Goodbye,Dear Father.(Part-III)

PART-III

आओ सारे पहन लें आईने,
सारे देखेंगे अपना ही चेहरा,
सबको सब हसीन लगेंगे यहाँ .

  - गुलज़ार

Let us all wear the mirrors,
All would see their own face in others,
And then, anyone would look beautiful

   -Gulzar

It is difficult to write about any person, because it needs an unbiased view from outside, where one has to forget everything except the person. It is impossible to write about a person in isolation with the memories he has given you. Good or bad memories is a biased segregation which I would never like to make. It is not the right way of defining it without knowing the context. This is the reason why I have found it really difficult to write this section of his life, which is more about our life with him, or rather his life with us. It is also impossible to isolate my mother or my sisters from these memories, because they also make most of these very special for me.

It doesn't matter whether we had a good or a bad life, or it was good to have him or not. Such questions are useless if asked, and even more useless if answered. What I knew about him is that he was a lively soul with biases from the world in which he had seen his childhood and young age. I have no idea from where to start writing this section, but I will go back to my childhood memories to find this answer. I don’t want to be stuck into the idea of wearing a mirror, but want to look deep inside him, in a completely non-judgmental way.

My memories take me back to our house in Gwalior, a humble govt. quarter which we got maintained and renovated by using his post as a bribe to the cash stripped and work-less Public Works Department (P.W.D.). He was Deputy Commissioner Land Records then, and sat in the same Moti Mahal, now converted into a govt. office whose water bodies and pavilions he loved. We had two servants, a driver and govt. vehicle with a yellow light above, and he was very proud of it. I hope he felt like a king himself with that masterpiece of an architecture around him. He surely adored old architecture and most of my childhood trips have been to either palaces, or gardens. He took me to the light and sound show at Gwalior Fort. I was completely mesmerized by the way he explained me the architecture of that place. The water bodies, fort-walls, entry towers and Jaina caves which were on the way. 

A Verandah of the Moti Mahal

Jaina Caves on the way to the Gwalior Fort

Gwalior Fort, with Minarets and Entry Gates

I picked up this love of architecture since then, and no wonder the first sketch i ever made was a building, no human, no trees, no animal. There was no technology then to save those sketches, and they went into the lap of time, but the Architect in me was created through them. We also visited many British style buildings in Gwalior, Chattris in Orchha and the Palaces at Datia. My mother also supported this interest of mine and she was the first to educate me about the great fort of Narvar, where we had a trip together. He was born to be an art and literature aesthete, but ended up working with the government. Perhaps he loved contrasts, and those contrasts made him the man he was.

People always considered him as my grand father. He was indeed old to have such a young age son. Some stake into this opinion was of his attitude and his hair, which turned grey quite early. I never liked it as a child, others fathers were young and enthusiastic, but this one was always lost in his own world, except few times when in a mood to roam around. I hated to go to amusement parks with my parents. It was no fun, I used to consume all the the three coupon booklets, taking every ride twice or thrice without company. His childhood activities could have been completely different than me. He tried to cultivate an interest of kite flying in me. Every summer he used to buy few kites and all the other accessories for me. In that age he had completely forgotten the basics of kite flying. Every year, we went on the roof and tried hard, but always failed. Finally my kites were flown by neighbouring friends, or the peons who knew the technique. I always doubted the fact if he really knew how to fly the kite, or was trying all his life to fly one. I am still part of the kite flying audience, love it, but somehow flying a kite is something  I cannot do.

I have not visited Gwalior Mela* since the year 1998, but that place has captured most of my childhood. Every year there used to be one visit to mela, when only we two used to go. Many of the most expensive toys, were bought during these explorations, especially at times, when only two of us went and my mom was not around. His trips to Gwalior Mela were those which I still remember the most. He didn’t love shopping, but enjoyed sitting and experiencing the world around him, sometimes in the central gazebo, planned as a central space in between the criss-cross streets of the mela ground. Gwalior Mela was a place from where I picked fancy ideas of exhibition pavillions and elaborate entry gates. 

Gwalior Mela Entrance

The stalls in Gwalior Mela and their owners were more or less fixed. Every year they used to be at almost the same place. We ate our dinner in that archaic Indian Coffee House stall, Spic and span with lot of British ways of white china crockery and steel cutlery. He always came out with something innovative from the menu like Dahi Wada, Veg Noodles (He hated Maggi!!!) or Aloo Ka Paratha when our brains will stop working at extremely clichéd Masala Dosa. At other places while we used to stick to general items like Pav Bhaji, Bhel or Cholay Bhatoore, he would come out with some innovative dish like Palak ka Pakora or Cutlet. Then, all of us left whatever we ordered and surely took a bite from his plate. It is an unsolved mystery how he used to pick out such interesting dishes from the Menu Card. Trips to Namkeenwala at Kailash Talkies, and Daulatram Gajak Bhandar were taken really often. He loved namkeen, especially spicy ones. His taste in food was rather unusual, He was the only person I have ever met, who preferred Kachori over Samosa, Could eat Ratlami Sev at any time of the day, Hated Arhar (Toor) ki Daal and Refused to eat Curries which contained tomatos and onions, but liked boiled potatoes in a curry of salty and spicy water, flavoured in rich garam masala . He never ate anything in social functions, except sweets  (that too if someone forced!!!). Whenever we came back from social functions, my mother had cooked food for him. Her dedication was completely remarkable, but he never praised any of her efforts. His old generation male-chauvinist genes were very much alive and they were many a times a menace. 

Two festivals he loved to celebrate were unarguably Diwali, and Ganpati. On Diwali his only idea was to put lights everywhere in home. He loved to buy fire crackers for me ( I will take privilege for saying me!! because only I went for that shopping with him). My mother played the role of a trained bargainer while he chose some innovative fire crackers. He hated bombs, but used to buy too many varieties of Anaars and Charkhas*. He liked to watch us light them, I have never seen him lighting them himself. He always stood there behind us until we completed the whole stock of fire-crackers, and finally burnt the packets. On Ganesh Chatturthi, we had Ganpati idol in our home. He chanted shlokas of Ganpati Atharva Sheersha every morning and evening for five days, and a pooja was performed every morning and evening. He was not very Brahmin though, but loved to chant shlokas and read about them. He cultivated the habit of chanting Aditya Hriday Strotra every morning. Even today whenever i chant these mantras I hear his heavy voice in the background, guiding me. 

His health remained unwell in the winters. Temperatures in Gwalior used to dip to 3-4 Deg C. He used to suffer from acute chest congestion, and spent sleepless due to coughing. His love of winters was in the food he ate. He loved to have an “alaav”* at home, for which the peon was advised to buy coal and wood, which should never be kept in short supply. Every evening we used to sit around that makeshift fireplace, and ate our hot piping meals. He sat with a blanket around him, giving an illusion of a red indian hut, painted in white with a head poking from above. As a child i loved to sit in his lap inside that blanket, poking my head outside and feel the warmth. Those moments were some of the best family evenings we have spent together. Remembering those times still fills me with the same coziness, same comfort, and I feel as if that alaav is still somewhere around, showering a cloud of comforting heat, and the smell of smoke. I close my eyes and try to hear his chanting voice in the background, mantras from the Aditya Hriday Stotra.

Aditya Hridaya, the blessing of all blessings, by means of which, my child, You will conquer once for all Your adversaries on the battlefield, and which is calculated to bring victory, root out all sins, allay all anxiety and grief once for all and prolong life.

- Adityahridayam, Shloka-4

*I have not used English words, for many hindi words, to conserve the feel for readers. 

Alaav- Literally small fire, made normally of wood or charcoal in a flat bottom utencil,or tasala. 

Anaar and Charkha- Flower Pots and Ground Chakkars, Firecrackers

Mela - Fair