The journey back to a childhood full of wonderful memories

We race through life at jet speed — school, college, first job, marriage, children, their education, pursuit of wealth, pursuit of fame — and before you realize you touch 80. And you ponder was it worth it! What about all your childhood dreams? You wanted to paint, you wanted to learn the guitar, you wanted to act, you wanted to write. So you go back to your childhood memories. I wrote about some in my last article. I have a few more to share.

One that I cherish even now was our daily evening routine. After early dinner and changing into night clothes, my brother and I would await our grandfather’s return from the club. A German-make car called Rio would honk loudly as it neared the gate of our sprawling villa.

Both of us will rush and stand on the villa’s doorstep. My grandfather in his usual outfit — a smart tie, long, black jacket and the Parsi pheta — would alight from the car. Both of us will touch his feet and take his blessings. Then it was off to bed where one of our uncles or aunts would get us to recite evening prayers. All this may appear out of place among today’s computer-savvy, TV-addicted children.

Another cherished moment is the “wedding march” called Sajan. The procession started from one end of a rather longish street. A band in full regalia walked in front, playing the trumpet, saxophone, trombone and drums out-of-tune and rhythm while attempting Hindi film songs. Parsis called such an outfit a naankhatai band. It was followed by the heavily-garlanded bridegroom accompanied by a priest. Behind them walked all the friends and relatives headed to the wedding hall where the bride (in a white lace-piece sari) and her family waited.

And finally the most cherished memory of all, our annual summer vacation. Every May we drove down from Bulsar to Devka, a tiny beach resort, just half-an-hour’s drive from Daman.

Both Devka and Daman used to be Portuguese territories in those days. My grandfather inherited Devka from his father. I don’t know whether it was his father’s wish or some kind of understanding with the Portuguese government that Devka would be a strictly Parsi colony. So, my grandfather invited Parsi families to build their holiday homes. He offered them land at throwaway prices.

Around 20 homes sprang up, some on the beach, some on the hillocks with a beach view. A family called Oliaji built the Dukes Hotel. Parsi families, mostly from Mumbai and Gujarat, flocked to the hotel and one needed to book well in advance, especially for the vacation season. Today, six decades later, the hotel is still owned and run by the same family and is equally popular.

Our villa was on a hillock. It was large with a tennis court at the back. The cool sea breeze floating in during hot summer months still lingers in my memory. The house used to be full of young and old people. Above all was the towering figure of my grandfather’s elder brother. The villa resonated with love and laughter through the month.

My granduncle’s son wanted to be a journalist but was pushed into family business. His frustration resulted in a wonderful book he wrote on Devka, calling it Devka Darling. I hope to find a copy someday. The Devka Darling journey will continue in the next column.

The author is a well-known stage personality.