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.
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.
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,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.
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)
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.
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.
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.
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.