In these days of escalating prices, it is good to remember that some things are still free – like fresh air and sunshine, birdsong and the sight of flowers blooming. What else is free also are memories. They don’t cost a penny but are a treasure trove one can explore in solitude. Poets, writers and artists draw on the rich stock of memory to create enduring literature and works of art. Memories are the bridge between the past and the present.

The memories of my childhood bring to life the many people I remember with affection. Foremost among them is the young Nepali girl who came to help with the housework. Monu must have been about sixteen, a silky haired, rotund, moonfaced girl with a gold nose-ring and hands always red from the cold winters and the detergents she used in different households. There was a natural grace in her movements and a serene smile on her lips as she scrubbed and mopped, dusted and lit the chulha in the kitchen. Sometimes, she was accompanied by her brother, whose favourite pastime seemed to be rolling his upper eyelids to scare and entertain us at the same time. Monu never took a day off except on Dashami, the last day of the Durga Puja. Then, with her forehead decorated with masoor dal grains as is the customer with Nepalis, she stood on the pavement of the main road to watch the processions of trucks bearing the Goddess away. Monu is to me the epitome of the simple, unaffected hill maiden who accepts her destiny cheerfully, uncomplainingly.

Then there was the potato seller. I remember him as a wizened old man with gnarled hands. Dressed in khaki trousers with patches on the knees, shirt, a pullover and a shawl, come rain or shine, he carried on his back a conical cane basket filled with potatoes that still had soil clinging to them. From his tobacco stained lips would hang a pipe. The man would carefully balance his basket against the kitchen door and launch on a friendly bargain with my mother. In those leisurely days, people still had time to talk to one another, not as buyers and sellers of commodities, and friendly bargaining was the norm.

Then there was the soldier home on leave. Those were the years of the Indo-Pak wars, in the sixties, and our little town too had its share of air-raid sirens going off and the scare of enemy air-planes dropping bombs. That was why the athletic, crew-cut Gurkha soldier was a source of strength to us children. I don’t remember his name, but, there is a clear memory of his jaunty walk, a blaring transistor under his arm, as Fauji Bhai songs rent the air. He would chat merrily with all the pretty girls in the street and pat the dogs barking around him. When his leave ended, his old mother wailed and his sisters crowded around him, putting tilak on his forehead. Looking at him, I would think of the hundreds and thousands of soldiers who were defending the country and feel a deep gratitude for their services.

And who can forget the lady with the umbrella? There was this beautiful, impeccably groomed lady, who always roused my admiration. I never knew her name but would meet her on my way home from school. She had pink cheeks, perfect features and the most beautiful silk Jensems I had ever seen. And remarkably, each ensemble had a matching umbrella. I was so awestruck by her beauty and grace that I once stopped her to ask the time, just so that I could gaze at her flawless features.

Those were the days when doctors made house visits in the manner of a family friend and did not mind the late hours. Our doctor was a certain Dr Guha, who peered down our tonsils with a torch and made us feel better with his kind words after a spoonful of some bitter syrup. He knew virtually everyone in town and was much loved for his bedside manner as for his dependable diagnosis.

The duo who were the darlings of our school, Roma and Linchoni, deserve special mention. The were the star basketball players, captains of two rival teams but best friends off the field. While the tall lanky Linchoni had a boyish angular charm, the plump, curly haired Roma, with her Grecian features, was femininity personified. As the two led their teams in the field, expertly dribbling the ball, we sat watching them, entranced. Each goal was treated with full throated cries of approval and rounds of applause.

Then came the transition to the hot dusty plains of Guwahati, when Meghalaya was carved into a separate State. The small town cosy ambience was replaced by a bewildering new experience of living in a city that began growing by leaps and bounds due to the vast exodus of people. In a new school, new friendships were formed, new discoveries made. This was the time to bond with our paternal grandfather and he offered fascinating insights into his life. We were regaled with stories about how he went by horse-cart to Shillong in the days of yore to work under the British. Grandpa was the epitome of the self-made man. Short, bald and disarming, with his toothless smile, Grandpa took good care of himself and was fastidious about his food. Every evening, he worked in his garden, trimming the hedge, watering the roses, plucking the weeds and sweeping dead leaves in the courtyard. Then, dressed in his crisp dhoti and kurta, he would take a long evening walk, shopping for groceries on the way. Once, a bull, horns lowered, tried to butt him and an enraged Gandpa managed to scare it by waving his walking stick and yelling at it. This was a great act of bravery on his part, considering that he was in his eighties and, in our eyes, he was as big a hero as Don Quixote.

People leave imprints on our lives, mould our thoughts and shape our personalities. Each one is a unique individual with his/her quirks and idiosyncracies. Together, they form a tapestry of experience.

i_raimedhi@yahoo.com

Indrani Raimedhi