ONCE UPON A TIME.........by RoshanC

          From writing sketchbook journal and then stories, this time I felt a strange urge to write something about myself. What’s even better is to start with some childhood memories, for they fade away unless you have some strings attached. My compilations one day would be incomplete without my jocular anecdotes from my vibrant childhood. So, here’s a tete a tete to all that I could recall and share. It’s even a tribute to all my childhood friends (my partners in crime), the classmates from whom I borrowed trousers (more than once), and my neighbors back home.
          The facts have been (beautifully) embedded here in alphabetical order as per its occurrence related to the calendar year.

                            “If you carry your childhood with you, you never become older”

I. SuSu…the piss!!!

          My younger brother was a rooster (not practically though); perched at the highest platform at the edge of our house, facing down towards the clustered neighborhood, he had to crow every morning, not "cock-a-doodle-doo" but always “Roshan wet the bed again (make it atleast thrice)”. Oh how I wish he was dumb. Or how I wished it was at least on alternate days. But no, it had to happen every day. When children at my age, feeble limbs flattering all day would retire to bed into sound sleep, I managed to dream too. The most un-acceptable dream one could imagine of, in my case, I used to be visiting the “loo” almost every day, punctually for years and almost at the same time. What happens next is obvious. And my brother had this certain enmity with me, the first thing he did in the morning was to check my bed and head towards his dais.

                                                   
          The hot topic in the morning as I woke up used to be the MAP (the one I made on the bed the previous night) and which country it closely resembled. Served duel purposes here, poking me and the other, polish my geography. I never had my bedroom secrets, the entire neighborhood shared it. I think we were deficit of doctors then and I don’t think we can have a specialist to it. Homemade remedies were also suggestions like “tie his little…….” Sometimes I wished I could actually do it but myself (on a lighter note).

                                     When I was one, It had just begun.

                                     When I was two, It was nearly new.

                                     When I was three, It started flowing free.

                                     When I was four, It was much much more.

                                     When I was five, I could literally dive.

                                      But as I was Six, I had to fix!!!

          And it happened exactly at six. I was visiting my Aunt in Darjeeling and on her suggestion we went to a temple there, known for its strange belief to “cut-links” with anything unwanted, which also includes “Wives” (you should take me seriously here guys).
I forgot the last map I made, most probably at my Aunt’s place, but my Geography is immensely polished!!!

II. Shit! It’s Millet…

          The Year 1988 and I was in the 1st standard. Like I said, don’t go by my age. I was definitely ahead of my age in ways more than one. My Dad enjoyed his “millet-beer”, a special homemade ethnic alcoholic beverage popularly known as “chang” in Tibet, Sikkim and other neighboring States. Large quantities of “chang” used to be stored at home for his daily consumption which he normally shared with his friends over fried meat-balls and pickles. And I never missed an opportunity to grab a handful at the slightest twitch of an eye, rush towards some secluded place and upon finishing, come back for more. I liked it dry. It had a flavor which would any day lock horns with musk and the “CH3CH2OH” in it gave me a good night sleep.
          The next day at school I had a bad stomach. My English until then was stuck at the alphabets and “Miss, may I go to the toilet?” seemed to me the longest sentence ever. The other thing that added to my woe was my half pant with suspenders. Seeing the door of the classroom ajar and paying no heed to the class teacher I marathon’d towards the toilet, my hands still fighting to get the suspenders loose. I didn’t succeed much there. I crashed. The teacher who until then was running behind me seemed nowhere to be seen, much obviously. I was all yellow. My “poop” had millet all the way from my classroom door up to the washroom.
          The only one left who could give my back a helping hand in the washroom was my elder brother (who was also my senior in school), which he obliged just as the Principle was around. I knew by then that later it would be his legs that would be doing the honor. My teacher borrowed some trouser from a hosteler, which obviously had to be a girl (the school only had girls hostel) and coincidentally, its color too was yellow.
         " I overheard the Principle that day saying to my brother;” What does your brother eat at home?”

III. Being Bhandari

The Year 1988 and I was around six and a few months.
          The flamboyant 2nd Chief Minister of Sikkim (former) Mr.N.B Bhandari. Unlike the Bollywood flick “I am Kalam”, I had practically seen Mr. Bhandari on his various motorcade and foot-visits in and around our village. Apart from his great sense of dressing, neatly combed hair, he was a crowd-puller. People flocked at the slightest sight and along with silk “khada”; the smell of marigold from the garlands mystified the air. People came to him and he gestured back with clasped hands. The other reason surely was the packed food he distributed after every such visit.
          Weekends those days were running in the neighborhood, marbles jingling in the pocket, dusty clothes, and the neighbor’s sugarcane. And I was much of the pathfinder mostly on such mischievous jaunt. At any day I had not less that fifteen guys at my back and what we could end-up into need not be mentioned here. One such weekend, I decided to be Bhandari, just for a day…
          At around seven on a Sunday morning I had my bath. My fellow partners of crime had already assembled at my place. An elderly brother obliged to get me ready for my grand day. I had already convinced my Dad on a “safari suit.” While my hair was soaked in thick coconut oil and combed into fine perfection, my mates got hold of some plastic carry bags, red and white in color, replicating the flag of Mr. Bhandari’s party. I was ready for the march and my mates were done with the marching code and the slogans, also not to forget to mention the plastic flags. The march had to start from the main road towards the bazaar, covering the “dak-bungalow” then towards the new market area and back to the starting point. One two three…
N.B Bhandari zindabaad                    (long live N.B Bhandari)
(Zindabaad) 2                                   (long live) 2
Garib ko neeta ayo hai                      (the savior of poor has come)
(Ayo hai) 2                                       (has come) 2
          Standing at the center of the group, clasped hand, two friends on my sides replicating bodyguards, we circled the entire stretch with serious onlookers ranging from village elderly men, women and children alike. The mock drill even managed to gather some crowd with few more children joining us. The plastic flags waving up against the wind making rickety sound, the huge uproar from my friends shouting at the peak of their larynx and the stroke of my hand in the gesture of a “Namaste” towards both sides all along the route, we covered all of these products the first time without any problems and with absolute flawless perfection. The onlookers must have laughed their stomachs out but I had just done it. It was my day…
          I may not necessarily remember all the face(s) that joined me that day, and I don’t want to remember any of those onlookers (I might freak out seeing them on my marriage party), what I do remember is the day in itself…the day I became Bhandari…

IV. No hair…No Shoes…No Tie.

          1993 and I was in the Sixth Standard. As earlier, every weekend had something in the box. This time it was no different, only that my partner in crime was none other but my elder brother. He was some two years elder to me, enough to give him the confidence that he was mastering some trades, though always not good. This particular Sunday, I badly needed a haircut. But more than me, my brother was keen to play with scissors. My village didn’t have a barber, which was a seasonal post, occupied when schools re-opened after the long winter breaks and lying vacant for most part of the year. It was either the Dad’s who had to do the honor, or like in my case, elder brother. And thus it started.
          After successfully sneaking out the pair of new scissors from home, we went to a nearby secluded place which had a tap for water and loads of bushes. And behind the bushes the scissors did its magic. I humbly laid my back on the soil, wavering only to his instructions and a tiny mirror quietly perched on my lap. He started with the left side above my ear. Done with the spot, he inquired if it looked good. The mirror gave a nice impression, I was convinced. Now, the right side. Here’s where he spoiled the broth. Since he had to match the haircut on my left lobe, he overdid the right one, so much so that my scalps were visible and my hair made those horizontal lines very commonly called “Apache cut.” He was not finished yet. Seeing the twitch in my eye which had already started changing color from brown to red, he obliged to work on my left one, ultimately make it a pair of Apache’s. My eyes had by now started to make tiny balls of tears and he too lost his humor. The only and the only option now was the “Gandhi” cut, which meant I was to carry a full moon over the top of my head until the next solar eclipse. It was a bad decision. The blade he got was some cheap fake replica with “lopaz” (the original one sounds Topaz) inscribed on it and the tap had only enough water to sprinkle my hair. The tiresome job left me wailing like a woman in the maternity ward and I was losing my baby here.
         The next day left me in a big dilemma before leaving for school. I found my school shoe torn at the tip which covers my toe. The cobblers post was vacant all through the season. I quickly bandaged my toe and poured some red ink over it faking it into a bad wound. So, my uniform that day was reduced to a pair of slippers minus the tie. In the school assembly that morning, even a penguin’s eye would have drawn attention for I was the shortest guy in my class (which made me stand in the first row) practically right under the Principles nose.
                                          
          The Principle humbly adjured me to join her at the dais. As I made my way up, the whole school chuckled at the sight in front of them (and the bandage on my toe only added fuel to the fire) as the Principle spoke;” Look at this boy. No hair, No shoes, No Tie.”
         What followed next was a huge guffaw…..

V. The Black Nose:

          Somewhere above I mentioned marbles jingling in the pocket. Remember? Marble games were a craze those days before Microsoft gave birth to “Xbox” or Sony adopted “PSP”. I could slaughter a pig for a bagful. The day I lost the game, I would retire to my bed like a poor husband who just got into one with his wife (pun intended). The day I won, I was the German Hitler, the Indian Gandhi family, Chinese Hu Jintao or the Korean Kim Jong-II. Every day after school we would retire to our usual playground for some game of marble. Gender was never an issue, neither color of the skin -so far you had the “balls.”
          I had my own way of playing. I would sit on the floor, crawl, creep, funky moves, even cry at times to make my way to victory. I also remember times when I used to exchange fists along the way, many a times leaving me black-n-blue if not purple. Before hitting the miniature spherical balls, I used to apply some tiny amount of saliva (better known as “spit”) on my palm and rub it on the soil. This would give me extra grip to hold the balls tightly (this shitty thing is sounding funny here!!!) and hit my opponent’s. Almost at the same time I had to work on my nose which flowed like the “Niagara”. I wished I had the hands of our Indian Goddesses. A powerful stroke of the same muddy hand over the nose would randomly squatter the direction of the flow hitherto, also leaving my nose painted black (which I seriously ignored).
                                                         
          When I used to get back home hungry and jubilant (rarely) my Mom somehow never failed to notice the extra thing I came home with. She would point at my face and say; “Look, the cat is back home.”

VI. Jurassic Park

          Jurassic park released to pack theaters in the summers of ’93. A year after, in ’94 an incident followed that made me tag it as the most remembered movie in my lifetime. A blockbuster, what one would rightfully say?
          As I grew up and started playing with alphabets, my numerical were on their dwindling days. Algebra was just an animal to me similar to the Zebra but with different stokes of color and LCM was “Lal Chand Mukhia”, a friends Dad. After some distinct red marks smeared all over my quarterly report card, Dad enrolled me for tuition classes for mathematics; along with my younger brother (he was even worst). MR. Gupta, the teacher was always on time. Those two hours with him were like days spent in hell if only he had horns and fangs.
          One such day we found the door to our tuition room locked. Sir had gone somewhere and there was huge commotion as to whether he would turn up or no. We prayed for the latter. And there were others too, some bunch of twenty or odd students. Among them was a junior from my school who came towards me and whispered the words that my ears almost stood up like those of rabbits. He invited me for a movie right away at a neighbor’s place, they were just been back from a holiday trip down south and managed to grab a hand on the VCR on Jurassic Park. Dinosaurs were new to me and anything large fascinates me. I didn’t think twice, moreover I dragged my little brother along, for he would be handy on our return back home. Off we went to the Jurassic Park.
                                                 
          Mr.Gupta had arrived almost immediately as we left. And since we stayed more than our stipulated time away from home, Dad had sent our maid to inquire. She went back home with the message from our teacher that we didn’t even turn up for the classes.
          The movie ran a good 127mins. By the time we were done, we were a good one hour behind our time and minus classes. As we dragged our way back home, it was pitch dark outside and we pretty well knew what awaited back home. My only solace here was my brother, for I knew Dad would pity him and we might even end up getting scot-free with some mere scolding. We were wrong…
          Dad was still in the living room and the light from the television flickering through the window gave me a cold chill. The air smelled different, Dad was never awake this late, never. I gestured my brother to take the backdoor right across the store room. He was to lead from then on. The back door was not bolted and I ran bats eye on the store room. I found a thin, long bamboo stick right across the room, strangely on sight. My brother glared at me, I told him to break it and throw it out, for it was the same stick which might later be kissing and caressing our anatomy rather randomly. That was the biggest mistake of the day (bigger than sneaking out for a movie).
          We had made enough noise by then to catch Dad’s attraction. My eyes were perched on my Mom, who sat right next to my Dad, her eyes now fixed at us. My second solace (I thought). “Where were you this late?” she inquired. She overtook Dad and it was a good signal. Wrong Again!!! I pinched my brother so hard that he almost lost his balance and started blubbering...” Sir...Sir didn’t come…..so we…..” Where were you this late?” This time it was Dad and my heart almost skipped a beat. Another word and I would have wet my pant for sure. He got up and went out to the other room. I sighed a big relief and also swallowed some gallon of air. Now I could handle Mom. Reading her expressionless face I made the move; “Sir didn’t turn up today so we went to a friend’s place to watch Jurassic Park.” I hardly stoppedthought). “Where were you this late?” she inquired. She overtook Dad and it was a good signal. Wrong Again!!! I pinched my brother so hard that he almost lost his balance and started blubbering...” Sir...Sir didn’t come…..so we…..” Where were you this late?” This time it was Dad and my heart almost skipped a beat. Another word and I would have wet my pant for sure. He got up and went out to the other room. I sighed a big relief and also swallowed some gallon of air. Now I could handle Mom. Reading her expressionless face I made the move; “Sir didn’t turn up today so we went to a friend’s place to watch Jurassic Park.” I hardly stopped for air in-between. She started inquiring more and then I became my real self. The next three minutes and I unfolded the melodrama in the best possible way until the scene came where the man had to shoot the Dinosaur. “ And he pointed his gun right on the head of the beast to fire, but it was actually the tail he was pointing to, the head of the beast was right behind………….” I turned back and found my Dad standing right there, with what seemed to me the largest firewood piece in his hand ready to strike at any moment. Bang!!! The blow came right on my back all through my spinal cord and the next moment I was on the floor. My brother took the second. Then third, fourth…and I slowly lost the count. At one point I managed to crawl under the bed only to be dragged back by my legs and the count still went on. I was literally bad in maths. I also noticed that after some time, the blows down-poured frequently on me, the reason being my half-broken brother had managed to make his way out of the house while I was being dragged out from under the bed. My bad. My dilapidated body managed to make its last, but successful attempt to make my way past the door and out into the dark. My eyes had just seen a dinosaur in flesh and blood.
                        
          We were still too young to venture alone in the dark. All we could do was a mere 100 meters from home, a place used to stock firewood for the chilly winters and also our hiding joint. My brother was already there when I reached. He was holding his middle finger which had a small cut and sobbing. I held my hand on his mouth lest he made any noise. I had lost sensation on my back, on my limbs; in fact I was all numb. My bones felt cracked into hundred places and I doubted if I could even walk properly for days. A little later my eyes locked with my brothers’ and we almost chuckled. We did it more than once and I still do it today when I remember that day.
          The whole night we stayed outside, sleeping on the wooden chairs in my Dad’s office in the next building (we gate crashed).
          Did you just say Jurassic Park???