Of particular interest was the Nagender Stores, which stands out in my nostalgic recollection of the early 1980s despite having closed down nearly two decades ago and was particularly remarkable.
There were a handful of shops known for their quiet retailership. Some have closed down in the last century, and some at the beginning of this millennium, thanks to the bludgeoning impact of e-commerce technologies, except for one, which still carries on incredibly.
The shops of Alwal had left a lasting impression on my childhood days: Patel Sweet Home for Burfi varieties, Kalakand, Mysore Pak, pure desi ghee Laddus, and savouries such as a particular special Dalmud (or Dalmoth) mixture, amongst a farrago of other things, and bhajis (fritters) made there only in the evenings; Dr. Sood's Clinic under a shady banyan tree gloriously breezy by the main road; the tiny no-name music stall where my friend Raju and I used to spend some time just by standing by the shop front in fond anticipation of listening to new upcoming Hindi film songs and glimpsing at the cinema posters at S. Talkies; Uma Studio (photography), where Raju, Murari, his younger sister Kiran, my younger brother, and I got photographed only once ever, is surprisingly the sole surviving shop among the ones that have gone on; Bhavani General Stores for a variety of lentils and cereals, mostly white batashas, badam and til chikkis, and original sandalwood agarbattis; and last but not least, Nagender General Stores, where we purchased practically everything, including loose seviyan, Dalda cooking oil, Postman oil, Mysore Sandal Soap, Binaca Top Toothpaste, Promise Toothpaste and Dabur Lal Dantmanjan, and Bambino Vermicelli any family requires.
I remember Raju and I (along with our little gang) would troop down to one of these neighbourhood Kirana shops to buy "Cork Balls" for cricket, firecrackers for Diwali, and kites from Ramu's kite stall. Bhavani Stores had a good stock of cork balls with intricately patterned seams running in the middle. These polished reddish-maroon leather cricket orbs were an absolute wonder to behold as we held them in our hands while running our fingers down the stitching, trying to imitate Kapil Dev's fast bowling heroics we used to catch on TV back in our former Trishul Park residential accommodation.
The days of Raju, me, and our small cheddi gang playing cricket all day throughout holidays and summer vacations are over. There is no longer a single friend present; everyone has gone away.
(By frequenting these retail stores and purchasing candies or other Kirana merchandise, Raju and I have developed a — shall I say — fundamental comprehension of how money is handed over the counter for goods bought for consumption).
Pappu-Kiran
No one knows where Pappu had gone or his elder sister Kiran, with whom I trekked quite a few times to the countryside to get straight-from-the-farm fresh raw milk their family used to source locally. We would also get fresh milk though from a different milkman. When the time came in the post-noon to go with her to get milk, Kiran didi chose me over her brother because, as usual, Pappu, quick as a wit, would bolt away and take to his heels, so I was the one Kiran didi used to get hold of to take me on a long walk with her to the cattle farm beautifully situated in a quiet spot under a cluster of peepul, neem, and banyan trees close to the train tracks, which was a little far away from our dormitories in Trishul Park. I enjoyed those short trips to the distant dairy farm with Kiran didi to fetch milk, and I still see in my mind's eye how the dairy farmer used to firmly squeeze the pendulous bovine udders to shoot milk like a water pistol arching into his urn straight from the cattle's mammary glands.
Pappu was a master reciter of Shree Hanuman Chalisa paath (written by Saint Goswami Tulsidas). “Jai Hanuman gyan gun sagar. Jai Kapis tihun lok ujagar…”. He'd recite it word-for-word without even consulting the booklet that contained the hymn. At his dorm, there would be periodic pujas performed for Lord Hanuman. Pappu would recite the entire devotional hymn verbatim, as would his father.
Mr. Sharma, Pappu's father, was made of sterner stuff but also splendorous and gaunt, who served in the Army. He had a deep passion for gardening and did it for practical purposes rather than fancy landscaping aesthetics. During his after-office hours, he, his spouse, and their beloved daughter Kiran could often be found carefully tending to their vegetable garden behind their dormitory. Their garden had tomatoes, green chillies, cucumbers, pumpkins, and even bitter gourds, all beautifully planted with uncanny dedication and care.
A Tribute to Nagender Stores
The hardwood cabinets of Nagender Stores had an attractive polished veneer that was uncommon during those days; other shops down the row had shiny Decolam sheets glued on plywood. The hand-made wooden cabinets were elegantly framed with transparent glass, giving them a novel and original look.
With ample provisions stocked inside the floor-to-ceiling storage spaces, the store was one of a kind back in the day. The sublime smell inside this kirana dukaan (shop) with subtle hints of the aroma of soaps, rice, cereals, turmeric, the mix of spices like cumin seeds, cinnamon (dalchini), cloves among others, pulses like cardamoms, vermicelli packets, fresh bread, milk pouches, and shiny, bright coloured peppermints in hefty glass jars filled to the brim kept side by side used to delight my senses. The smell inside a kirana shop is so good. Sadly, that old-fashioned life is gone, toast. What we do today is electronic, shunning the traditional greengrocers to grudgingly access the so-called "mom-and-pop stores" around the corner while wanting to leapfrog to online shopping convenience, often buying unnecessary, heavily discounted goods in our gadget-obsessed, thing-happy manner.
A Very Lonely Thought
I've been immersing myself in the warm, gloomy melancholy of the good old days, essentially vital times of growing up I have never forgotten or had been oblivious to as I grew up to be an adult ascribing joyful nostalgia to my life. I still obsess over those early honey-sweet boyhood years, which stirs up an intense wave of nostalgia and longing for those times sweeping through my heart and thoughts every waking moment. I believe the past remains alive through telling nostalgic stories and narrative personal history written straight from the heart. If you can recount it with warts and all, it will be most significant for posterity to learn and understand.
Nostalgic memories are all we have holding us together. One's learning experiences must involve lessons from history first, followed by other learnings. There is beauty in remembering your past to inform your present, leading you to the future.
That's my two-dollar theory on how to lead your life in an ever-changing world that has gone too far with new technologies. Look at what we have done to ourselves — technology was supposed to help us, but instead, it had us addicted to it. We are flying blind and heading too close to the sun.
Walking down memory lane has always been one of my favourite gratifications, reminiscing the times that have passed. Personal history has its legacy of a lived life; it has the charm and character of a vanished world that is impossible to resist to remember.
There is beauty in remembering the past days. The past is never gone. History is never over. Return to it in the beauty of remembrance.
By Arindam Moulick
(By frequenting these retail stores and purchasing candies or other Kirana merchandise, Raju and I have developed a — shall I say — fundamental comprehension of how money is handed over the counter for goods bought for consumption).
Pappu-Kiran
No one knows where Pappu had gone or his elder sister Kiran, with whom I trekked quite a few times to the countryside to get straight-from-the-farm fresh raw milk their family used to source locally. We would also get fresh milk though from a different milkman. When the time came in the post-noon to go with her to get milk, Kiran didi chose me over her brother because, as usual, Pappu, quick as a wit, would bolt away and take to his heels, so I was the one Kiran didi used to get hold of to take me on a long walk with her to the cattle farm beautifully situated in a quiet spot under a cluster of peepul, neem, and banyan trees close to the train tracks, which was a little far away from our dormitories in Trishul Park. I enjoyed those short trips to the distant dairy farm with Kiran didi to fetch milk, and I still see in my mind's eye how the dairy farmer used to firmly squeeze the pendulous bovine udders to shoot milk like a water pistol arching into his urn straight from the cattle's mammary glands.
Pappu was a master reciter of Shree Hanuman Chalisa paath (written by Saint Goswami Tulsidas). “Jai Hanuman gyan gun sagar. Jai Kapis tihun lok ujagar…”. He'd recite it word-for-word without even consulting the booklet that contained the hymn. At his dorm, there would be periodic pujas performed for Lord Hanuman. Pappu would recite the entire devotional hymn verbatim, as would his father.
Mr. Sharma, Pappu's father, was made of sterner stuff but also splendorous and gaunt, who served in the Army. He had a deep passion for gardening and did it for practical purposes rather than fancy landscaping aesthetics. During his after-office hours, he, his spouse, and their beloved daughter Kiran could often be found carefully tending to their vegetable garden behind their dormitory. Their garden had tomatoes, green chillies, cucumbers, pumpkins, and even bitter gourds, all beautifully planted with uncanny dedication and care.
++++
A Tribute to Nagender Stores
The hardwood cabinets of Nagender Stores had an attractive polished veneer that was uncommon during those days; other shops down the row had shiny Decolam sheets glued on plywood. The hand-made wooden cabinets were elegantly framed with transparent glass, giving them a novel and original look.
With ample provisions stocked inside the floor-to-ceiling storage spaces, the store was one of a kind back in the day. The sublime smell inside this kirana dukaan (shop) with subtle hints of the aroma of soaps, rice, cereals, turmeric, the mix of spices like cumin seeds, cinnamon (dalchini), cloves among others, pulses like cardamoms, vermicelli packets, fresh bread, milk pouches, and shiny, bright coloured peppermints in hefty glass jars filled to the brim kept side by side used to delight my senses. The smell inside a kirana shop is so good. Sadly, that old-fashioned life is gone, toast. What we do today is electronic, shunning the traditional greengrocers to grudgingly access the so-called "mom-and-pop stores" around the corner while wanting to leapfrog to online shopping convenience, often buying unnecessary, heavily discounted goods in our gadget-obsessed, thing-happy manner.
++++
A Very Lonely Thought
I've been immersing myself in the warm, gloomy melancholy of the good old days, essentially vital times of growing up I have never forgotten or had been oblivious to as I grew up to be an adult ascribing joyful nostalgia to my life. I still obsess over those early honey-sweet boyhood years, which stirs up an intense wave of nostalgia and longing for those times sweeping through my heart and thoughts every waking moment. I believe the past remains alive through telling nostalgic stories and narrative personal history written straight from the heart. If you can recount it with warts and all, it will be most significant for posterity to learn and understand.
Nostalgic memories are all we have holding us together. One's learning experiences must involve lessons from history first, followed by other learnings. There is beauty in remembering your past to inform your present, leading you to the future.
That's my two-dollar theory on how to lead your life in an ever-changing world that has gone too far with new technologies. Look at what we have done to ourselves — technology was supposed to help us, but instead, it had us addicted to it. We are flying blind and heading too close to the sun.
Walking down memory lane has always been one of my favourite gratifications, reminiscing the times that have passed. Personal history has its legacy of a lived life; it has the charm and character of a vanished world that is impossible to resist to remember.
There is beauty in remembering the past days. The past is never gone. History is never over. Return to it in the beauty of remembrance.
By Arindam Moulick
No comments:
Post a Comment
Please make your comments here:......