Raju and Arin cycled and played all kinds of outdoor games around the dorms or in vast open landscapes and grounds far out in the uncharted backwater of Earth’s orbit, which were freely accessible through the short scenic vistas within the broad Trishul Park’s suburban isolation of the cantonment county. It was their desi little around-the-town Tour de France, or still better, Tour de Alwal.
Driven by curiosity, like young, cycle-riding Marco Polos, Raju and Arin explored as though the unknown ‘Silk Routes’ of the outside world beyond their homely Trishul Park lands, while expecting to discover something beautiful or unusual as they navigated the whole area on their boy’s bicycle, riding slow through the baffling winds of their wonderful Deccan fatherland, which often carried aromas of chameli and jasmine flowers and MS Subbulakshmi’s enchanting morning stotram floating on a dream from a nearby dorm, in the mists of early morning trance.
The largely empty “civil area,” where houses were few and far between, mostly single-storied, rarely double, with a nice little garden as a frontage beauty to the simple house, and neem, papaya, guava, tulsi, or peepul and lime trees had a fundamental overarching presence at the corner side of the amply spaced courtyard. Ordinary lives, lived ordinarily. And it was so meaningful and peaceful to live a small-town life here; ordinariness was a common beauty that every resident cherished every single moment of every single day, beyond the sweep of bling and the fancy of worldly economic desires that had consumed this little town of Alwal forever.
Most homes in the “civil area” looked like peaceful, high-ceilinged farmhouses, with ample space left unused at the rear and around it, creating a tidy, laid-back, natural ambiance that soothes your life with the morning-fresh greenery around the house, until the jasmine blooms in the evening. A family pet dog, usually always a German Shepherd: An Alsatian, residents in Trishul Park society commonly used that term for that kind of dog breed, would hoof around the house courtyard in the late evenings, while during the day it was safely tethered with a metal link and soft collar near the foyer by the front door inside the compound in warm sunlight. Its life was an ordinary dog’s life, joyfully pampered, and a well-cared-for house pet—same as Goldie, the not-so-domesticated, constantly barking dingo Mr. and Mrs. Roy owned back in the early 1980s. Kids used to call out sportively, “Tommy…. Tommy… shoo shoo… shoo…!” whenever they noticed a dog loafing around, wagging its tail in the meadows of Trishul Park.
Mr. Roy had a characteristic speech pattern of saying, “We’ll see…, we’ll see…” So, “we’ll see” about their house dog, Goldie, in a separate short story, coming up shortly.
Garden Talk:
Mr. Dwivedi of 5/8, Trishul Park, used to joke around while he tended to the baby plants and saplings in his nicely grown home garden at the back of his dormitory, where he grew a mango tree at the south-west corner three years ago, “One of these days, I’ll own a black crow and a grey Dove!”
To which Arin finally said, “Why not, Uncle Ji, just make sure you don’t put them in a cage. They’ll be around anyway. Besides, you don’t put a crow in a cage; it brings bad luck.”
Dwivedi would state, “You have a point. So I cancelled owning them. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome!” said Arin.
Raju looked at Arin, raised his eyebrows as he remained perfectly still between the neatly tended rows of cauliflowers and tomato plants just in case he didn’t trample them, and widened his eyes for a split second, meaning to say, "What’s going on with Mr. Dwivedi?” and pouting the words…HOW BORING!
Arin just shrugged, and they giggled with glee, enjoying the playful moment. And still couldn’t help giggling at the sight of Mr. Dwivedi, a strict army man and a strict vegetarian, cultivating veggies with fairly good ‘military mechanical engineering’ craftsmanship.
[An Anecdote: Arin’s strict and traditional school teacher from St. John’s, Savithri ma’am, who taught Hindi, lived in a small house on a lane shaded by a canopy of tall banyan, peepul, coconut, and palm trees, next to a baori (a deep water well) that had been existing there for generations up till the late 1980s.
Sadly, by the time it was late 1990s, the old baori that had once been a drinking water source in the locality, was filled with earth, and a piece of human aberration: an ugly multi-story apartment building was erected in the place, decimating the little patch of paddy farmland that surrounded the baori, habilitating the open space greenland into an economic battlefield of rampant commercial activities of big retail stores, shops, cluttered mudgies (small outlets), parking of polluting vehicles of all kinds, and whatnot, bankrupting the local population with their discount offers, effectively annihilating Mother Nature forever.
Among her former school students, no one knew what Savithri ma’am thought about this new real estate ‘development’ in her residential neighbourhood of just a few small houses, suddenly devoid of its trees and a natural, farmland kind of atmosphere on the land outside, of which she was so well pleased to live on the ground floor of her old cottage. Savithri ma’am might have regarded this towering concrete structure that came up in the late 1990s with nothing but pure contempt.
After her superannuation from St. John's school, she may have given up in unpretending grievance that she’ll have to go about her life in her little house that now came bang under the dark shadow of the massive building which blocked the sunlight forever until the mid-2020s, when she passed away, bearing perhaps no small amount of resentment towards how the way of life has changed in the decades after the peaceful 1980s. She might not have appreciated much anything that came later on in her life at Alwal; she lost her husband decades ago when her cradle-bound firstborn child was very little, and that little brooding, low-lying, ineradicable heartache stowed away somewhere within her heart since many years had kept lingering throughout the remaining years that she lived a lonely life. Savithri ma’am missed her prime years of the 1980s, as did Satish and Arin, her students, their school life.
Arin and Satish still remember her robust command over Hindi literature. But once, when Savithri ma’am asked Arin to read the new lesson, he pronounced the Hindi words which were something like, “Ameriki samvidhan”— “American Constitution.”
She thought Arin was wrongly spelling it. Interrupting him, she said, “It is not Ameriki, as you say,” and began mocking him, saying, “Amerikiii…” “Amerikiii...!” One of the students in the class prompted her, “Ma’am, it's indeed Ameriki written on the page!”
Savithri ma’am fumbled about, checked the text, and became instantly embarrassed that she had unnecessarily mocked her class student. She rectified, saying, “Oh yes. It is Ameriki. It’s a Hindi word, students; I was thinking in English, ‘Amerikan.’”
Looking at Arin, she sounded faintly apologetic, “Go on, read the lesson in full.” Arin never forgot that episode from when he was in the 7th grade at St. John’s. She prided herself on predicting that the coming decade would be “full of death and destruction”— “mrityu aur vinash se bhara hoga.” That’s true. That was precisely the case.
Savithri ma’am had some crow to eat that day.]
Back then, there were open spaces everywhere, with no plot markings or boundary walls indicating ownership, and hence, Alwal—a quiet suburb with low-density housing—was known, back in the day, to be a really breezy place you’d be feeling gratified to live in.
Vast open no-man’s land would beckon Raju and Arin, as they cycled around, as if with a heartfelt welcome: “Hey, boys! Come hither and play.” With the continental breeze blowing from the west, the two school-going childhood friends would maintain a steady pedalling pace and coast smoothly about on their all-terrain bikes with the wind blowing into their faces.
Raju and Arin would ride around on scorching summer days as part of their, if you like, “civil area” exploration in their Deccan fatherland, and once, when winding up among the old shady trees that grew in the unrestricted parkland, they would drop off their cycles under one of them temporarily and loiter about the place, while plucking tamarind pods and taking small, careful bites on them. On Sunday afternoons, playing cricket matches with others using a red cork or a yellow tennis ball was a holiday staple.
On other days, they walked the old railway bridge leading to the Sub-Area to proceed to the other side of the desolate C. Barracks station to see how the Major General Commandant’s bungalow actually looked, or cycled through the tree-canopied, leafy green avenues of the peaceful Sub-Area region under the clear blue sky. Spring birds sang songs, butterflies flew about the bougainvillea, rhododendron, and periwinkle flowers that were plentiful in the Trishul Park-bound lands, and a couple of beehives buzzing with bees in the long, tranquil afternoons. Tamarind trees were aplenty, as were peepal, banyan, and yellow flame trees. Arin and Raju would park their cycles under the tree, pluck the ripe black-brown pods from the branches, and eat them; the intensely sweet-and-sour flavour would make them cringe in an unexpected delight.
Traffic was zero, hardly a bother. The weather was less hot and milder. Winters were colder. Power outages were few and rare in the cantonment county. Roof tops were dotted with TV antennas. Boys played games, mostly cricket and hopscotch. Girls indulged in pretend-play cookery, making doll porridge for their dolls under the cool staircase of the dormitories. Most boys were named Pappu, Raju, or Bipin; girls were named Gudia, Munni, or Bitiya Rani. Wednesdays were for Chitrahaar, and Sundays for the weekly movie on Doordarshan. Other days were for 9 o'clock TV serials. Nobody worried much about anything back in the day in Trishul Park. Being one with nature was everything.
In mid-1988, I inherited a deep longing. My boyhood friend, Raju, and his family left Alwal forever on account of his father’s posting, moving to northern India. Decades passed, and I never saw them again.
Wonder where all the years went.
(To be continued…)
(End of part III)
By Arindam Moulick
--∞--
Garden Talk:
Mr. Dwivedi of 5/8, Trishul Park, used to joke around while he tended to the baby plants and saplings in his nicely grown home garden at the back of his dormitory, where he grew a mango tree at the south-west corner three years ago, “One of these days, I’ll own a black crow and a grey Dove!”
To which Arin finally said, “Why not, Uncle Ji, just make sure you don’t put them in a cage. They’ll be around anyway. Besides, you don’t put a crow in a cage; it brings bad luck.”
Dwivedi would state, “You have a point. So I cancelled owning them. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome!” said Arin.
Raju looked at Arin, raised his eyebrows as he remained perfectly still between the neatly tended rows of cauliflowers and tomato plants just in case he didn’t trample them, and widened his eyes for a split second, meaning to say, "What’s going on with Mr. Dwivedi?” and pouting the words…HOW BORING!
Arin just shrugged, and they giggled with glee, enjoying the playful moment. And still couldn’t help giggling at the sight of Mr. Dwivedi, a strict army man and a strict vegetarian, cultivating veggies with fairly good ‘military mechanical engineering’ craftsmanship.
Arin and Raju went home afterwards, as it was lunchtime. They had had enough talking about ‘agriculture’ at Mr. Dwivedi’s well-cared-for backyard garden. While on the way to their dormitory, Arin looked at Raju and grinned, and said, “See you later, alligator!” Raju was not surprised to hear what Arin said, and seeing a chance, he responded in kind, as he would when they jested back at each other, “After a while, crocodile!’ Geee!
--∞--
[An Anecdote: Arin’s strict and traditional school teacher from St. John’s, Savithri ma’am, who taught Hindi, lived in a small house on a lane shaded by a canopy of tall banyan, peepul, coconut, and palm trees, next to a baori (a deep water well) that had been existing there for generations up till the late 1980s.
Sadly, by the time it was late 1990s, the old baori that had once been a drinking water source in the locality, was filled with earth, and a piece of human aberration: an ugly multi-story apartment building was erected in the place, decimating the little patch of paddy farmland that surrounded the baori, habilitating the open space greenland into an economic battlefield of rampant commercial activities of big retail stores, shops, cluttered mudgies (small outlets), parking of polluting vehicles of all kinds, and whatnot, bankrupting the local population with their discount offers, effectively annihilating Mother Nature forever.
Among her former school students, no one knew what Savithri ma’am thought about this new real estate ‘development’ in her residential neighbourhood of just a few small houses, suddenly devoid of its trees and a natural, farmland kind of atmosphere on the land outside, of which she was so well pleased to live on the ground floor of her old cottage. Savithri ma’am might have regarded this towering concrete structure that came up in the late 1990s with nothing but pure contempt.
After her superannuation from St. John's school, she may have given up in unpretending grievance that she’ll have to go about her life in her little house that now came bang under the dark shadow of the massive building which blocked the sunlight forever until the mid-2020s, when she passed away, bearing perhaps no small amount of resentment towards how the way of life has changed in the decades after the peaceful 1980s. She might not have appreciated much anything that came later on in her life at Alwal; she lost her husband decades ago when her cradle-bound firstborn child was very little, and that little brooding, low-lying, ineradicable heartache stowed away somewhere within her heart since many years had kept lingering throughout the remaining years that she lived a lonely life. Savithri ma’am missed her prime years of the 1980s, as did Satish and Arin, her students, their school life.
Arin and Satish still remember her robust command over Hindi literature. But once, when Savithri ma’am asked Arin to read the new lesson, he pronounced the Hindi words which were something like, “Ameriki samvidhan”— “American Constitution.”
She thought Arin was wrongly spelling it. Interrupting him, she said, “It is not Ameriki, as you say,” and began mocking him, saying, “Amerikiii…” “Amerikiii...!” One of the students in the class prompted her, “Ma’am, it's indeed Ameriki written on the page!”
Savithri ma’am fumbled about, checked the text, and became instantly embarrassed that she had unnecessarily mocked her class student. She rectified, saying, “Oh yes. It is Ameriki. It’s a Hindi word, students; I was thinking in English, ‘Amerikan.’”
Looking at Arin, she sounded faintly apologetic, “Go on, read the lesson in full.” Arin never forgot that episode from when he was in the 7th grade at St. John’s. She prided herself on predicting that the coming decade would be “full of death and destruction”— “mrityu aur vinash se bhara hoga.” That’s true. That was precisely the case.
Savithri ma’am had some crow to eat that day.]
--∞--
Back then, there were open spaces everywhere, with no plot markings or boundary walls indicating ownership, and hence, Alwal—a quiet suburb with low-density housing—was known, back in the day, to be a really breezy place you’d be feeling gratified to live in.
Vast open no-man’s land would beckon Raju and Arin, as they cycled around, as if with a heartfelt welcome: “Hey, boys! Come hither and play.” With the continental breeze blowing from the west, the two school-going childhood friends would maintain a steady pedalling pace and coast smoothly about on their all-terrain bikes with the wind blowing into their faces.
Raju and Arin would ride around on scorching summer days as part of their, if you like, “civil area” exploration in their Deccan fatherland, and once, when winding up among the old shady trees that grew in the unrestricted parkland, they would drop off their cycles under one of them temporarily and loiter about the place, while plucking tamarind pods and taking small, careful bites on them. On Sunday afternoons, playing cricket matches with others using a red cork or a yellow tennis ball was a holiday staple.
On other days, they walked the old railway bridge leading to the Sub-Area to proceed to the other side of the desolate C. Barracks station to see how the Major General Commandant’s bungalow actually looked, or cycled through the tree-canopied, leafy green avenues of the peaceful Sub-Area region under the clear blue sky. Spring birds sang songs, butterflies flew about the bougainvillea, rhododendron, and periwinkle flowers that were plentiful in the Trishul Park-bound lands, and a couple of beehives buzzing with bees in the long, tranquil afternoons. Tamarind trees were aplenty, as were peepal, banyan, and yellow flame trees. Arin and Raju would park their cycles under the tree, pluck the ripe black-brown pods from the branches, and eat them; the intensely sweet-and-sour flavour would make them cringe in an unexpected delight.
Traffic was zero, hardly a bother. The weather was less hot and milder. Winters were colder. Power outages were few and rare in the cantonment county. Roof tops were dotted with TV antennas. Boys played games, mostly cricket and hopscotch. Girls indulged in pretend-play cookery, making doll porridge for their dolls under the cool staircase of the dormitories. Most boys were named Pappu, Raju, or Bipin; girls were named Gudia, Munni, or Bitiya Rani. Wednesdays were for Chitrahaar, and Sundays for the weekly movie on Doordarshan. Other days were for 9 o'clock TV serials. Nobody worried much about anything back in the day in Trishul Park. Being one with nature was everything.
In mid-1988, I inherited a deep longing. My boyhood friend, Raju, and his family left Alwal forever on account of his father’s posting, moving to northern India. Decades passed, and I never saw them again.
Wonder where all the years went.
(To be continued…)
(End of part III)
By Arindam Moulick
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