(Sung by Kishore Kumar)
~~~
'Bade Achche Lagte Hain
Yeh Dharti, Yeh Nadiya, Yeh Raina. Aur, Aur Tum'
(Sung by Amit Kumar)
~~~
'Last Christmas I Gave You My Heart
But The Very Next Day You Gave It Away…'
(Sung by George Michael)
~~~
'Dil Ke Aasman Pe Gam Ki Ghata Chhayi, 

Aayi Aayi Aayi Teri Yaad Aayi'
(Sung by Amit Kumar)

However, after such brief interludes, I am thrust back into the grim reality of the present, wondering what will happen next and how we will survive this ongoing zoonotic (alleged) viral infection. Picking up our lives again will not be easy for many of us, nor will it be a choice.

Remembering Our Good Old Days

‘Priyathamaa Nanu Palakarinchu Pranayamaa
Athithilaa Nanu Cherukunna Hrudhayamaa…’
(Sung by S P Balasubramanyam / S Janaki)

When I lived in Trishul Park, a tiny music stall nestled between Srinivasa Stationery, a book and stationery store, and Creams Continental, an ice cream parlour, provided me with a lifetime of near-photographic nostalgic memories. This musical temple was the catalyst that sparked my discovery of nostalgia's hidden power - the power of love and longing, the pain of loss, temptations and self-delusions, discoveries and exploration, comic books, Doordarshan television ads and serials of the 1980s, and the bonds of innocent childhood friendships from another time and place.

As I listened to the songs, my initiation into a world of nostalgic contemplation and reflection became increasingly enchanting as the years passed, and it gave me a greater sense of belonging and meaning to a time and a place of unforgettable childhood memories. I still remember my life's most enchanting eras: the 1980s and 1990s, with admiration, gratitude, and deep longing. Trishul Park has a strong nostalgic pull even today. (I wish I could go back in time and stay there until the day I die).

Almost every Hindi or Telugu song (rarely if ever English) I’d heard from that stall had the mysterious power to evoke unforgettable memories of lost friendships and happenings throughout my school and college life.

Scores of Telugu hit numbers from the 1990s like ‘Priyathamaa,’ ‘Chiluka Kshemama,’ ‘Yeto Vellipoyindhi Manasu’ and the hip-hopping numbers ‘Bangaru Kodi Petta’ and ‘Kanyakumari Kanapadadha Daari’ have a way of making you groove.

Early 1980s song ‘Banti Chamanti,’ meaning ‘Marigold Chrysanthemum’ was a perfectly titled song that played over and over on the sound boxes for an extended period every morning. Most often, the song offered a backdrop of our cricket playing sessions during those childhood days.

During Sankranti, we flew kites with Ramu bhaiyya while listening to sometimes ‘Banti Chamanti’ or the heart-touching ‘Tere Jaisa Yaar Kahan’ or powerful innocence of ‘Mohabbat Hai Kya Cheez,’ ‘Bahon Mein Teri Masti Ke Ghere,’ and ‘Ye Galiyan Ye Chaubara’ blaring from the Music Stall across the Main Road. Ramu bhaiyya was not only a master kite flyer but also was your handy neighbourhood painter, a painter of signboards. Having to make ends meet by setting up a paan and cigarette stall that also stored kites of various sizes and colours during Makar Sankranti, he and his hands-on brother were both going from strength to strength, keeping their new stall for some length of time: For, I think, five fruitful years up till 1987, their paan stall which was located diagonally opposite to the Music Stall - both coincidently painted faded blue - I frequented with my friend Raju was doing just about okay, before, sadly, it had to be shut down probably either due to low levels of customer patronage or a small number of customers that were not enough to manage a stall profitably.

Although they used to sell kites in great numbers once every year, year after year, but the sale of paan, bidi, and cigarettes had begun to wane. With their paan stall permanently shut, the ever-so-jovial Ramu bhaiyya and his brother were suddenly gone from our midst. Their kites were no longer freely available for us to buy. I remember how our glorious kite flying years (during Sankranti season) suddenly ran aground. Since our Ramu bhaiyya was not around, we became crestfallen and demoralized about the whole enjoyment of kite flying. (I remember sticking light-weight colourful ribbons to the tail of all the kites I flew).

‘Tu Is Tarah Se Meri Zindagi Mein Shamil Hai
Jahan Bhi Jaaun Yeh Lagta Hai Teri Mehfil Hai’
(Sung by Manhar Udhas)

‘Aao Mere Pas Aur Aao Na Ghabrao Na Sharmao

Yahi Hai Pyar Ka Shama Dard Hai Jawan’

(Sung by Kishore Kumar)

Soon all those days spent playing cricket, listening to music, or simply exploring the surrounding parklands, going jogging to the Sub Area to eat Jungle Jalebis or ripe imli straight from the trees, came to an end. Rajveer M. (Raju), his brother Mintoo, their cute little sis Sunita, their divine, heartbreakingly beautiful cousin Meena R., and our mutual friend Ganesheelal, who occasionally joined us for playing a game of marbles, all shifted their residences within two years of their fathers' Army job postings. The only consolation was Raju and his family, as they stayed at No. 6, Trishul Park, for many years. His father received his posting orders much later, in the middle of 1988, when they needed to leave our beloved pasture of heaven. Our endless cricket matches and joyful kite flying days that came around, especially during every Sankranti season, had all come to an end.

Poonam (Gudia), Ruby, Susheela, and her taller, older sister Suguna have been old friends from another timeline who had long since faded into distant memory. (During the summer holidays, we boys and girls used to have small tea parties every morning. The girls were generally in charge of our laborious cooking sessions while we boys, hoping to please them, had ensured that the vegetables were cut and ready to be cooked in the tiny pots and pans that the girls were admirably skilled at using for cooking. We cooked dal and rice over makeshift miniature bonfires that emitted as much smoke as if a house had caught fire! We had singing contests, played Antaksharis (the parlour game of the ending letter), Langri Taangs (Hopscotch), Chhupun-Chhupais (Hide and Seek), Pithoos (a stack of flat stones one over the other and hitting them with a softball); burned discarded glass bangles on the candle flame to create colourful longish garlands of various shapes and sizes. I also used to give small children piggyback rides. Raju and I cycled around Trishul Park on our fathers' bicycles.) They, too, must have returned to that sweet old enchanting spot of our earlier lives from time to time after moving on to a different place elsewhere. That bygone era, that olden past, which inevitably changed into the present, speaks longingly of all of us kids who once had our childhood homes at Trishul Park. Today, through all of the stories we told, each of us with our memories and stories we remember from that time, we will always smile and laugh as we recall one another with unbridled nostalgia and wishing we could see each other at least once. 

(Embracing love early: I remember feeling a warming tingle in my heart as my feelings for Poonam grew fonder. She and I had zero degrees of separation - both being on the brink of early teenhood and attending school. We shared our feelings for each other quite early, finding ourselves pink-cheeked and smitten. The weather was different back then - radiant and splendid, in contrast to today's polluted atmosphere everywhere. The clear light of day ricocheted along the buildings, the neem tree leaves sizzled in the sparse summer air, the trees swayed to the music of the passing breeze that did come by, and the atmosphere was serene and lovely. In the cold nook of the jina (stairway), we (and all the others) usually would get together to play with our toy pots and pans and plan steaming miniature bowls of soup, dal, rice, and some warmed Fryums on little bonfires. As though in affirmation, songs would drift over from the music stall across the main road into the realm of our loving togetherness. It was all very chaste and private, and we managed to keep it that way without anyone noticing or coming to be aware of what I will euphemistically call our compelling affection for one another. As the sun shone down on the summer days, our young love blossomed in secrecy. It was the only way we could be ourselves.

Back then, even as youngsters, we felt able to ‘like someone,’ nurture feelings for someone who becomes a significant other in a polite society that does not necessarily allow the euphoric excitement of the "in love" experience of the couple newly in love. Such a wonderful sense of belonging may seem childish and off-putting to most grown-ups, but to youngsters like us, it was a revelation. The notion of the mysterious word Love doesn’t cut much ice for those who don’t readily approve of such a primal and mysterious process, such base evolutionary drive of two souls experiencing their first flush of significant intimacy. Anyhow, falling in love was a magical high that we had experienced a long time ago, an endlessly fascinating all-encompassing wonder that naturally we had to countenance).

‘Jab Hum Jawan Honge, Janey Kahan Honge

Lekin Jahan Honge Wahan Fariyad Karenge, Tujhe Yaad Karenge’

(Sung by Lata Mangeshkar / Shabbir Kumar)

‘Karvatein Badalte Rahe Saari Raat Hum,
Aap Ki Kasam, Aap Ki Kasam’
(Sung by Kishore Kumar / Lata Mangeshkar)

Then, in the summer of 1987, things abruptly changed, first with Meena's departure, and then a year later in 1988, when Raju and his family were to go on posting to Gujarat. After those sad years of unexpected but mournful partings, I never flew a kite again.

All that remains are their indelible memories and the memories of the music stall that Raju and I used to pay a visit off and on. Across the main road, there used to be a well-known cinema theatre, S. Talkies, where we watched quite a few movies in Hindi and English: Tarzan, Main Balwaan, Naseeb, Romance, Mr. Natwarlal, Bawarchi, Kudrat, Aap Ki Kasam, Teri Meherbaniya, Boxer, Razia Sultan, and the cheesy horror story Purana Mandir; and Hands of Steel, First Blood, Rambo III, Enter the Dragon, Charlie Chaplin’s The Kid. (Sadly, the old S. Talkies cinema has long since been demolished. Old landmarks give way to bizarre new ones. In its place now stands a gigantic, gravity-defying, box-like high-rise. No one could prevent the onslaught of free-market capitalism from taking firm hold of our contended conservative lives. Entities, for example, the ones we came to know recently: capital accumulation, cut-throat competitive markets, a price system, demand and supply, ferocious profit-ism - all these had turned our archaic, yet perfectly breathable beautiful world into one of complete chaos for the sake of mindless economic development). Another movie theatre we loved to go to every Saturday was called Manoranjan - this was an open-air theatre accessible only to army personnel and their family. We saw a lot of Hindi, English, and occasionally Bengali movies at this much-loved venue: Beautiful People, Superman, Fist, Ben Hur, Police Academy, Conan the Barbarian, and Romance, Mr. Natwarlal, Bawarchi, Kudrat, Aap Ki Kasam, and many others. Those were the times of plenty.

Ramu bhaiyya’s stall was closed down sometime in the late 1980s and has never reopened. His well-deservedly what can be called proud legacy was the colour palette of shopfronts and small billboards found everywhere you looked. While across the road, the bearded man’s music booth continued to sell music tapes for a few more years, but with little customer patronage, it, too, had to close its doors for good.

To think that the shop’s handsome bearded owner, who almost always sat with his legs crossed and hands folded on his lap, implying a reserved nature of a person, listening to the music he played on the sound boxes kept a short distance away every morning, afternoon, and evening, with a benign smile on his face, couldn’t sell his stock of audio cassettes by the dozens as he, and we as music listeners, would have liked, was heart-breaking for both Raju and me. Wanting to do so much, but was unable, for an uncommonly musically-inclined person and his much-appreciated music stall that gave us so much nostalgia during our childhood days is something I look back with regret but also with contentment. Alas.

With their departure, all of my happy days of kite flying and playing cricket have disappeared and gone. And I’m still living in eternal contemplation of the golden years of my life.

The days are long and empty
The nights are mournfully moonlit…

[…to be continued.]

By Arindam Moulick

Click here to read part II: "Trishul Park, a requiem".

End of Part 1 of 2

Dedication: This memoir is dedicated to Raju (and his family), a childhood friend I have lost touch with due to time and distance. I still remember you and all our days of exploration and discovery… I will never forget our days.