A CHILDHOOD NOSTALGIA

As usual my wife  was  glued to the TV screen where her favorite serial Manasaputhri was on, and I, resting to regain my breath after my usual evening brisk walk.  But my mind was nowhere in that room .  It fluttered without any direction!

Summer is almost over, and monsoon is in the offing.  The rains will come in June.  Then it will be only one more month before it reaches July.  Soon it will be July fourth.  The much awaited day when  Unni, my five year old grandson will be visiting us.   He is now in Abu Dhabi with his parents.  We are all eagerly waiting to see him. Yet a strange anxiety haunted me.  How will my daughter and son inlaw in Abu Dhabi  feel when they return home in the evening after their son Unni left for India? I wondered aloud to my wife.   “Surely they will terribly miss him.  They will feel emptiness, boredom and cheerless."  her reply was quick.  Perhaps she had experienced similar emotion when our daughter went abroad after marriage.  "But it is only for a month or so.  We are not going to keep Unni here permanently," she  said to console herself, without taking her eyes off the TV.

"That’s right, but the boy has never been separated from them  even for a day till this date," I reminded her. 

Both of us were silent for some time.

It was then the doorbell  sounded.  “Who is coming at this hour?” my wife  said, irritated at the interruption of missing some of the interesting scenes in the TV programme, and went to open the door. 

“Oh! Come in, come in...," she invited in a pleasant voice.  How quickly we change our tone, I smiled   as I got up to receive the guests.

They were five people, all  from our  locality. I knew everyone by name.  I was certain they were here for  donation for some silly cause like a local a progamme of  football match, ganamela,  or something like that.  If they have no money, why conduct such things?  Without showing annoyance, I offered them seats, and asked my wife to get them some tea.

Apologizing for the disruption, and without much preamble, the oldest among them,pesident of our Residence association  who appeared to be their leader, informed me the purpose of their visit.  The Girls High School of the locality badly needed renovation, and a committee has been formed  to execute the renovation.  They are at my home to request for some financial help.

Suddenly an invisible chord in me snapped at the mention of “Girls High School ,  My mind flew many years backwards, and I found myself a 7 year old.  I was then studying in the primary school, and since we have to cross the main road, my grandmother had arranged a 15 year old girl named Chinnamma to accompany me on my way to the school and back.   But my timing and Chinnamma’s timings were not the same.  My classes ended at 12.30 pm whereas Chinnamma’s school broke for lunch at 1 pm. So every day at 12.30 I would run from my school to this girls High school and wait there till 1 pm.  For me those 30 minutes appeared long time.  Normally I would stand on the veranda where the bell was hung and when the Peon came to  ring the bell I would close my ears with my little hands.  I didn’t want my ears blown out!  I would then watch the girls in  colourful dress running out  as if they were escaping from some den.  It was such a pretty sight resembling so many butterflies flurring…

Those butterflies have all gone away.  The school building is now in bad shape.   But my childhood memories still remained. I could not detach myself from that school! 

I took the cheque book and wrote a good  amount, much above the visitor’s expectation.  They thanked me profusely and left after taking tea my wife had offered.

I leaned back on my chair and closed my eyes, as my wife  tuned on “Manasaputhri” once again.

I tried to bring back my thoughts again to Unni. He is now five years old and studying in first standard.  I too was young like him when I was escorted to school by Chinnamma. Where is Chinnamma now?  Is she alive or dead?  She must be 69 or 70 years old if she is still alive.  Perhaps she would have become a great grand mother! 

I experienced a strange desire  to see her again!   I could not help smiling to myself, when I thought of her.   Chinnamma was indeed very pretty, but she came from a poor family. Her house was a tiny hut.  On our way back from school in the afternoon, she used to give me painful pinch on my buttocks to walk faster, because she had to go to school again after lunch, but I had no classes in the afternoon.   One day she said she would not pinch me any more if I bring some talcum powder for her from my home.  It was an offer I could not resist to escape from her pinches.  She was excited when I handed over a small packet containing talcum powder the next day.  She hold me tight  and gave me a solid kiss on my cheek.  I was surprised, but pleased.   Since that day, I never got any pinch.  I became a small talcum powder thief.  The Cuticura powder tin began emptying fast.  It didn’t worry me; I wanted to make her very happy.

On those days we used to cultivate Tapioca.  I would steal big tapioca for her and cut it into pieces to hide in my school bag.  The tapioca and talcum powder made us more confederate.  This went on for sometime till Chinnamma stopped going to school.  

I felt sorry for her. Poor girl, or rather poor woman!

Now my grandson is five year old.  I wonder whether there will be another Chinnamma to escort him, and help him cross streets.  Perhaps not.  Now there are school buses to take the child from door step.   But if there was no Chinnamma, I would have given the committee people a petty sum of fifty or hundred rupees.   Chinnamma  would never know that she has indirectly helped her school  to get a good donation fo its renovation..

My wife  wearily got up.   The TV show was over; another one began.  I also got up with the hangover of a childhood memories, to partake dinner…