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.
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:
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).
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.
(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).
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
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.
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.
'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
Remembering Our Good Old Days
‘Priyathamaa Nanu Palakarinchu PranayamaaWhen 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.
Athithilaa Nanu Cherukunna Hrudhayamaa…’
(Sung by S P Balasubramanyam / S Janaki)
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 SharmaoYahi Hai Pyar Ka Shama Dard Hai Jawan’(Sung by Kishore Kumar)
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.
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 HongeLekin 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.
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.
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.