Jungle Jalebi: A Jalebi from The Jungle

Anecdotes from The Past - IV

To our surprise, our quest for that elusive Jungle Jalebi—which Raju and I had been pursuing a little too obsessively—ended in our friend's backyard garden on a hot summer day when the sun meant serious business.

When we first heard about the existence of a fruit called Jungle Jalebi (Pithecellobium dulce, also known as monkey pods or Madras thorn), it immediately piqued our interest. The name of the fruit sounded so intriguing and original that we decided to venture to the outermost reaches of Trishul Park suburbia to find it. However, it was not easy to find one. Nowhere in Trishul Park or the Sub Area beyond where we suspected there could be something could we locate the tree. That was until one day, a friend who occasionally played cricket with us showed it to us in his garden near the jhula. We found that the tree was medium-sized and bore what we already pictured, spirally or jalebi-like fruit, hidden behind the wildly growing backyard of his dormitory. Raju and I exhaled with relief when we spotted a wild-growing Jungle Jalebi tree. (Whoa! After searching far and wide and failing to find it, we may finally officially proclaim that we have located it, eaten it, and tasted it.)

Eventually, Raju and I plucked one each, unsure if we could pop it in our mouths just like that, but prodded on by our friend saying, "Go ahead. Give it a shot. Eat," we ate the edible part as shown by him and his spry little sis Neelam (who earlier had enlivened the open garden space with her arty markings made using a slender tree twig on the sand and smiled heavenly), of what looked like the pink, and greenish-white sweet and sour seed pods plucked one by one from the spiral jalebis, and seemed to have liked the savour. It tasted mildly sweet and tangy, bearably musky and acrid—all rolled into one mouthful of an exotic fruit that had previously kept us spending much of our waking hours thinking about how to fetch them and eat if we could until the day we got the chance to try it in somebody's backyard garden right in our beloved Trishul Park premises.

Gratified or something close to it, not sure, we found ourselves merely nodding sagely in unison as we munched on the raw seed pods in a spiral string, a queer fruit that we don't take every day, not even occasionally, not even rarely, if so ever because nobody sells them, not available in the market or anywhere. (Jungle Jalebi grows secretly in somebody's backyard garden, possibly only in the cantonment area.) Shooting funny looks at each other, which we both can't interpret but wondering, "Is this good?" or probably wondering if we have to hurry back home and void our bowels! Thankfully, it didn't come to that. We thanked him for showing us the elusive hard-to-find fruit pods and letting us lug a handful of them (filled into our pant pockets) from his wildly growing garden yard. As we left, Neelam waved us off with a cheerful "See you, bye!"

**

As Raju and I were walking home, the gorgeous melody of "Jab hum jawaan honge, jaane kahaan honge, lekin jahaan honge wahan fariyaad karenge, tujhe yaad karenge" could be heard from across the main road. It was from the only audio stall in our lonely Alwal town. We would periodically stop by it to listen to music and get a peek at the latest Hindi movie soundtrack cassettes. Whether we were playing outdoors or flying kites, the ballads from the stall were never far from our minds, inspiring some of the fondest memories of listening to film songs during our childhood. As soon as we recognized the tune from the movie we'd once seen at the open-air theatre, we couldn't help but sing along. (Realizing we had a new song in our kitty to use anytime the Antakshari game came up with the girls, we sang harder, as we walked along, than necessary to ensure we got the tunes right.) Those were the good old days!

**

That was the last time we saw Neelam and her brother, our mutual acquaintance—who had happily encouraged us to eat the crazy Jungle Jalebi pods growing in their back garden—in 1983 or 1984.

Had Raju spoken about the tiny little butterflies fluttering in his stomach, he would have said something like this: 

We were all children growing up... Neelam was six or seven years old, but she had a breathtakingly beautiful face that seemed almost forbidden at such a young age, a subtle hint of graceful femininity. Her doll-like face, sharp eyes with arched black eyebrows, and milky fair complexion seemed to shimmer in the sunlight, leaving an indelible impression on you. That day, she (and her brother) were standing in their back garden, smiling sweetly in the early morning light, and Bappin and I couldn't help but think of her as an English rose (or a magnificent ‘desi gulab’) we'd never seen before. If this isn't love, then what is? And yet, if someone were to write a story about her, it would have a happy ending.

Neelam's handsome older brother, whom everyone called "Chauhan," was an excellent cricket all-rounder, and cricket was a compelling game that all the youngsters of Trishul Park found time to indulge in. Everyone engaged in cricket like there was no tomorrow. Pace bowling was Chauhan's chosen specialty, and he bowled similarly to one of our favourite sporting icons, Kapil Dev. In our little ways, we tried emulating the fearsome fast bowling attack of the legendary 1980s West Indies team that we watched on television—Michael Holding, Malcolm Marshall, Courtney Walsh, Curtly Ambrose, Andy Roberts, and so on. Raju and I played on Chauhan's and other teams during the school breaks in October and December. We would conduct matches on a bet between 50 and 150 rupees, which was, in those days, a significant sum of prizemoney to win.

Raju and I never sought Jungle Jalebi again after that first (and the last time). We forgot about it. It was good while it lasted, but we got a move on. As time rolled from month to month and year to year, we became more interested in flying kites or rolling cycle tyres with a stick or playing cricket or I-Spy ("eyes-spies"/Hide and seek) with children of all sizes from nearby dormitories; even girls would join us to play I-Spy, as we would join them to play Langdi tang (tag and hopscotch) hopping on only one leg, or Tikkar billa or Ludo. Homework could wait! At times, we played cricket with a real bat* and something that looked like a bat at other times. We watched movies at the open-air cinema Manoranjan every Saturday or pursued the pleasures of viewing Doordarshan programs on our neighbours’ TVs or going to the TV room at the jhula to watch them.

*(I once received a cricket bat as a gift. Unfortunately, during one of the matches, some idiot stole it from the ground and took it home, and despite my repeated requests, the people who took it never bothered to return it. I lost that bat forever.)

Rajesh, Rinku, Swamidas, Kancha, Tinda, Raju, me, and other school-going students would congregate in one of Trishul Park's numerous open spaces and engage in intense cricket sessions until 4 or 5 pm. Our squad would purchase red Cork balls lined with double or triple seams to play all those delightful cricket matches with the sensational seniors. Rajesh and Kancha were the only people who did not reside in Trishul Park and would travel a considerable distance to join us for the cricket friendlies.

**

Jungle Jalebi became a wonderful folklore in the friendship circle of our childhood days in the early 1980s, and its memory lingers even today.

(To be continued…)

By Arindam Moulick

Trishul Park: Our Home Forever

Anecdotes from The Past - III

Discovering your passion is one of life's greatest joys.

When my dear friend Raju and I were in upper primary school, slightly more grown up, we discovered our lifelong passions. Thank heavens golfing wasn't one of them; it didn't interest us the slightest bit. Unlike golf, we found books and comics fascinating and spent countless afternoons reading aloud from the books we came across. Mintu and Choti would sit on the floor mat and lean against a wall to read comic books, mimicking Raju.

Around the time, in the mid-1980s, when I stumbled upon an old novel titled "The Guide" by R.K. Narayan, which deepened my love for reading, Raju grew more and more fond of comic books, and the Hindi subject was the particular dominion he was a Maharaja in. He found that he enjoyed completing his schoolwork during twilight hours (after sunset), as he believed his academic concentration was at its optimum peak at that specific time. Soon, his specialty of studying during twilight hours up until 9 pm every day became well-known among all our chums of the No. 6 Trishul Park. Rising early in the morning was an absolute imperative for him. We were fortunate we found our passions at a young age, and Raju and I were grateful that we found ours rather serendipitously.

Studying at twilight was one of his things, which he did every day diligently. He also enjoyed getting up early in the morning at five and going for a long walk in the Sub Area; he was habitually the first to come by the front door and encourage me to come out for a round of jogging. When I’d stumble out of my home, still groggy, rubbing my sleepy eyes and wearing a pair of white jordans (“PT shoe”) that had seen better days, he’d laugh and say, “Come on, let’s go!".

We strolled to the eastern periphery of the Trishul Park campus, as we did every day. We scale a steep incline of a crumbling boundary wall that demarcates our campus from the Sub Area and cross an old bridge over the railroad tracks leading to the next railway station—C. Barracks station that is visible if you stand on the overbridge and look south. Our destination was the desolate Sub Area, where we planned to visit the Krishna Mandir, jog for an hour or so, take a look at the smooth lawns of the golf course, and pluck the best tamarind pods straight from the protected Army area's Tamarindus indica trees before heading home.

***

Raju was an exceptional friend—people like him are rare and hard to find. The world has become an indifferent place. It has changed so much in the last four decades that it pains my heart. Raju, Meena, Mintu, Rajesh, Poonam, Ruby, Sushila, Murari, Anita, and others have gone on. Interestingly, one of the central protagonists in R K Narayan's novel, The Guide, which I read in the mid-1980s, was also named 'Raju.' So, believe me, if you're lucky enough to have a friend like Raju, hold onto them tightly!

(Seldom are people found like Raju in the present world. Although making lifelong friends is not impossible, it might be challenging to get along with some people in the world as it is today. I would even go so far as to say that if you are fortunate enough to find a buddy like Raju, be rest assured you have hit the jackpot. In the charming bygone era, finding a bosom friend or two was probably easy; however, in the world of rapid global change today, where people travel overseas, have become blatantly economically ambitious in their career-seeking goals and aspirations and always on the lookout for growing ‘global footprints,’ or access smartphones like lifeless figures—no longer remember what an ‘offline’ life is, it is wiser to speak as little as possible about true friendship, which is one of life's greatest treasures no one can ever sacrifice for any other thing. Regrettably, many people in my ever-shrinking social circle do not appreciate enduring relationships and heartfelt connections. Nothing as old-fashioned as friendship is valued anymore!

Beware! Take caution! You could get threateningly hollered at—or become a target of some foolish person's viral meme-fests—for having such a personal viewpoint. I know… I know.) 

***

So, one leisurely afternoon, I settled down to read my first book by R. K. Narayan. As I finished reading the first quarter of it in a single sitting, which amounted to nearly 50 pages, not bad for a first experience, I remember thinking, 'Oh, how poignant this is.' Back in the mid-'80s, it was my first novel-reading experience, and I finished it within the week of starting it. The sense of pride I felt was nothing short of exhilarating. Oh, how I cherish that old feeling of having to finish reading a book cover to cover for the first time in my life.

Birds of Paradise, an impressive collection of English nature poems (together with the school texts Grandfather's Private Zoo and abridged tales from the well-known books Uncle Tom's Cabin and Huckleberry Finn) that I borrowed from the top shelf of my father's mini-library, which ideally contained dozens of fascinating Bengali and English books, remain the one rare book—apart from The Guide—that, if not changed, but significantly influenced my life's reading expeditions in many ways. I'm indebted to that mystical experience and the fond memories it evokes.

Even to this day, my heart still aches from a profound yearning for those younger years, spending most of my days reminiscing about our years when we lived in our lovely Trishul Park cantonment home, which has been and will always be the centre of my universe, profoundly memorable. Everything I knew and held dear was there. Even though I know those times will never come again because they are now just memories, I often wonder if I'll ever experience anything like it again. Yeah, I've accepted the reality that they are gone forever. Those days, alas, will never return. I miss Trishul Park with every pore of my skin.

***

Later, I bought a children's collection of affordable imported Russian storybooks from our school's annual book fair—books about Russian space science, with one of them delving into the history of Sputnik, Russian wildlife, literature, and culture. And that was that. While my friend Raju preferred reading comics over novels, which wasn't his, at the time, strong suit, I felt I could easily tackle, without much ado, full-length books and comics alike head-on, probably demonstrating the earliest beginnings of bibliomania. Whenever I went to see Raju at his dormer, I would find him engrossed in comics—Chacha Chaudhary, Amar Chitra Katha, Batman, Tinkle, Champak, Shikari Shambu, including Mandrake, Phantom, Archies, and Indrajal comics. He didn't leave anything unread. These comics: the entire fortune, lying around on the drawing room floor of his first-floor house like one big kaleidoscopic Persian carpet, inviting me to dive into their colorful pages and explore new worlds.

Raju and his siblings Mintu and sister Sunita were also avid participants in the daily obsessive reading sessions of one comic book after another. Whenever I visited their place, I would join them in their passion by picking up a few from their ample collection of comics scattered on the drawing-room floor. They took great pride in their collection of comic books and enjoyed reading them immensely, and it's no surprise why.

***

During one summer vacation, while visiting my hometown of Kolkata (which was then known as Calcutta), I flicked an old yet well-preserved copy of Writing in America from my maternal uncle’s neglected book collection. Among the many softback volumes were a series of Tell Me Whys and hardback tomes of Cambridge English and Bengali dictionaries that seemed to have never been opened or read, or maybe they were for I was not particularly aware of. Seeing as I had plenty of gratis time and some more languorous spells to while away, why not dive into the delightful books at hand and lug around the house English dictionaries in the hot and humid afternoons that had everyone, minus me, in its grip of a siesta-laden euphoria or something. Even if I was not planning on reading them all, in addition to listening to that beloved Bengali opiate Rabindra Sangeet while taking in the familiar sights and sounds of my wonderful suburban native place that comes with a fish-filled pond and a largish Eden garden full of jackfruit, Gulmohar, coconut, mango, banana, lemon, Jamrul, and bel trees, I still had a mission to fulfil—all on my own accord. Quite the exclusive deal, I'd say, for my summer vacations to go per my plan year after year.

To read books, in those days, one ideally had to earnestly beg, borrow liberally, or indeed remove without much thought a few titles off the shelves to pass the time somewhat productively. I vividly recall reading one of the notable books of the day, Writing in America, in one sitting (or two) and never regretted taking it out from my maternal uncle's library without proper permission or required authorization. He never found that I took a few books out of his almirah. (But I believe he knows who raided his collection when he went to the university to study all those years ago.) (Some things, I suppose, are just so simple to take for granted. Besides, no one will ever know if the deed has already been done and got on with. But if the book stays with you long after you have finished reading it, then you know it's all well worth it). And I am happy to report I went unpunished for finding a book I wanted to read, so there.

To this day, the books The Guide (a full-length novel), Writing in America (an anthology of American non-fiction writings), Birds of Paradise (an anthology of poems), Grandfather’s Private Zoo (a collection of short stories), and Ancient History of India (scholarly writings about India’s history) have pride of place being part of my private collection.

(To be continued…)

By Arindam Moulick

Raju and I: Our Adventures in Childhood

Anecdotes from The Past - II

The 1980s were uniquely glorious times. Rajveer M. — affectionately known by his charming mama’s boy nickname Raju — my childhood friend and I were leisurely nature explorers in Trishul Park and the Sub Area in what was then a largely desolate cantonment region.

Raju and I would explore the expansive Sub Area, the great green grandeur of the defence area, like little musketeers (without the muskets) on a chief mission to see Army bases, roadways, grounds, Army barracks, bungalows, flora, and even fauna, if any. The Sub Area lay well beyond our residential campus. As we walked on the road, the familiar roadside, ancient-looking direction markers, or milestones glowing yellow in the sun would first come into our view: practical roadside sentinels engraved by the side of the roads alongside decades-old, luxuriantly big-leafed Tamarind, Banyan, Gulmohar, and majestic Neem trees nestling in the vast elegant sweep of surrounding nature. Apart from our much-loved residence in Trishul Park, the Sub Area was a nice place to take leisurely walks in the morning.

Tree creepers hugged the moss-covered trees like a verdant spread of a Kashmiri shawl — rambunctious bushes and lush bougainvillea vines glowed with a spectacular show of pink colour that’s nothing short of dazzling to the eye; thicket-forming flowering shrubs and shoulder-length grass growing by the side of the lonely, less trodden paths; picture postcard-like well-paved roads lined with perfectly manicured hedgerows and lawns of luscious grass laden quite heavy with pretty dew drops, and the vast expanses of green golf courses beyond against a serene blue sky veiled with the early morning haze. The whole Sub Area looked straight out of a classic fairy tale.

**

Flower names like daisies, Rhododendrons, Petunias, Rajnigandha, Sunflowers, and Bougainvillea began to pique our curiosity. Many of these grew freely in Trishul Park and the distant Sub Area. We even devised witty jokes about how hilarious it would be to have them for human beings that were the names of florets, like Petunia Patel, Rhododendron Singh, Bougainvillea Chatterjee, Sunflower Choudhury, Hydrangea Sharma, Lavender Naidu, Marigold Sen, Hibiscus Rao, Calendula Das and so forth. When Rose, Lily, Daisy, and even Tulip were already creatively used for human benefit, why be biased against Rhododendron, Bougainvillea, Petunia, Daffodils, Chrysanthemums, and other adorable flower names?

**

Wearing little white sneakers, we would walk or jog to the Krishna Mandir in the east or to the pristine green pastures of the well-maintained Army golf course that lay wholly beyond towards the north of the Sub Area, as they were our chosen hang-out spots in the summer vacations. Krishna Mandir was a perennial favourite for a darshan of the presiding deities Krishna and Radha in a standing avatar in the inner sanctum. Before entering, we would wash our hands properly and pour water over our feet after removing our shoes and stepping inside. Raju and I would be beaming with childlike delight as we waited attentively for the ample prasad that the temple pujari would surely hand out to regular guests like us. The pujari (priest) would place suji halwa or yogurt mixed with sugar, tulsi leaves, and ghee in our cupped hands before offering a camphor aarti to the graceful marble-sculpted deities upright in the loving posture as the statue of Lord Krishna played the bansuri flute to His beloved Radha. Afterwards, we would visit all the temple shrines on the premises and sit at ease on the sunlit manicured lawns for a while. Simple, as though unalloyed pleasures make your life worthwhile.

Whether we come to the Sub Area to jog or walk around in the cool shadows, we must first visit the gorgeous temple. Every summer and winter, we would get up around five in the morning and explore these places of wonder. The first necessary stop would be the Krishna Mandir, followed by going to the golf courses via the RSI Club and the Polo Ground, which was as picturesque as a glossy picture on a postcard: an open field of cropped grass — but not accessible to the public — used by the Army officials for playing the equestrian sport of Polo, Parachute Jump, and other military training. Golfers don't usually get up this early in the dewy morning to play golf, so we didn’t have to watch out for flying balls!

**

Golfing was fortunately not our kind of sport; we would turn our noses up at such a fancifully lame game. Forget playing golf: we could scarcely bear watching it, whether live or on TV or anywhere. Even if, as decent kids, somebody wanted us to play golf, we would look the other way and get the hell out of there, for it was just as unappealing as a dumb thing that tests your patience the most.

Golfing was (is) a dull game that only grown-ups seemed to enjoy, and school-going kids would rather play cricket and football or watch, with sheer wonder, the energetic tennis matches on TV would not, for God's gracious sake, prefer golfing around for no logical reason. While the cardigan-wearing golfers and their caddies teed off, gently stroking the bouncy white balls into the landscaped ground, we would lounge under a tree and watch the goings-on pitifully. Every so often, we would wander upon the open grasslands after a light round of jogging around the vast area of Sub Area and relax while breathing in the minty fresh morning air sitting under a neem or tamarind tree.

**

After our morning jog, we would return home to breakfast. I'd expect scrambled eggs with hot chapatis, whereas Raju preferred rajma or aloo dum with freshly baked super soft chapatis and tea. I'd then tune on the Vividh Bharati radio and smile as I listened to vintage Hindi ghazals and film songs while leafing through our academic books and having tea.

On Sunday mornings, we'd look forward to watching Ramayan or Mahabharat on TV. Often, I would join Raju, Mintu, Choti, and Meena at their house, eagerly waiting for the show to begin on his Uptron TV. 

The afternoons were a perfect time to indulge in some cricket with friends Rajesh, Murari, and Ganeshilal., while in the evenings, we loved singing and playing Antakshari with the girls, which was a different kind of thrill altogether: It would put our untrained vocal cords and our unabashed bathroom singing aptitude to the test. Even though a few of us often missed the right notes, we always had a great time belting out one melody after another.

(To be continued…)

By Arindam Moulick

Memories Eternal

Anecdotes from The Past - I

Alwal, a once beautiful suburban town nearly seven miles from the city, has seen many changes in recent decades. Unfortunately, as a long-time resident of this area, I do not find any of these so-called 'significant transformations' this once peaceful haven of lush greenery, empty spaces, and charming homes has undergone pleasant. This lonely town now bears the scars of relentless urbanization and modernization.

Nonetheless, I have some personal anecdotes from the past and present (amidst all the changes) of my old beloved neighbourhood where I grew up, came of age, and had the best time of my life. I remember my dear friend Rajveer, alias Raju, and all the other buddies who made this neighbourhood feel like an abode of blissful happiness and part of all the unforgettable moments of my life. Despite all the inevitable changes, their memories will live on forever.

During the early eighties, the familiar hymnal chant of the venkatesa suprabhātam coming on the radio and the delightful aroma of wood smoke rising from the angheeti* that not only we but many dormitories in Trishul Park enclave used to have it, especially those who lived on the ground floor they would lug the bucket-like stove out in the open area, regardless of the gas connection already installed, would gently wake us up every morning as we gazed at the green suburban splendour surrounding our historic cantonment homestead. We had a perfectly ordinary life.

A town called Alwal:
The pleasure of living in the cantonment

The pleasure of living with friends and their families — many of whom received postings from all over the country at Trishul Park — was a distinctive experience that perhaps only people with a defence background can understand that aspect of life where you meet different people from different cultural backgrounds, every three or four years and when they have to make a move due to their posting orders you have to bid them a quiet goodbye. (Of course, that led to our having a large social circle. But unfortunately, everyone had moved away, having lost contact all those decades earlier.)

Nestled in the suburban cantonment zone, also known as the "military area," our campus, Trishul Park, was about seven miles away from the twin cities. In the 1980s, there was very little or no traffic, only a gentle bustle of human activity in the urban area (city) a few kilometres south of Alwal; none too many in the suburban side, which was within commuting distance of the city centre, were too loud or noisy compared to the vast number of purposeful people, the incessant traffic logjams, and ubiquitous housing colonies that have come to exist over the last three decades or so.

Back in the olden days, of course, we had a great childhood. We experienced an idyllic time — peaceful, filled with all the simple pleasures that made our lives lovely and memorable. It was a time of calm, carefree living, free from all the endless chaos and stress of today's almost always politically charged antagonizing times we all are living in.

Looking back, I believe it was a blessing we grew up in the cantonment, in the suburbs, where the tranquil surroundings created an atmosphere that captured our hearts with its soulful serenity, which is hopelessly missing in these strange times of new truths and realities. That may be true, but every one of those heady years is still a beautiful gem I fondly cherish, a very private asset we hold dear and adore, safely stowed away in our hearts and forever etched in our minds.

Those days were truly magical. All the memories seem dreamlike today, perfectly crafted with sincere emotions and intense passion to last for the rest of our lives, till eternity. Even after all this time, I can still recollect every little detail of those incredible days of our childhood: the taste of biscuits and fruits, smells of mud, rain, homespun sweaters, cricket bats, colourful candies, stickers, walking to school, studies, mothballed clothes, chapatis, Hindi film songs, the light of days and evening twilights — it's as if my life depended on remembering those memories, and it always will, for all time. Memories are forever.

Our Trishul Park

Our long-time residence in Trishul Park was a lovely place like no other. It’s been many decades since I left it; now, I lived away longer than I ever lived there.

Very little of my early childhood environment is left: trees have grown into a small jungle shrouding the once-beautiful park-like neighbourhood into a geologically rough-textured backdrop, and the dorms or residential blocks have turned quaint unappealingly, being barely visible from the main road I sometimes ride through. When I gaze on the other side, I find our childhood abode and all the vacant lots are no longer visible. That sound of summer and exams is long gone.

Of whatever little is visual, I could see the old pathways we trod upon once upon a time have given way to black-tarred roads. There’s no trace of the old sentinels we once knew, like the banyan and neem trees that once shadowed the main road; the beautiful vacant landscapes around the residential blocks have disappeared completely, and the Army sentries have now taken guard of the park around the clock. No one is allowed inside (due to security issues), and no one is allowed to go outside (because the traffic on the main road is perilously unsafe​). Everything of that past generation has inevitably fallen victim to the relentless passage of time, as though it were vanishing beyond precious memory.

That old beloved era has gone into history, leaving only those who experienced it to recall it.

Everybody has a soft spot for their childhood years, and I'm no different when I reflect on my past. Ours was a generation of deep longing, love, and innocence. My old buddies moved out a long time ago — when the time came, I wondered why I hadn't followed in the footsteps of my old friends who had moved out a long time before. Poonam, beloved Poonam, moved to Aligarh, Raju went to Baroda, and Ruby, I think, relocated to Bareilly. Sushila and Suguna have moved to their hometown. Memories of the 1970s and 1980s are eroding.

Today, Trishul Park inevitably had embraced a lonely and decadent look, with overgrown trees naturally taking over the grassy expanses where Raju and I used to hang out to play cricket in the sultry afternoons and gentle evenings. None of the beloved slopes and inclines, empty spaces, and grounds are as they once were; the surroundings of the entire park have changed beyond recognition. Year after year, I remember, we would also linger around the jhula park and sit snugly in the TV room with other kiddies to watch Doordarshan tele serials like Yeh Jo Hai Zindagi, Khandan, Nukkad, Darpan, Star Trek, Different Strokes, Hum Log, Buniyaad, Chitrahaar, Saturday night movie, Rajini, Paying Guest, Lifeline and many more. I vividly remember watching the 1982 Asian Games held in New Delhi on Doordarshan. Those were wonderful days.

Today, all those forgotten memories are flooding back.

(To be continued...)

By Arindam Moulick

Angheeti* - is a traditional bucket-like brazier used for cooking using charcoal or wood.