There were two or three years in my elementary school, they almost appear as blank. I remember going to a chartered school every day with books, participating in the evening drill classes in the open streets, and doing some non-descript homework. But I have no collection of the language classes or any math lessons – except for one humorous story. I’ve no idea why it is so. I do not recall learning any serious math except the multiplication table (by rote). Those formative years happened on the banks of Krishnaveni. Now looking back I remember the extra-curricular activities in that brief period: Weekend trips to the river with grandmother, occasional excursions with mother to the Siva temple, plucking flowers from the landlord’s garden at the street corner and the common children’s play with tops. My elder cousin used to work in a pharmacy; almost six days a week he would come home for a quick lunch on bicycle. The bicycle was a big attraction for me standing there under the shade of a big amla tree. With nothing else to do, I would pluck some flowers (Tecoma stans, Portulaca grandiflora) and decorate the front handle bar with them. And then furiously I used to turn the pedal with hands and let the rear wheel spin. And spin it would till the chain fell off of the sprocket and like an innocent child I used to rush off from the scene.
Then suddenly one day our residence in the holy city came to an end. For about two or three years father was in between the jobs and nothing seemed to make headway. A glimmer of hope emerged out of the morass of unending hardship; my parents won a small lawsuit about a little farm and a patch of wetland (fresh water pond). That was not enough to sustain our family even in the village. But a close relative requested mother to help with his litigious tenant farmers and the decaying village house. So, after over staying hospitality with our aunt we made an abrupt move to the village – all four of us with a three month old Girija (a pure white Pomeranian), one British made brown steel trunk, and two cloth handbags travelled to the village in a passenger train. Father was very worried about the little dog. Ideally we should have put him in the Brake Van with other assorted luggage with a tag and ticket. But the little thing could’ve got frightened and terribly sick due to the sheer shock. The Indian Railways would not allow passengers in the brake van. So, father being an ex-railway employee took a bold step and physically carried the loving pet under a Turkish towel – an improvised basket. Whenever there was a long stop (5 min.) on the way, we all got down and took Girija for a fresh air walk on the platform. It was risky on the busy platforms not to speak of the dangerous tracks, the railway police, and the hustle bustle of rushing passengers with luggage in hand.
When we reached the village, we’re utterly famished and mother couldn’t believe the place (dump); it defied mother’s pleasant childhood memories of the village. The house was in desperate state and needed all sorts of repairs. The electric wiring was shot, with code violations, and the drainage was non-existent. But mother’s urgent task was to provide the family with wholesome food with no hearth, no fuel, and no water. There were two wells in the compound - but both were full of brine (some curse?). Now this is remarkably unexplainable to this day: The landlord (our distant uncle) tried digging up two draw-wells for the convenience of all tenants. As luck (or ill luck) would have it, both wells yielded only salty water. What’s the use? As they say, money can’t buy everything! At most you can use the well water for dish washing; still, you need a final rinse with fresh water to avoid salty stains on the brass vessels. So, till we got a servant we had to carry water from the canal - about four furlongs away. Mostly I used to go for daily bath in the canal with a bucket to help mother. During that first night in the village, in the dusty house we’re all afraid about snakes, mice, bandicoots, and scorpions. We were saved from all nasty critters by mother’s ingenuity – she shut off the drainage openings with brick and did a quick cleaning of our living quarters. It must have been a veritable heartbreak for our parents. In less than ten years, they had to endure almost four or five major moves. It all happened due to things beyond their control and of course there was one frictional character as the common thread – as in most Shakespearean tragedies.
I did not feel any loss of schoolmates or friends in the big move from the city. That was because I was closely attached to my sister, cousins, and family. My routine in the previous chartered school was more like lunch break, sports, and totally laissez faire activities. There was no discipline and no tests. But it was not so when I got transferred to the village school. The misconception that village education is just a month long “monsoon studies” got totally disproved. There was regular homework and the teacher would call us to test our memory and comprehension. At least once or twice I got the punishment; it was either standing on the (backless) bench for the whole period or making a chair against the wall facing the street as a scarecrow display to the passers by.
The little pup we brought from Bezawada started growing into a naughty kid. Though it had the entire garden for running, jumping, smelling, and scratching still it liked venturing out into the street. There the real attraction lurked waiting with the unruly street dogs. Every time it took a chance it returned with bruises and blood. We would tend it gently, wash the wound, and put Johnson powder and wrap it with cotton and bandage. But you can’t imprison an active growing animal or child. Mother’s soup or sambar with drumsticks was its favorite dish. Despite the usual hardships, sister and I had wonderful time with our pet. We punctually gave it a thorough Sunday scrubbing bath in the canal. But what’s the use? The moment we let it free after combing and powder dusting, it would make a quick joyous jump into the dirt and make somersaults. Mother with her extraordinary offices arranged for a non-vegetarian dish for our Girija. She requested a local farmer’s wife for the weekly nourishing meal; the Pom would catch (smell) the footsteps of its special lunch from a distance and then during those ten fifteen minutes we’re totally oblivious to her.
Then suddenly one day everything got smashed and a calamity fell on our pup. We all had to go to Vizag to see our cousin. There was no way we could take our dog this time in the train holding him captive for a whole night. Father did not want to impose on our relatives in the port city – anyway, you can’t test the nerves of rich relatives cramped in a small city apartment. So, we had to leave the sweet Girija with a friendly goldsmith’s family; but we did not prepare the poor pet for the emotional shock. Perhaps we did not have enough time to prepare for the long journey. Mother did take the pup once or twice to the goldsmith’s residence before our trip. Like a distraught heartbroken lover, it went on a fast and spent the whole rainy night howling and whimpering without water and food. Barely she lasted two days. And when we returned our grief spilled over like a tidal wave, it burst open like a tsunami. Mother consoled us saying, “She was the sweetest thing and never asked for anything. She was like another simple child. Our bonding was unique, maybe it was a short love affair – a leftover from a previous birth.” We all shed copious tears the whole day. Luckily we got busy with our studies. Village folks never let you sulk alone, fun or gloom you share it with everybody.
How did the little pup landed in mother’s lap? Mother visited daily the old Siva temple in One Town. It used to take at least forty minutes to the temple by foot. While returning home she would take a break and relax in the front porch of a rich lady. The house had several Alsatian dogs and one Pomeranian. With her conversational skills and village charm mother soon became a member of their family. The dogs loved her – their regular afternoon visitor. Animals are often drawn to certain individuals. Why, we don’t know. There is a bond between beings and the bonding happens even without any outward rewards or cookie treats. In one such pleasant exchange the rich lady gifted the little pup to our mother. Of course mother really treated Girija as her daughter, almost like a princess. Perhaps pure love weaves a Kashmir shawl over everyone, every being, and every plant. Copyright 2025 by the author
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