LISTEN TO YOUR INNER VOICE
I am not sure from where this streak of activism has sprouted within me?
Yes, I belong to a family where both “Nankas” and “Dadkas” have connections with Pind.
My memories of the Pind are all about sugar and spice and all things nice. They are about balmy summer months of a blissful childhood with cousins.
The memories are poignant with laughter and jokes amongst cousins. Unlike the fancy European cultural holidays or the shopping trips to Singapore that are the norm now, our summers were spent between my Pinds of the Dadkas and Nankas.
Our mornings would inevitably begin with a variety of parathas, Aalu, Dal wale or with Anda Bhujia and curd, glasses of “khati” lassi followed by a “queue” for the bath as despite the house being so huge, it did not have the mod cons of Ensuite bathrooms that one expects now.Then of course, the tryst with the ping pong ball in our “lamba” kamra which was like a school dorm with its row of beds and an argument about who would be sleeping next to whom? The house has thick walls, so the windowsills were used for lounging in and reading and watching.
“Lal Anheri” the red storm, a peculiar phenomenon that occurred in the 70’s, a strong dust storm that was relentless; the staff would talk about it the following morning and tell us about how a woman from our neighbouring country, Pakistan had been blown into our village we would of course, listen wide eyed and actually believed them. Till date I am not sure if were just being fobbed off.And then of course, there was the mango ice cream. The homemade mango ice cream churned in the old fashioned ice cream maker that involved lots of ice and coarse salt; lots of churning done by the old faithful “Bhau” Gyan whose family had been in ours for a fair few generations. I remember him as being an awfully skinny, very talkative bloke who was a butt of many jokes both by us, little imps and the rest of the staff but the jokes were never wicked? Or were they?
Then of course were the numerous pets that were my Dadiji’s pride and joy. They ranged from pedigreed Sandy, the golden retriever, Rita the German Shepherd and a few pie dogs, some cats and the most hated of them all- a particularly, ugly very ill-behaved pie dog called Sweety …who was lovingly called “Teetan”by our granny. These pets were her passion, her true love, sorry papaji. We were all resigned to this hierarchical oorder;we girls ranked a dismal second last compared to, first, her cats and dogs , her husband , her grandsons ,sons, daughters, granddaughters and then of course the daughters in law( our mothers)??But we were not unduly concerned- our prime focus was to wangle the most amount of Cadburys nutties that could be squeezed out from our somewhat quirky Tayaji or get to choose which Pakistani television series to watch on PTV or Doordarshan. Knight Rider was a universal favourite, much to the annoyance of Jagan, the “Khadu” cook and man Friday as we all insisted on watching it quite late in the night and would often want sandwiches or snacks at midnight (there was no concept of a civilized 7.30 pm deadline in the India I grew up in the late 70’-early 80’s)
Jagan would grudgingly get our sandwiches but the amount of salt on the thinly sliced cucumber was “directly proportionate” to his “annoyance” so most days we ended up having very salty cucumber sandwiches downed with hot chocolate and if that was not enough, sometimes in a fit of pique he would switch off the mains so we had to go to bed in the middle of an unfinished episode of the Knight Rider.And then of course were the tales of “ghosts”. In a house as old as ours with a history dating back to Maharaja Ranjit Singh, there were bound to be stories –tales of ghostly nautch girls dancing on the top of the “Mamti” of ghostly apparitions floating around all of us as we slept under the stars?Of course, these tales had the effect of filling us with fear that led all of us to go en-masse” humming a song” to use the facilities after a final episode of the Knight rider and wait in a queue outside the toilet (This habit of humming I still adhere to, if I am scared even now at the ripe old age of 56 much to the perplexity of my two young adults)And of course, it did not help that the toilet had a stair case, a spiral concrete stair case that led down into the courtyard or supposedly into a tunnel that allegedly runs all its length from our village to (please hold your breath) Lahore now in Pakistan -a good 26 miles from our house as the crow flies ?
On course in the dark, with a flickering light bulb casting eerie shadows on the thick, white plastered walls, this little staircase filled my 10-year-old mind with palpable fear and gave all of us the shivers.But come daylight, this was all forgotten and there were singing sessions and hide and seek. There was also the “curious case of the bee hives” that would magically spring up in the various nooks and crannies of the big old house and we have been bitten by a few bees every now and then and have survived without jabs and calls to 999.But then, unlike the world today, we had no mod cons of mobile phone, kindles and computers and yet life was full of wonder and joy; the simple pleasures of playing word games , singing songs ,writing in our daily diaries ,listening to “sakhis “and folk stories and getting through the piles of homework that was mandatory during the summer break .And on cue each morning, we woke up to the sound of the morning prayer from the loudspeaker of the blessed gurudwara in the village.
In contrast to this historic old red brick haveli with its illustrious history was my maternal granddad’s village home. It was sprawling in its own right with a huge central court yard that would come alive at night with its rows of “manjis” ready for bed time .A recurring memory is of a big tub of iced water filled to the brim with small, sickeningly sweet Dussehri Mangoes. My siblings and cousins in our loose sleeveless, printed muslin frocks gorging on these mangoes with the juice dribbling down our face and frocks. Of course this surfeit of mangoes led to the consumption of copious amounts of “kachi” lassi a concoction of fragrant Rooh Afza and iced milk to ward off the effects of heat generated by the mangoes or else we would break into rash.This along with the memory of noisy rounds of “pithu garam” and “hide and seek” fill my heart with an ache of days long gone.Many of these lovely people who filled my childhood with joy and love have long gone, the last patriarch my mamaji having left us a few months back. Most the old retainers have gone but the bricks and the walls remain, and these walls echo with the sounds of laughter and carefree abandon of my childhood.
I, along with my generation are very lucky to have witnessed this blessed simple organic life of the Pind ..so when I think of this “Virsa” being destroyed by an arrogant, nasty government, my heart fills with a mix of rage and sadness but it also enthuses me with an energy to give a voice to all those people who feed us every day .And though I live across the pond and do not personally have any land (of course a topic of conversation in itself – this Patriarchy that very much exists in the world of farmers) my heart still beats for that piece of land, my pind, my happy place that will always live in my heart.So therefore, I speak up.So, therefore this activist in me has surfaced.Let us all of us listen to this inner voice and speak up NOW.
Written by – Simran Sandhu
