tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12959965940660186832024-02-07T21:25:07.947-08:00"Memories are made of these"Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger44125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-46612197738703797112021-11-11T05:04:00.001-08:002021-11-11T05:04:49.939-08:00<p> Since I turned 70 recently, I thought I would try and remember birthdays of mine when I was younger. But now, try as I might, I cannot remember a single one of my birthdays as a child. The only birthday I do remember was when I turned 15, in 1966, my last year in school, when we appeared for the Senior Cambridge exams, equivalent to O levels at that time.</p><p>I was the youngest in the class and I recall more of what my friends did in school. Possibly I remember this birthday also because I kept a diary through a large part of that year, which I still have with me, and that certainly jogs my memory. I remember getting my first lipstick and two lovely saris. </p><p>Somehow, what comes to mind are Christmases. Often, while we were in Bombay, we spent Christmas in Pune with my mother's sister, who lived and worked there. We decorated the house, though I don't remember a Christmas tree as such. The highlight was Christmas breakfast, mainly because my aunt had a tape recorder and she would proceed to turn it on in the morning and our singing and breakfast conversation was all recorded. Those were those big spool tapes and she had a huge collection. She would then play some of the recordings from previous Christmases.</p><p>As I get older, I find that the events I remember are less and less. But there are little vignettes, snapshots in my mind, of places, things and people and those pictures are very sharp.</p><p>It is a pity that I can't remember birthdays, because my mother was the sort who did celebrate our birthdays in some way. Ah well, I guess my children will remember more about their birthdays as, by then, cameras were ubiquitous and so photographs abound.</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-60903985847721207632020-06-02T10:55:00.000-07:002020-06-02T10:55:18.439-07:00Collecting chocolate wrappersI was slowly and methodically straightening out a piece of aluminium foil, which had wrapped some dish we had delivered recently; (yes, I clean and reuse aluminium foil if I can, as here, where I live it is difficult to dispose of them). As I was straightening it out I suddennly remembered how, when I was young, Cadbury's chocolates came wrapped in a silver paper, inside the printed paper wrapper and for many of us young kids, the greatest joy was collecting these. It was a delicate process as the silver paper was very fragile. So, if you were impatient it went to pieces. I remember using a thin handkerchief and oh so slowly rubbing the silver paper to straighten it out. It was an achievement to get a couple of whole papers. Besides, one rarely got a bar of chocolate for oneself. It was usually one bar (of around 40 gms) to be shared between at least 2 kids. So to get the paper for yourself was really great. It was only much later, when Cadbury started making the smaller bars, that they came in printed thicker aluminium foil.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-24593410400455021432019-07-27T06:02:00.002-07:002021-02-10T08:32:19.699-08:00Riding in OotyA chance black and white picture I came across , of a group of riders during the British Raj, reminded me of my days in boarding school in Ooty (now Udhagamandalam). We could choose riding as one of our extra curricular activities. As I loved anything to do with animals, my parents agreed to riding as one of my activities. <br />
We had an Englishwoman as our riding instructor (one of those who chose to stay back after Indian Independence). She had a lovely big, black horse. We learned to ride on the Ooty ponies. As I was just a little over 8 years old at that time and the others with me were all around that age, the ponies were much better for us. <br />
After the initial days going round and round the paddock, we were taken out to ride on grasslands called the Ooty Downs at that time. I wonder how much of the Downs remains now. I loved riding over the Downs. Once I took a toss into some bushes. But that did not dim my enthusiasm.<br />
Our instructor also insisted that each of us learn to take off the saddles at the end of the ride and brush down our ponies. How I loved that bit! We were given carrots to feed our ponies too, at the end of the ride.<br />
Once, the instructor allowed me to ride her big horse, as a special treat for doing well, but of course just around the paddock. That was thrilling for me.<br />
Ah well, that was 58 years ago. I have had only a chance or two after that to ride and that too, not to ride off on my own, and I guess I may no longer be able to control a horse. <br />
But of the two years I was in boarding school, riding was one of the nicest bits.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-61291463694374011422019-04-01T09:42:00.004-07:002022-06-27T08:19:54.617-07:00A post on Instagram by a friend about World War II brought back memories. <br />
I had an uncle who had fought in WW II, in North Africa mainly, as I remember him telling me. I was 13 or 14 at that time and had read any number of books on the war, mainly non-fiction. I had read 'The Desert Fox' about Rommel and to me the fact that he had fought in a battalion against Rommel seemed romantic. <br />
Once it happened that I wanted to see the movie <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Great_Escape_(film)" target="_blank">'The Great Escape'</a>. I had already seen it once and wanted to see it again. The only person who was free to come with me was this uncle. He first refused to come with me. But finally, being the really sweet person he was, he came very reluctantly. Sometime during the movie, I looked at him and he had his eyes closed. It is only much later that I realised how difficult it must have been for him, though the war had been over almost 20 years by then. Nobody knew about PTSD then. Now that I do know, I realise what a sacrifice he made to come with me for the movie.<div>
Much later, after reading more books on the horrors of the War and the concentration camps, I became a pacifist.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-36809632549130077802019-03-24T07:44:00.004-07:002021-02-10T08:36:45.104-08:001965 Today my husband and I were talking about the Vietnam war as he has been watching a Netflix series on the Vietnam war. We talked about those years. That awoke memories of 1965 when there was a war with Pakistan. <br />
I was in Calcutta then, in the 10th standard, which, at that time, meant one more year of school. What I remember clearly was that when the war started, all of us 9th and 10th standard students were sent to paste brown paper on all the glass windows and ventilator shutters. As we did not have a hostel in school, it was not for black out, but apparently to prevent the glass shattering inwards, if a bomb was dropped. We of course thought it was great that we got away from classes for quite a few days.<br />
I also remember the air raid drills, sometimes during the day and sometimes at night. If we were in school, the bell would ring when the air raid siren went and we were all supposed to gather on the ground floor in a specific room. If the siren went off at night, at home, all lights were to be put off and we were to gather in the centre of the house, on the ground floor. As our flat was on the ground floor, we did not have to go out. Now I think about it, I can't remember anyone telling us to turn off the piped in gas, used to cook and to heat the water boilers.<br />
Anyway, one night there really was an air raid warning. It must have been around 7.30 or 8 pm. I guess we must have all put out the lights. But what was worrying was that my father had not yet reached home. His office was way over near Barrackpore, on the Barrackpore Trunk Road. There were no cell phones then. So we had no idea where he might be. I think my mother rang the office and found he had left. My mother, my sister and I sat in the centre room and waited for the all clear. We heard planes overhead. The all clear must have sounded after an hour or so. My father arrived sometime after that. He said he had been on the road when the siren sounded. Apparently all the cars stopped, and all lights were switched off--headlights, streetlights, traffic lights, everything. <br />
Next morning we learnt that a bomb had been dropped in Barrackpore on the Air Force base there and there had been air fights. There were more sorties in the East, near and around Calcutta. <br />
During the day, life went on as usual and we went to school. I don't remember getting a holiday due to the war. But then again my memory may be playing false.<br />
What I do remember is that the duration of studies for engineering was cut short, as in, those in their last year of the engineering course had 6 months reduced from the course, so that many engineers would be ready to help the country if the war continued. So my older brother, who was in his last year in IIT in Chennai, finished his course and came back home much earlier than expected and was around to help me with my studies. <br />
I just read up about it on Wikipedia and realised it was quite a big encounter. But, I don't remember feeling worried about the war. All I remember is wishing I could become a pilot.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-47173702348178981502018-07-08T03:58:00.001-07:002019-03-24T00:10:00.384-07:00Goats and kidsI have written earlier about <a href="https://50swoman.blogspot.com/2007/09/there-are-so-many-wonderful-memories-of.html#comment-form" target="_blank">staying in Kerala with my maternal aunt</a>.I remember the visits as idyllic times.<br />
It was an old-fashioned farm. There were many cows and milk was sold. There were many hens too and maybe eggs were sold too, though I can't remember. I remember that more than once, when I went to stay, my aunt would buy a pregnant goat, so that when she gave birth I could have goat's milk. But my big thrill was having the kids to look after. I was usually allowed to be there at the birthing. Once the goat had 2 kids and I think on another occasion there were 3 but the memory is probably false. It was lovely watching the kids being born and then watching them stand up on unsteady legs. But in about a minute they would be jumping around. I remember the first such goat I called Milly and the kids were just Milly's kids. My aunt showed me how to milk the goat too and I was allowed to milk the goat--occasionally I guess. The kids were my friends and I loved playing with them, with them running around behind me.<br />
I stayed with my aunt there on numerous occasions from when I was about 4 and for quite a while when I finished high school at almost 16 and many more times in between. But to write about the times there requires many blog posts.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-75889731130829388142018-04-06T03:06:00.000-07:002019-03-24T00:10:24.278-07:00Hill Road, Bandra, MumbaiWhen I was around 4, we moved from Napean Sea Road, in Mumbai to Mt.Mary Road, now apparently called Hill Road. It was a huge British Bungalow, opposite the St. Stephen's Anglican church. I used to often walk across by myself, to church to go to Sunday School. At that time Hill Road did not have much traffic, especially on a Sunday.<br />
So I was thrilled when my niece, who had just started working in Mumbai, said she had found a bed-sit for herself on Hill Road, very close to St. Stephen's Church. I looked it all up on Google maps to see how much it must have changed. I last visited Hill Road maybe i 1999. I am now looking forward to visiting her some time to renew my acquaintance with the road in it's latest avatar and certainly to slip into St. Stephen's as well as Mt. Mary Church. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-17970803074726016122018-03-30T03:21:00.003-07:002022-06-27T08:24:14.607-07:00The beach, summer and musicI love jazz, Latin music, Hawaiian music, and a lot more too of course. But whenever I listen to Latino music or smooth jazz, into my mind comes pictures of a tropical beach, and this sort of music floating out in the background, blending with the soothing sounds of the ocean. As I think back, I have a vague memory of going to a beach in Mumbai, possibly Juhu. I don't remember it being very crowded. My physical memory makes me feel I may have been around four. In the background there is a beach front restaurant, and the music floating from there was that kind of music, relaxing and part of the sun, sand, sea and palm trees.<br />
As I grew up and into my teen years of course it was all about the Beatles, other Brit pop groups, Elvis and Cliff Richards. But on my 15th birthday my eldest brother, who was in the US by then, sent me an <a href="https://youtu.be/C6dZqWvmVTU" target="_blank">Astrud Gilberto album</a> and I just <b>loved</b> that album and there was no turning back. Even now, when I hear smooth jazz, especially Bossa Nova, the feeling is almost visceral and whenever there are summer breezes blowing, even at home, I want to listen to jazz.<br />
I have not been back to Juhu since we left Mumbai in 1961. I wonder what it is like now. But for me, it is forever linked with that kind of music.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-57540728770897785412016-02-14T04:17:00.002-08:002019-03-24T00:08:40.810-07:00A boarding school memory.It's funny what can trigger a memory! I had bought a pink radish, not regularly available here, to make either a salad or <a href="http://www.rakskitchen.net/2014/08/easy-mooli-paratha-recipe-radish-paratha.html" target="_blank">'mooli paratha'</a>. As I was preparing it, I ate a small piece and it suddenly brought back memories of a radish field raid we did while I was in boarding school in Ooty. There were 4 of us as I remember. I remember only the girl who first made the plan. I don't remember who the other two girls were. But the taste and smell of the radish came back sharply, when I bit into my piece of radish.<br />
I remember standing out in the dark, outside the field and barely washing the radish and eating it with salt. I can't remember whether we were in our pyjamas or had changed into our uniforms, or what time of the evening/night it was. All I can remember is standing outside the field, which had a hedge all around, and the taste of the radish.<br />
Somehow, now, when I look back, I can't really imagine why, at age 8 or 9, one would want to raid a radish field, except for the naughtiness value :-), after all radishes aren't exactly the most exciting food for a kid that age. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-71610076737437413372016-01-09T22:04:00.002-08:002016-01-09T22:04:34.165-08:00Music in my lifeI was at a music concert yesterday, given by my sister-in-law's students at the music school run by her. The lessons are in Western Classical music. As I listened to the children playing many of the standard recital pieces like <a href="http://www.forelise.com/recordings/valentina_lisitsa">Fuer Elise (Beethoven)</a>, Minuet in G by various composers and heard a senior student sing the beautiful hymn<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4tIsTmUOODo"> 'Panis Angelicus'</a>, the music in my life, when I was young came back to me.<br />
I did my first piano exam when I was 9--at that time grade 1 piano of the Royal College of Music. I don't remember how well I did or not, only that I passed. That was in boarding school in Ooty. <br />
My parents then moved to Kolkata (Calcutta then), when one of the first things my mother did, was to hunt for a music teacher. She found an old Scottish lady, of whom I have written earlier. She was good, but didn't believe in sending children for the exams, though she made me play pieces as much as I could, regardless of the difficulty level. <br />
We had a piano, which was at first kept in the living room. But since I was always playing, the piano was moved to my bedroom. I cannot tell you what joy that was! I could play whenever I felt like it. It was to the piano I went, when I was down, or even when I just wanted to think. I loved practising even scales. Those four years were wonderful and the piano---and my diary--were among my best friends during teenage angst time. Now my fingers are not supple anymore and I can no longer play as nimbly as I could once and I no longer have a piano. Yes there is a guitar at home, but that, to me, is not the same.<br />
The singing brought back to me, the choir singing I did at my school in Cal. I remember learning 'Panis Angelicus' there and I remembered it all my life. Ever since, I heard my young sister-in-law sing, I had been wanting her to learn this song. And so I heard a number of very good young singers singing the song. I am truly glad that my young sister-in-law has this music school, because, once more, I get to hear so much music.<br />
My old piano looked a bit like this--<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-75964775753132736742013-08-27T05:05:00.002-07:002016-01-13T05:47:53.137-08:00Calcutta of the early '60s<a href="http://www.business-standard.com/article/opinion/goodbye-to-pam-and-all-that-113082301159_1.html">This article in the Business Standard dated August 23rd</a> about the passing away of Pam Crain, who used to sing at Blue Fox, brought back memories of the Calcutta (not Kolkata at all then)I knew. I lived in Calcutta from 1961 to 1966--five years. The traces of the Raj were still there, though fading. There were still a number of Britishers and I remember visiting a club--can't remember which one though--where non-whites were not yet allowed to be members.<br />
Park Street was <b>the</b> place. Blue Fox and Trincas were both there. I knew of the live singing in both, but only have a vague memory of visiting Trincas the once. I remember the American sailors as mentioned in the Business Standard article, swarming around on Park Street on occasion. <br />
When I joined school in '61, we had different uniforms for winter and summer. In winter we had a blazer as formal wear, which was made by a bespoke suit-maker, naturally, at the corner of Park Street and Middleton Row and in summer, all white cotton skirts and blouses. But by the time I left in '66, the uniform was changed and there were no longer the separate uniforms for winter and summer.<br />
I remember a darzi in Camac Street, who made really good Western wear. There were always expats at his shop, waiting to get clothes done.<br />
That was the time when the song 'Ladies of Calcutta' came out, as I remember.<br />
I returned to Calcutta many years later, when we took my son there for treatment and were then frequent visitors there for a few years, usually staying at the YWCA on Middleton Row (no longer a YWCA now, I believe). At that time Park Street and the streets around it had not changed all that much and I could still take my children around by myself, without getting lost. I wonder now how it all looks and would love to go back just once to know what it looks like now.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-45286312003418462002013-01-14T08:29:00.000-08:002013-01-14T08:29:08.065-08:00The day I rode a cop carWell, this is not a memory from my youth but one that happened around three and a half years back, at the ripe old age of 58. <br />
I was in the US to help out with my son and daughter-in-law, on the birth of my granddaughter. But in between that, I took a short break with my brothers over in the Los Angeles area. Well, a niece very kindly offered to take me out to listen to some music--Latin music, which I love. As it was summer, it was street music. We duly parked in a free parking lot--around 7pm this was--and went to enjoy the music. <br />
After enjoying the sounds and sights, we decided to leave. By this time the parking lot area was more or less deserted. We walked through the indoor lot, and oh dear, we just could not remember where the car had been parked. All we could both remember was that it was in a corner. We walked around on several floors for about 15 mins and no car! It was a fairly expensive car and so my niece was convinced it had been stolen--after all this was like a downtown area and it was certainly not early evening. So first my niece rang her dad and then called the police and then we waited on the street outside the parking lot, on the street. The only thing open near bye was a tanning parlor--at around 9 pm! As we waited we found we were getting strange looks from some passers-by, male of course. By this time my niece was getting frantic at the non-arrival of dad/and or members of the police force. <br />
Finally her father arrived. Now, I forgot to mention, neither of us knew/remembered the number of the car. So, the first thing that was done, on arrival of my brother, was to get the car number. Just then a police car came and asked whether it was us that had reported a missing car. On being told that we were, he asked for the number of the car. Then he asked my niece to get in for one more ride around the parking lot. She insisted that the car was not in the lot. But he said, what's to lose by one more ride around the parking lot. She then asked one of us to please get in with her, as she didn't want to ride alone. So I promptly got in the back,as, after all, I felt this was a rare opportunity to experience the hospitality of the LAPD. While we were getting in, we got even stranger looks from the passers-by than earlier, as you can imagine. After all, what would you expect, when a cop car stops and makes 2 women get into the car late in the evening....<br />
Now friends, I don't know if you know this already, but <b>there are no cushioned seats</b> in the back of an LAPD cop car! It was a shock to find I was sitting on hard blue metal. I kept moving, trying to find a comfortable spot on the metal, but with no luck. <br />
By this time we had taken a turn through the lot and lo and behold there stood the car in the dim light. The young policeman was triumphant and both of us felt extremely foolish. We proceeded to apologize profusely, which made him grin even more widely and then he left, after which we got into the recovered car and drove home.<br />
Now there is an even funnier postscript to this. I had taken a camera with me and when we got home, I found the camera was not with me. It had been left in LAPD's luxury limo!!! So there was my brother--at 10.30 pm, calling the police dept office to find out if there had been a camera in a cop car. We were told that the camera had been found at left at the main Police Dept office in the area we had visited, but that we would have to come and fetch it then itself as the next day was Sunday and the office would be closed. Hence, my poor brother made his second trip all the way there, with me, to the particular office and then we had to wait, till the young policeman came in for a break, to claim my camera. It wasn't that this camera was a fancy camera. It was just that I had quite a few pictures in it of my new granddaughter and family in general. So anyway, a long and eventful evening filled with interactions with the LAPD.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-37948128063058259272012-06-22T09:12:00.000-07:002012-06-22T09:12:18.708-07:00 I am now 60 years old and have been married for 40 years. I realised that, therefore I have been married for double the number of years that I was not married! So now memories of my youth are hard to dredge up, though they surface at the oddest times. Now the memories that I recall are largely post marriage and of my children's childhoods.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-34215178953732006372012-02-11T03:17:00.000-08:002016-01-13T05:49:29.086-08:00A blog post I read a while back, got me thinking about my own teenage years.<br />
I was overweight and not good-looking. I was also rather hirsute! In those days, at least here in India, not that many youngsters got their eyebrows done or facial hair removed, more so because, as I remember, bodily hair was only either shaved off or tweezed off.<br />
I studied in a girls' school--a convent and none of my classmates would come out and say that I was fat or ugly or anything. But then I had a younger brother who had no such scruples and hummed 'Baby Elephant's Walk' whenever he wanted to annoy me.<br />
Those were the days of shift dresses and tight skirts (so tight that you were forced to take mincing steps) and my mother flatly refused to let me get anything stitched like that because she thought I was too fat for those kinds of fashions (I was kind of bosomy and my mother felt that Western style clothes just attracted unwanted, negative attention ). I remember that, after much pleading from me and from one of my best friends, she finally allowed me to get one shift dress made, which I personally thought made me look slimmer, but which my mother wasn't too happy about. From the time I was 12, for most formal occasions my mother got me to wear saris. For school of course we had uniforms.<br />
But when I got into the 9th standard and the class got split into sections, depending on the classes/subjects we elected to do, I found I was much more comfortable with my classmates. We were all science students and therefore considered more career-oriented and so being upto-the-minute fashionable was not given that much importance.<br />
Even so, there were social occasions we occasionally attended, more so because of the work my father did, where there might be girls about my age, from the upper crust of Calcutta society and how I hated going because I felt fat, ugly and so unsophisticated, next to these smart svelte young women. In that sense wearing a sari was good because although I might be considered old-fashioned, at least there wouldn't be any unfavourable comparisons, as there might have been if I was dressed fashionably! That was when I began telling myself--'Packaging may count, but that's not everything; what counts is what's within the package and you have brains and you can build substance. There will be people you will come across who will appreciate the substance as long as the package is cleanly and neatly wrapped'. [:-)] <br />
There was a kind of safety in the fact that well-behaved girls from good families did not have <span style="font-weight: bold;">boyfriends</span> as in going steady. So that kind of competition was never there. In that sense I think that the not needing to have a sweetheart at that age, took away a great part of the pressure--for both boys and girls--of having to be good-looking or attractive in an accepted mould.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-83100699712824500522011-10-16T01:13:00.000-07:002016-01-13T05:49:45.681-08:00I lie with my eyes shut waiting for my headache meds to take effect. I remember a bad headache when I was maybe 5 or 6. Then the room where I lay came into view, like watching an old movie. <br />
It was the guest room in the palatial house we lived in, in Bandra, Mumbai. My mother had got the walls painted a delicate shade of lilac, almost the colour of these lilacs.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEeXmCpah2ThyphenhyphenhbU0VGgLz5bHY6eU4IAdFQdS6BurkErSkuai5fC52lOG_QlhhwT_hAZE6-Q9gytnLaMP9yt5ZoWimNo-p4aqt5gJJpG7RVFTzBR5c7OZX5uL2Gklen5cDGVPQVBoJlTlM/s1600/pink+lilac+cut..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEeXmCpah2ThyphenhyphenhbU0VGgLz5bHY6eU4IAdFQdS6BurkErSkuai5fC52lOG_QlhhwT_hAZE6-Q9gytnLaMP9yt5ZoWimNo-p4aqt5gJJpG7RVFTzBR5c7OZX5uL2Gklen5cDGVPQVBoJlTlM/s200/pink+lilac+cut..JPG" width="156" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(from Wikepedia)</td></tr>
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The curtains and the bedspreads were in white cotton fabric on which there were flower borders, embroidered in cross-stitch, in the same lilac as the walls. This is the nearest likeness.<br />
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On the bedside tables were tall white metal candlesticks converted into lamps, and with white lampshades. There was a beautiful rosewood vanity table/dressing table against a wall, which too, as I seem to remember, had white cotton circular doilies on them. That was the done way of dressing up the vanity table those days.<br />
I then took a walk through the house and the thought came up, that sadly I can no longer check out how true my memories are, because that house is no more, having given way to a huge flat.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-34292977487711674412011-07-08T05:26:00.000-07:002011-07-08T05:26:28.173-07:00Feeling OldThese days, so often I feel so old that growing up and attendant memories seem like an aeon ago. It's only music that can trigger memories and I guess the fact that I am trying to listen to new music these days has closed the door to many memories. Maybe I should go back to listening to some of the music of my salad days :-)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-63342397489086945852011-03-19T12:56:00.000-07:002016-01-13T05:50:08.913-08:00It's strange how childhood memories suddenly come back at the weirdest times. The other night I was lying in bed with my eyes shut and on the verge of sleep when memories of a house my parents had lived in, just flooded me, so much so it woke me up!<br />
This house was in Ranchi, Bihar, where my father worked in a Public Sector Undertaking for around 3 years. It was an old British made bungalow for some government officer I think--PSG bungalow. Spacious and airy, it was a gracious house. The thick walls and the surrounding verandahs kept the house cool in the hot Bihar summers. <br />
There were 4 bedrooms surrounding a large sitting room and a dining area. The kitchen was far away--as was common in houses in pre-Independence India. But an area near the dining room had been converted into a small kitchen. The bungalow had extensive grounds with a number of fruit trees of different kinds. <br />
The memory that woke me, was of the room I used while in that house. I had asked and was given a room at the front of the house, opening out onto a broad, shady verandah that ran the whole length of the front of the house. I was given the choice to do up the room the way I wanted --with available furnishings.<br />
The memory of the bright emerald green bedspreads I had was so clear that it was almost tangible. The thought of the colour in my mind's eye, then dredged out other objects that I had loved--my guitar hung on the wall, the music system in pride of place and some posters on the wall. I saw myself as I had been then--wearing a green sari and my thick, frizzy hair in a tight braid!<br />
There arose also, the memory of two of the fruit trees, a guava tree just out back behind the house and a huge <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jambul">jamun</a> tree in the front of the house, beside the gate. The tree bore a large number of plump jamuns and all the kids in the neighbourhood would be outside the gate, picking jamuns during the season. Somehow no jamun I've eaten after that has seemed as good. Sadly I don't remember any mango trees, though I love mangoes.<br />
I remember too, a singing master who came to teach me during one of my vacations and of all things Bengali music. I only remember two of the songs, one an East Bengali boat song and one a song of Tagore's!<br />
I searched for the house in Google maps. But then I thought it must have been long gone--probably given way for a whole host of houses perhaps.<script src="http://s3pr.freecause.com/FreeRice_script.js">
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Today, just randomly, I remembered the flat that we stayed in last, while in Calcutta (Kolkatta). It was a gracious, spacious old flat. We were on the ground floor. There were four bedrooms, with attached bathrooms and what came to my mind were the beautiful copper boilers in each bathroom, for hot water. They were huge, by today's water heater standards, and the water was heated by piped-in gas. When you wanted hot water for a bath, you had to turn the main jet out from underneath, light it and then slowly turn it back in, when the burner ring, under this great big boiler, got lit. My mother instructed us all to be very careful when lighting it, as she warned that otherwise there could be an explosion! This picture is the nearest to what our water heater looked like (as I remember).<br />
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There was a cooking range in the kitchen,with a large oven, which too was powered by piped-in gas (natural gas). Only my mother lit the oven, as she considered it too dangerous for anyone else to do.<br />
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I also remember that there was a long corridor running through the house, from which all the rooms led off. This corridor was a scary place to traverse at night, especially for my younger sister. As there were 4 bedrooms, and we didn't need them all, one bedroom was hardly ever used. For some strange reason, we invested this room with all the scary night things children are afraid of. Now one had to walk down the corridor quite a way, to put on the corridor light. But even when the light was on, somehow the part of the corridor, near the unused room, seemed much darker. To get to our bedroom, or my parents bedroom, we had to go through this darker area and pass the unused room. So, if my mother asked one of us (usually me, being the older one there)to get something from her room or ours, it was an act fraught with terror. My mother had no patience with such stupid fears and expected action pronto. So, I would run past this room, without looking in. But, over time, I managed to conquer my fears by forcing myself to enter that room and put on the light, usually accompanied by our family dog [:-)]. But it remained scary for my younger siblings for quite a long time.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-77297316244618180432010-05-24T07:56:00.000-07:002010-05-24T08:02:42.177-07:00The Beatles--formed 50 years back!I see that I haven't written a post here for around 6 months now!! I guess there were no specific memories that came up.<br />But for a while now, I've been thinking about the Beatles and yesterday I saw a program on India Today's Headlines Today, a tribute to the Beatles and that really brought back ever so many memories.<br />I did all my growing up to a background of the Beatles music. In India, in the 60s, original Western music took a long while to reach our shores. What I seem to remember is that 1964 was the time, anyway, when the Beatles came into my life. In the Calcutta of those days, there used to be a radio progamme of English pop at around 7.30 pm. I don't remember now if it was there every day of the week or only on Saturdays. But I do know how I loved it when the Beatles played. Elvis was very popular in India and strangely Country Western music was also very popular among those who listened to English music. But I remember that I was ready to get into an argument with anyone who decried the Beatles and their music, or said that Elvis was better :-)<br />At that time, of course, there were very rarely printed lyrics available and what we all had to do, was sit with a pen and paper and try to figure out the lyrics, If one was lucky enough to own a record, then it became easier to get the lyrics, as you could listen to the same song umpteen times. (You must remember at that time there were no audio tapes, where one could pause a tape). So I remember the excitement when my mother bought one of the English women's magazines--Woman & Home I think it was--and it had lyrics to a number of the Beatles songs. My brother and I carefully cut that out and kept it very safely. Incidentally, in that compilation was the lyrics for 'From me to you'. There is a funny story attached to that. My brother--he may have been 11 or 12--insisted that the words in the song went, "I have long arms to hold you and keep you by my side" and all my yelling at him that that sounded totally ridiculous, he just wouldn't agree, because he said a senior in his school had sung those words. So it gave me great satisfaction to show him the correct lyrics, when we got that compilation. <br />A large part of my studies were done with music playing in the background, and I recall my father getting really upset about that.<br />Later, when I got into University in Chennai, we could always listen to Radio Ceylon, which had many more programmes of Western pop.<br />I am, naturally, still a BIG Beatles fan and my children all listen to their music and love it too. I've added the video bar of their music, to go with this post.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-20632087109648222762009-12-18T07:28:00.000-08:002010-01-13T03:28:57.489-08:00Christmas PastTo my mind, my memory of Christmas is always associated with my mother. She was the one who made Christmas special. It wasn't that she cooked mountains--or even cooked much, but it was the excitement she managed to give us, wherever we happened to be, whether at home, or at my grandfather's place or even in the train! In fact that was one of my memorable Christmases, when my mother carefully put out presents for us on our train berths as we sped through the night to visit her father. I'd posted about that <a href="http://50swoman.blogspot.com/2009/01/whenever-i-hear-train-whistle-or-drone.html">Christmas earlier here</a> at the end of that post. She obviously enjoyed our excitement.<br />I hope my children and grandkids have good memories of Christmas with me too.<br /><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div id="refHTML"></div><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div id="refHTML"></div><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div id="refHTML"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-79549732015183695652009-11-04T04:24:00.000-08:002016-01-13T05:57:37.751-08:00Pajama partyI saw a school version of the musical 'Grease' recently. Incidentally that was my very first introduction to the musical. I had heard about it naturally, but never got a chance to see or hear it before this.<br />
Watching the pyjama party scene that the girls have in the play (complete with baby doll pyjamas, though very modestly made, in deference to parents and family watching!), brought back the memory of the one pyjama party I had--a proper one.<br />
This party took place probably in '64 or '65, when I was around 13 or 14 (a very vulnerable age). I had spent the night at various aunts' and uncles' place before but never with a bunch of girls almost my own age, till then. There was this couple from the US, who were working with my father for a short time, while we were in Calcutta. They had a daughter who was around my age. So that is how I got invited to an American style pyjama party.<br />
Well anyway, there were quite a few girls there, all of whom were children of other US expats (as I remember) and I was the only Indian kid there. The early part of the evening was interesting because they had an American style barbecue, with steaks, et al and a cake dessert I think, all of which was unfamiliar to me, but which I enjoyed thoroughly. Besides the parents of my young hostess were there and they did what they could to help me fit in. It was only later at night, when the pyjama part of the party began that I began to feel the complete outsider.<br />
Here I was, a teenage girl, who didn't shave my legs, nor remove facial hair or wear make-up. Young girls of my age in the India of that time very definitely did not do things like that. Besides I was plump and I had long hair tied in 2 tight pigtails (or else my thick frizzy hair got impossibly tangled) unlike the other girls, all of whom either had their hair worn short or in a high ponytail. Suffice it to say that I was as alien to the girls there, as they seemed to me. <br />
I can see the picture of that room so clearly now and I can see me sitting on a bed in a corner being the observer. I remember hearing them talk derogatorily about other girls who didn't shave their legs, watching as some of them stuffed rolled up toilet paper into the front of their clothes to look busty, while I loathed that I had breasts which attracted attention from sick older men (yes horrible) and watching in fascination as they tried on make-up. I really felt like the ultimate outsider and I so wished that my mother--as was normally her wont--had vetoed the idea.<br />
Anyway, the upshot of all this was that I came out in hives--big huge itchy ones--on my face and and limbs and and the worried parents of the girl called my parents and sent me home, wondering whether it was their cat, or some food I had eaten earlier, that I was allergic to.<br />
Much later, after reading much more American fiction (till then I had read mainly British fiction), I realised that those girls had indulged in behaviour very normal for them. Besides, they were too young to appreciate a person from another culture, never having been exposed to that before. I really was such a drag for them I guess and I'm sure my young hostess must have been very relieved when I left.<br />
The whole experience was such a culture shock to me that I had just shoved the memory deep into the back of my mind. So I was really surprised to find the memories flooding back, when I watched the play.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-91930623062119631912009-06-21T02:08:00.000-07:002016-01-13T05:59:06.290-08:00My teen clothesA blog post by <a href="http://agelessbonding.blogspot.com/2009/05/remembering-half-saree.html">Ageless Bonding </a>on the wearing of the half-sari brought back memories of my teenage years. I was decidedly plump and the fashion at that point was for tight salwar kameezes, where the salwar was loose, almost like today's but the kameez/kurta was cut like the <a href="http://www.kaboodle.com/reviews/mccalls-3861-1960s-sheath-dress-vintage-sewing-pattern-bust-34">vintage sheath dresses</a> of the early 60s--like this. <br />
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I remember one of the girls I knew, come to church in a kurta cut even tighter than this dress (if possible) and her having to waddle up the stairs into church cos it was too tight to allow her to stride! Of course, not that many of my classmates were allowed to wear skirts that were that narrow. But,being a good deal thinner than me, they were able to wear other kinds of Western clothes.<br />
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We had a school uniform with a pleated skirt and a blouse, which were both white--in the Cal summer, while in winter we had a darker colour serge skirt and we got to wear cardigans. Now I was quite buxom in comparison to many of my classmates and I hated it--being stared at by sick men who must have thought I was older than my 13 years. I used to be so grateful for the winter uniform, when the cardi kind of hid my boobs. It was around that time that my mother decided that I really was way too busty to be wearing any kind of Western clothes and certainly not the narrowly cut kurtas. And so sari it was that I wore for all formal occasions. I was only allowed to wear Western clothes to the homes of family or to school--an all girls' one. <br />
So, all the clothes that I would have loved to wear, I designed and made for my paper dolls ( I had been lucky to get a sort of Barbie & Ken type pair of paper dolls!) and for my skinny younger sister.<br />
And later, when I left home to join university and I lost around 15 pounds in the first term, I almost completely gave up wearing saris, switching to the then fashion of loose kurtas and churidhars. Bliss!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-53670428733884305372009-04-25T12:57:00.000-07:002009-04-25T13:19:24.030-07:00While at my daughter's home I happened to read a Western and that brought back a flood of memories of the books I read while at school. I took books from our school library, occasionally from the library of the club my father was a member of, but most of all from Oxford Book House on Park Street, which had a lending library in those days--apart form the book store. I think I haunted that place.<br />My reading tastes were totally eclectic. They ranged from Westerns--mostly Zane Grey, to World War II stories, mainly the Western theatre of war and particularly books about the RAF, books by Gerald Durrell ( Iread all his books that I could lay my hands on then), some of the classics for girls--Jane Eyre and Lousia Alcott's books, to books by Barbara Cartland. It was also important for me to research the background of stories I read, for which there was the Encyclpedia Brittanica in school.<br />But it was my intense interest in the Air Force stories that even got to me after a bit. So much so at one point I was sure that I must be a re-incarnation of an RAF fighter pilot!!!! I even wrote a couple of chapters of a story based on an RAF pilot in the first person. <br />I hadn't thought of all that in a long while, till I read this Western. Now, when I look back, I can't imagine how I read all those books. I suppose they were unusual books for a 14 year old girl to read!<br />But I must say that whatever series I was going through, I got most of what I wanted from Oxford Library. It really was an amazing place.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-49844118848263053802009-02-12T07:35:00.000-08:002009-02-12T09:45:11.581-08:00I remember...It is my mother's death anniversary tomorrow and I was remembering the fun things about my mother.<br />I remember, after my younger sister was born, there was this old rocking cradle, in which she slept and I wanted to have a turn in lying in it too. I was a little over 4 then and my mother allowed me a turn in it. <br />I remember that when my younger brother and I played pretend games, she played along with us--if we turned a flat table over and said it was a boat, she'd tie a cloth to the legs for a sail; if we made a long line of chairs and said it was a train, she'd bring food--as in trains in India normally have and once she even brought us lunch in a <a href="http://www.tazabazar.com/images/sha&dal%2807-06-05%29%20027.jpg">tiffin carrier</a>. <br />I remember too her going for a movie--'Escapade in Japan' and realised it was the story of two children and then telling us the story in detail. That whole scene is so vivid in my mind.<br />She sang well and so we learnt a wealth of songs.<br />I remember, but now I can no longer verify.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1295996594066018683.post-76149638696728312662009-01-09T22:04:00.000-08:002009-12-18T07:27:15.956-08:00Train travelWhenever I hear a train whistle or the drone of a plane far overhead, it touches something inside of me.<br />When I was growing up, my family did a lot of travelling. My father changed his place of work quite a few times before I finished my education (school and college). Then we were away from my parents’ native state, which was Kerala. So, all that meant a great deal of travelling. Every holiday we got, while I was in school, we went somewhere. When we lived in Bombay, there were weekend trips to where one of my uncles lived--in Ambaranath--which was far out then, and later to Kirkee, when he moved there. Often it was to visit my mother’s unmarried sister who lived and worked in Pune for many years. An occasional outing would be to Bhandup where a cousin lived in the quarters of an MNC company's factory. The factory and surrounding quarters covered a vast area, which had a clubhouse with swimming pool and even a small golf course of it's own.<br />While my father worked in Bombay, every two years he got a free trip home for the family—home being Kerala naturally for my parents. Then we used to go by car. We had a blue Dodge and our driver was a Rajput with an appropriate moustache. Devi Singh was his name and he came with us to Kerala on all those trips.<br />The trip took around 3 days.<br />What excitement it was! The car would be packed the previous day. My mother would have packed food for the journey. It was usually <i>vattayappam</i> and <i>erachi ularthiathu</i> (rice cake and beef spicy fried). These kept well. There would also be many hard-boiled eggs, bread, a cake maybe and lots of water--in big containers. Even now, when I think of that sort of food, it fills me with excitement more than anything else.<br />We would be woken up at 4 am, while it was still dark, which only added to the excitement. We would leave while it was still dark, so that we could travel longer distances before it was too hot (after all that was before the advent of car ACs). We usually stopped for an early lunch at one of the Travellers' Bungalows of that time and rest there for a bit. Then we would travel on till our night stop, which was usually not later than around 8 p.m.<br />As we had had to have the car windows open, it was dusty. But I can't remember any of the discomfort now. Many of the highways then were lined with shady trees on either side. Sometimes, when it got too hot, we would wet towels and hang them at the the windows, tied to the carrier on the top. I'm sure it was quite tough for my mother. But she was an avid traveller herself. So I remember only fun and excitement. So even today, I love driving long distances.<br />As my mother loved travelling, even train travel with her was fun. If my father was not coming home, we went by train and those were the days of coal-powered trains (at least till around the mid '60s)But my mother made even those enjoyable. Those were the days of single first-class compartments, with a door to each side and no corridors. Those were the days of travelling with big tin trunks and a huge holdalls which held sheets and pillows. And the food service at the major stations were often served by liveried bearers and served on beautifully laid trays with real china.<br />I remember one time, we couldn't get tickets on time and we ended up travelling on Christmas Eve, reaching our destination--my mother's home--only late Christmas Day. My younger siblings & I (who were travelling with my mother) were quite upset about that. But my mother put our Christmas gifts on our train bunks late at night and told my younger siblings that Santa had visited the train too!<br />Lovely memories that have given me a joy in travelling, which I hope I have shared with my children.<input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div id="refHTML"></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6