Memories Of Guavas ...

I think Guavas are my favourite fruit. Huh? Ok, this is what any writer faces. Go straight into the narrative and the audience has no idea where the author is coming, or how they are coming, too. Go too slow, and you have a set of yawning readers. While i wouldnt want you yawning (except under a hangover, in which case too, i think a guava would be just right), a little bit of background may be required.

Travelling from Dehradun to Delhi, one would go to Haridwar. While a dip wasn't really happening, given that there was very little water, as they were cleaning the Ghats, the guavas on the fruit-vendor's cart seemed most inviting, and hence this. As a child i have found the guava to be one of my favourite fruits, along with the musk-melon ... Kharbooza. Not just about any, but the kharboozas which used to come from Baghpat ... Large, succulent, sweet ... Sinful. Regrettably those aren't to be found in the market during summers. Which is why i am thankful that the large, ripe (yellow in colour, not green), soft, sweet guavas are still available aplenty.

Now to the background ...

As a child, i remember walks with my grandfather, to the fruit bazaar. Fruits, you see, were the invariable dessert of choice. Pity i didn't inherit this, though i am discovering this trait post the blood-test, which had doomsayers predicting dire consequences from diabetes. I remember the way Dadaji used to look for fruit which was a little ruptured (kharboozas get ruptured as they ripen, which means that ruptured fruit is sweeter and more succulent, more often than not). Another way of finding, of course, is sniffing. A well-trained nose is almost an infallible way to find whether fruit would be sweet. Glad to believe i have inherited the nose.

Dadaji in his trademark shorts (this was the 80s, but Dadaji always rocked), t-shirt, and shoes, me holding his hand, or riding sitting on the cross-bar of the bicycle. Exhilarating! But getting back to the guavas, i dont think too highly of them. Huh? Somehow, Amrood sounds far more delicious. Of course, amrood used to coincide with gobhi-shalgam ka achaar, and the absence of ghia, tori, tinde, much to my relief. But thats not the reason i love the amrood.

Granted, i love amrood as a fruit. But more so because of memories. Memories of cold winter mornings sitting on the terrace, on the manji, amrood and mathematics. Now, i can imagine you trying to picture me part of a looney bin, but mathematics was actually my favourite subject, much to the detriment of my performance in other subjects. Preparing for IIT-JEE, the amrood was one of my companions. Especially because it was it was at times stolen (for no particular reason), and at times, was shared with Dadaji. This also gave me pictures of children in other, seemingly diverse parts of the country being hounded by their parents to study subjects which they found unsavoury, while being comforted by their grandparents with amrood. Now this might sound a little silly, but growing up in the 80s, one wasnt too aware of the way things are in other parts of the country, and i am not talking about general knowledge. So, somehow, we used to believe that boys from the southern, western, or eastern parts of the country (i am not going to talk about stereotypes ... They have been long discarded, so maybe on another occasion, when i am writing something comical) were all good, hardworking, conscientious students, and that it was only boys from Delhi, Punjab, or Haryana who were the lafangas. After all, haven't we all heard the refrain ...

Padhoge, likhoge hoge kharaab,

kheloge, koodoge banoge nawab!

Experience hasnt really shaken this idea. But the primary reason is still Dadaji.

Memories ... Dilli Or Dehli

I was seeing this program on travel & living channel ... This program is called Feast India. I don't know what its supposed to be about ... Feast gives the impression its about food. But I guess the program is about the feast that is India ... A feast for the senses, body, mind, and soul. From the Aazaan at the Jama Masjid ... Or, if you have lived in Darya Ganj, the Ghataa Masjid, or the Zinat-Ul Masjid ... To the Langar at Gurudwara Sis Ganj, the Jawan Gurdwara at Darya Ganj (from where my Grandmother would get a cup-ful of Kaadhaa every morning, only small portions for the rest of the family, the rest for me ...), or at any Gurudwara anywhere you might go ... Feast again for the senses, definitely for the body, and the soul.

What am I writing about? Nothing in particular. Quite a few things in general. Having born and grown up in Darya Ganj, I have experienced, and continue to experience, the magic of Dilli ... Or Dehli, if you may. From the fruit juice shops of nayaa Darya Ganj, to the small shop, with some of the best Mutton on offer. From Bedmiyaan (Pooris stuffed with ground Daal ... Which is also called Pitthi) at Jain's next to Ansari Road, to the Seekh Kababs sold on carts in the neighbourhood of Jama Masjid, to the Mutton Korma and Nargisi Koftas at Karim's, or the Rabdi Faloodaa at Akashdeep, to the Giani's Fruit Cream, and of course ... Pindi de Chholle Bhatoore ... You can be assured of a feast.

So much for the feast for the palate. Now, to the senses. From the bylanes of Chandni Chowk, Khari Baoli, Chawri Bazaar, to the chaos and magic of Meena Bazaar (wikipedia doesnt have an article for Meena Bazar ... at least, not the original one). That's an expression I quite liked ... Chaos and Magic. Describes Dilli to the T. So, chaos and magic it is. Or, is the chaos part of the magic? Or does the magic spring from chaos? I don't know, and maybe, beyond a point, I would just call this semantics. What I do know ... I am Hindu, but I do miss, at times, the wafting of the strains of the Aazaan across rooftops, carried forth by the breeze, accompanied by those beautiful kites.

My Patch Of Sky ...

They say the night sky is not the same in all directions ... but, the day sky can be said to be. Standing yesterday, in the courtyard in our ancestral house, i couldnt agree. This patch of sky was different ... it was mine, one that i had gazed at for years, and years altogether. This patch of sky had seen me toddle, had seen me grow, had seen my joy at the simple pleasures of life, and had seen my tantrums of teenage. This patch of sky had seen it all. This patch saw me going to school ... it saw me have those crushes, and coming out of them. It saw me graduate to college, turning into a man. This patch of sky has seen it all.

Right under this patch of sky, is the courtyard of cricket ... the little courtyard where cricket was played as children. And yesterday, we played again. When my son, me, and my father decided on a game of cricket ... And, one thing i can say ... that is, its not half as much fun playing cricket when theres no scene of any windowpanes being broken. Or, the possibility of hitting a six (read, hitting the ball on a terrace, from where its quite impossible to retrieve it). In fact, hitting it on the neighbour's terrace was out, and breaking a windowpane was a 6. Interesting rules, indeed ...

Right next to this is the corridor, leading to the attic of memories. This is the attic where i used to spend quite a bit of time. The room where i used to settle down to study, where i used to think about those crushes ... where we used to play all sorts of games, from Ludo (actually, starting from Snakes and Ladders), to Chess, and Carrom ... this is the room which i have inhabited for more than a decade. And, there is a part of me in this room. A part of me which probably hasnt grown up. And, a part of me, which the room beckons. For, this room, which is an attic, sits in an important place, in the attic of memories.

Then, there was the trip to the book bazaar ... something which is the envy of all who know about it. This is a veritable goldmine of books ... and, you get them cheap here. OK, so they are used books, but hey ... that doesnt matter. From 17th Century Irish Divorce Law, to Midwifery, to pulp fiction nobody has ever heard of ... this bazaar packs something incredible. Though, of course, a trip to the bazaar cannot be without a little detour (around 10 metres) to Pindi ... The shop that makes the best Chholle Bhature in the world. I am sure they dont make them as good in Rawalpindi, too!