Fist day at school

Today was Agastya my grandson's first day at school. I mean school in India as he lives in the US and has come home for a couple of months.The past couple of days were spent trying to coax him to go to school, and the little three and half year old did play the game and promised to go. There was of course a shopping spree for bag, bottle, and lunch box all depicting his favourite cartoon character of the day: Chota Bheem!

The dreaded day dawned and there were tears and entreaties that would make any heart melt, most of all Nani's vulnerable one. But I held strong and took him to school scurrying away before the howls. But my brave boy settled down after a few tears and had a great time. After school ended there was of course the promised trip to the toy store.

First day at school brings many memories: the first day of my 2 daughters, Utpal's first day and funnily enough a long forgotten memory of my own first day at school in Paris. My elder daughter's first day at school was handled by her father as he was the one who dropped her at school after dropping me at my place of work. As far as I know she settled down fast setting the tone for an ace academic career. The younger one's first day or should I say days at school were a nightmare. Wails, and cries all handled by grand mom, grandad and the loving nanny who braved all weather and sat under a tree in front of the school.

Utpal's first day at boarding school was heart wrenching. He was just 4 and had lost everything: his mom, his home, his life. For me it was the toughest decision of my life. My heart wanted to keep the little fellow with me and smother him with love but reason told me otherwise. What was needed was to secure his future. I must admit that I took a long time recovering from that first day!

But strangely Agastya's first day at school brought back memories of another first day:mine! I had completely forgotten that episode, episode it was. We had just landed in Paris circa 1956 and I must have been around 4. My mom decided to put me in the public creche on rue Roquepine (I googled for it and realised it still existed). I howled and howled for days and my poor mom had no option but to take me out. Few days later she put me in a private school St Marie de Passy and the spoilt brat that I was took to it like a dream.

As life does come full circle as my younger daughter went to the smae school year slater in 1993!

I have lived a hell of a lot of first days at school.

the curious case of the green churidar

I do not know if it is old age, or the fact that from one day to the next you don the title of Senior Citizen, but for the past weeks I have been flooded by memories long forgotten. Many happy ones but some I am not that proud of.

Some days back my younger daughter asked me if I had one of her churidars in my cupboard as our clothes do often get mixed up post washing. This has been going on for quite some time and come to think of it we do wear each other's outfits quite often. My daughters have never found it odd and neither have I.

But this time the word churidar set of a Proustian reaction in my mind. I was transported to circa 1964 when I was 12. We were in Saigon no Ho Chi Min Ville. Those were the days of navy blue school uniforms and a few party outfits. The latest addition had been a green churidar kurta bought at Cottage Emporium. It was at that time a very prized possession. Mama always wore saris. Not quite always as I have seen pictures of her in trousers in the snow, but somehow in my memory she was always draped in her beautiful saris. On that fateful day, on a whim I guess, she decided to try on my new green churidar set. Mama was petite and did fit in the said outfit. She must have been tickled pink as she proudly walked into my room to show me how she looked.

I am not proud of what happened after. I threw a fit and starting crying and did not stop till she removed it and came back in my room in her sari. She quietly opened my cupboard and placed it on the shelf and left the room. I was sulking on my bed.

I must have apologised but have no memory of it. I sincerely hope I did. But I was a spoilt brat, spoiled by the abundant and unequivocal love bestowed on me my my wonderful parents. Today when I look back on this incident I wondered what it was that made me behave in such a terrible way. Was it that mama was no more mama when she wore my clothes? Had I an image of her that I did not want blemished. I know I was not a mean soul so there must have been a deeper reason, one that I cannot still understand.

My daughters have never grudged me wearing their clothes. I am ashamed of my behaviour and think it is time I apologised to mama. I know she has forgiven me. I can feel her presence.

RIP Dara Singh

Dara Singh movies are not of the kind I normally see, yet believe it or not, I have seen umpteen Dara Singh movies way back in 1974. It was my courting days and these movies played in morning shows which was one of the places young couples could go and share some private times. Well the choice was between the soft porn South Indian movies with unbelievable titles like Her Nights, Gori Miss and so on. You would agree that one was better off watching Sikande-e-Azam or Sat Sumandar Par! And it was in one of these movies that my then boy friend proposed to me and I accepted! So you see Dara Singh has a very special place in my heart. May he rest in peace.