When I was sailing through school in the 80s and the early 90s, my life as a child mostly swirled around books, a handful of friends, an overprotective family of adults, and my home – a two floor affair with airy rooms, large windows and huge verandahs in South Kolkata. You could see the sky in bits and pieces of blue and white, through the sieve of leaves and branches that nestled into each other in the small patch of green adjacent to the ground floor bed room windows. And the garden floor would be a dappled carpet of sun and shade in the mornings.
Sleep-overs at friends’ or relatives’ were a strict no-no for me. Visits to plush malls were still far away in the future. Children's films released only too few to warrant a visit to the theaters. Eating out happened only once or twice in a year. All my outdoor merriment stemmed from that little stretch of greenery walled in by a brick barricade with broken glass shards cemented into the top railing. To ward off pests, my mother said. The garden had a big Shiuli tree, the flowers of which ushered in wistful Autumns with its tiny orange-stemmed wonders, an enormous Neem that carved out not at all a bitter canopy overhead and huge Hibiscus and Gondhoraaj trees, which poured forth perfumed evenings into my sheltered life.
I remember my father fixing a swing for me in the garden that had one end of a rope tied to the trunk of the Shiuli tree, the other end to the Neem’s. It was nothing grand, a thick double rope with a heavy jute sack serving as saddle. I was skinny (oh yes, I was, once upon a time!) so the swing didn’t ever have to take much of a weathering from my bony butt. Butterflies, the varieties I no longer see around, would flutter their mosaic wings and wander from tree to tree, right under my nose, taking absolutely no notice of me. Ants scurried from hill to hill, scouring mounds for food. We had unusual cacti with pink flowers along with needles in the garden as well. I imagined the place to be my secret garden and would take my books there to read. I also had the habit of talking to myself - I had to fill numerous roles - forlorn heroine chained in a sylvan bower, damsel in distress waiting for her demon lover, fighter queen with flowing tresses, stern teacher minding unruly kids, tearful mothers, querulous hussif, so on and so forth. But the need for something real never diminished.
So you can well imagine that school for me had a special significance. A substantially REAL outside world, other than my secret garden. A school-bus ride in the morning, followed by a solemn assembly in the gigantic bus garage, singing prayer hymns in unison or sometimes just lip-syncing, cracking jokes at the teachers we hated, eyeing the new sari or the make-up on that one favorite teacher, nudging each other to grab secret attention for muttered gossip under breath, narrowly escaping punishment for not polishing shoes, or not braiding the locks, standing up on our seats holding ears for not bringing homework, looking at the watch to count the seconds to break time, staring with awe-filled eyes at the seniors, who by some miraculous stroke of luck always appeared stylish and poised, sharing mommy-made tiffin with famished friends, who were always, always hungry, reading, writing, learning, talking, listening, fighting, loving – my childhood was spent in the best school in the world. And out of those fun-filled days each year, two will always be special to me: Teachers’ Day and Children’s day.
The former was a big affair. My mother would bake cup cakes for my favorite teachers. I would spend hours making postcard greetings to express my deep gratitude and admiration for them. The whole school would come together to pool money for treats and presents for the teachers. Rehearsals would continue through months running up to the big day to prepare for the entertainment lined up for the teachers.
Children’s Day in comparison was a low-key affair. When we were littler, we were allowed to wear party dresses to school on that day. As we climbed classes, sprouted breasts, and came to know the worth of short skirts and plunging neck-lines, the school made uniforms mandatory as part of the Children’s Day routine. On a typical day, we would hear a bit about Chacha Nehru, who apparently had great fondness for kids, despite being a philosopher himself – take that! Then wait for packets of sweets, samosa and toffees. My packet, as anyone else’s would always have edible grease marks on them, and as long as it took me to open it, I would keep guessing the contents. Was it a vegetable chop, or a samosa? Was it a kaju barfi or a gaja? Simple modest treats, yet so precious. The teacher dispensing the treats would be greedily watched by our sisterhood of starved souls as she would smile and nod through the seats, filling each outstretched arm with the gastronomic delights. As we gorged on the goodies later on, we would badger our teacher to sing a song or tell us a story. Some would oblige, some would just give us a free period. Whatever it was we would squeal in delight, as if the gift of that one song or that one 45-minute session to do as we liked was the greatest joy in the world.
Life was simple, our pleasures simpler. Haven't we heard that enough already?
Children’s Day doesn’t come to me anymore. It comes to my son now.
I asked my son this morning as he was getting ready for school: Are you not excited? It is Children’s Day today!
He quietly said: Maybe they will give us some shoddy candies, who cares?
And I wonder if I am still a child within myself raising a grown-up backwards? I had just three dolls to play with, and a red plastic tea set. My story books were loaned from neighbors and libraries. Some were my own, of course, bought once in a year, during my annual visit to the book fair.
My son has a room full of toys, gadgets and books. I have learned to say ‘no’ to his demand for new stuff, and yes he doesn’t ask as much anymore. He understands the price of things now but perhaps will take time to appreciate the value of the same things. I guess he understands somehow that he wouldn’t have to wear hand-me-downs or borrow toys and books like his mother did.
For him Children’s Day is just another day, while every year even now, his mother takes that starry-eyed memory-filled walk back to her girl-hood on this day. However, here’s me hoping that my childhood becomes contagious enough to rub off on to my child, and to your child, and to all the adults in the world.
Happy Children’s Day to the child in me! To the child in you!
It is never too late to live a happy childhood!
************************
As I was posting this blog, my son hopped in, sporting a wide grin, showing off his latest prize - his Children's Day gift today. Here's a shot of his happiness. I am as excited as he is, or even more, if that's possible. I guess we make a weird mom-son duo, right?
Sleep-overs at friends’ or relatives’ were a strict no-no for me. Visits to plush malls were still far away in the future. Children's films released only too few to warrant a visit to the theaters. Eating out happened only once or twice in a year. All my outdoor merriment stemmed from that little stretch of greenery walled in by a brick barricade with broken glass shards cemented into the top railing. To ward off pests, my mother said. The garden had a big Shiuli tree, the flowers of which ushered in wistful Autumns with its tiny orange-stemmed wonders, an enormous Neem that carved out not at all a bitter canopy overhead and huge Hibiscus and Gondhoraaj trees, which poured forth perfumed evenings into my sheltered life.
I remember my father fixing a swing for me in the garden that had one end of a rope tied to the trunk of the Shiuli tree, the other end to the Neem’s. It was nothing grand, a thick double rope with a heavy jute sack serving as saddle. I was skinny (oh yes, I was, once upon a time!) so the swing didn’t ever have to take much of a weathering from my bony butt. Butterflies, the varieties I no longer see around, would flutter their mosaic wings and wander from tree to tree, right under my nose, taking absolutely no notice of me. Ants scurried from hill to hill, scouring mounds for food. We had unusual cacti with pink flowers along with needles in the garden as well. I imagined the place to be my secret garden and would take my books there to read. I also had the habit of talking to myself - I had to fill numerous roles - forlorn heroine chained in a sylvan bower, damsel in distress waiting for her demon lover, fighter queen with flowing tresses, stern teacher minding unruly kids, tearful mothers, querulous hussif, so on and so forth. But the need for something real never diminished.
So you can well imagine that school for me had a special significance. A substantially REAL outside world, other than my secret garden. A school-bus ride in the morning, followed by a solemn assembly in the gigantic bus garage, singing prayer hymns in unison or sometimes just lip-syncing, cracking jokes at the teachers we hated, eyeing the new sari or the make-up on that one favorite teacher, nudging each other to grab secret attention for muttered gossip under breath, narrowly escaping punishment for not polishing shoes, or not braiding the locks, standing up on our seats holding ears for not bringing homework, looking at the watch to count the seconds to break time, staring with awe-filled eyes at the seniors, who by some miraculous stroke of luck always appeared stylish and poised, sharing mommy-made tiffin with famished friends, who were always, always hungry, reading, writing, learning, talking, listening, fighting, loving – my childhood was spent in the best school in the world. And out of those fun-filled days each year, two will always be special to me: Teachers’ Day and Children’s day.
The former was a big affair. My mother would bake cup cakes for my favorite teachers. I would spend hours making postcard greetings to express my deep gratitude and admiration for them. The whole school would come together to pool money for treats and presents for the teachers. Rehearsals would continue through months running up to the big day to prepare for the entertainment lined up for the teachers.
Children’s Day in comparison was a low-key affair. When we were littler, we were allowed to wear party dresses to school on that day. As we climbed classes, sprouted breasts, and came to know the worth of short skirts and plunging neck-lines, the school made uniforms mandatory as part of the Children’s Day routine. On a typical day, we would hear a bit about Chacha Nehru, who apparently had great fondness for kids, despite being a philosopher himself – take that! Then wait for packets of sweets, samosa and toffees. My packet, as anyone else’s would always have edible grease marks on them, and as long as it took me to open it, I would keep guessing the contents. Was it a vegetable chop, or a samosa? Was it a kaju barfi or a gaja? Simple modest treats, yet so precious. The teacher dispensing the treats would be greedily watched by our sisterhood of starved souls as she would smile and nod through the seats, filling each outstretched arm with the gastronomic delights. As we gorged on the goodies later on, we would badger our teacher to sing a song or tell us a story. Some would oblige, some would just give us a free period. Whatever it was we would squeal in delight, as if the gift of that one song or that one 45-minute session to do as we liked was the greatest joy in the world.
Life was simple, our pleasures simpler. Haven't we heard that enough already?
Children’s Day doesn’t come to me anymore. It comes to my son now.
I asked my son this morning as he was getting ready for school: Are you not excited? It is Children’s Day today!
He quietly said: Maybe they will give us some shoddy candies, who cares?
And I wonder if I am still a child within myself raising a grown-up backwards? I had just three dolls to play with, and a red plastic tea set. My story books were loaned from neighbors and libraries. Some were my own, of course, bought once in a year, during my annual visit to the book fair.
My son has a room full of toys, gadgets and books. I have learned to say ‘no’ to his demand for new stuff, and yes he doesn’t ask as much anymore. He understands the price of things now but perhaps will take time to appreciate the value of the same things. I guess he understands somehow that he wouldn’t have to wear hand-me-downs or borrow toys and books like his mother did.
For him Children’s Day is just another day, while every year even now, his mother takes that starry-eyed memory-filled walk back to her girl-hood on this day. However, here’s me hoping that my childhood becomes contagious enough to rub off on to my child, and to your child, and to all the adults in the world.
Happy Children’s Day to the child in me! To the child in you!
It is never too late to live a happy childhood!
************************
As I was posting this blog, my son hopped in, sporting a wide grin, showing off his latest prize - his Children's Day gift today. Here's a shot of his happiness. I am as excited as he is, or even more, if that's possible. I guess we make a weird mom-son duo, right?
 |
| For a change, the boy is happy with his Children's Day gift from Mrs Basu, his class teacher. |
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| A toy bike, with eraser tyres |
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| The bike on my laptop |
