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It was like our very own private Hamptons — before we even knew what the Hamptons was!

In the early 80s, for a cycle of five years, whenever the concrete jungle got too much to bear, we’d pack off into a bumbling Fiat with another family or two and head on down to Madh Island on the weekends.

At that time Madh was untainted and clean like a baby’s teeth. The only thing that you’d find on the sand besides the occasional shaking jellyfish were lovely white-and-brown shells.

There were only a handful of bungalows on the stretch where we stayed, well spaced out and all very ‘private’ with their watchdogs and mali, and the only shop within was a dingy little shack with a hanging wire and bulb that stocked mundane necessities like butter, bread, eggs…and erm, Simba Chipniks and Thums Up — a regular indulgence. Yes, I was nearing ten then.

The bungalow was called Samrosh. Exotic sounding — but with a practical twist: It was named after an uncle and aunt called Sam and Roshan. Benevolent and large-hearted, they were happy to comply whenever we asked for the keys. There was always a family or two or three along, because the property was massive and spacious, to say the least.

Constructed, as I learned later, by a supposedly eccentric Parsi gentlemen who was known for his open spaces, the front of the first floor was merely sheets of glass which looked bang onto the beach. The ground floor was an massive space, with an open staircase that led to the first floor, alongside a slanting roof. Like the house, the furniture too was bare — we’d roll out gadhlas to sleep on and the lone symbol of the electronic age, the fridge, was kept stocked with just the minimum (think: ice trays).

So the night before our weekend sojourns frantic calls would be made as to who was getting what — sausages, cutlets, deep-fried eggs (poras), etc. Beer bottles and lemonade would mysteriously appear for Sunday ‘shandies’, and a box of chocolates was always packed in by a well-meaning relative.

Come Saturday morning when we’d honk outside the gates of Samrosh, shrieks of delight would rise out into the air by Jingoo, the goofily grinned caretaker of the bungalow, who always had an adopted pariah or two who we’d invariably call Tommy. “Tommy” would be the source of much tears on Sunday evening as we’d plead to adopt him/her.

Most trips were made with our very close family friends, the Mehtas. It was the perfect fit — my two elder sisters and me and their two older brothers and younger sister. We were a pack of thieves, joined at the hip, since we all went to the same school. Mornings-through-afternoons at Madh were spent shell-collecting and idling about on the beach.

One trip in particular remains more than just memorable: It was the arrival of a German bombshell called Sandra (pronounced ‘Saaandra’). On a tour of India, Sandra was staying with the Mehtas in Mumbai and came along for a bit of sand and sun…and weren’t all the men glad! You see, free-spirited and having no hang-ups about showing off her body, Sandra would frolic all day on the beach in the smallest two-piece we’d ever seen (this was before Baywatch, people!).

During the evenings, she’d happily traipse about in only a see-through t-shirt … leaving all of us with lots of giggling and peeping at her behind her back. She proved to be an object of fascination for us, and there was much bragging and rumour-mongering about who really saw her whilst changing. Of course we all got sunburned on that weekend in the constant hope that at some point she’d spring her bikini top off, but alas, the elders were wise enough to have warned her otherwise.

Looking back, this was my introduction to the power of the bikini-clad body and its cause and effect on hormones — why it made men out of boys and boys out of men. The Hamptons be damned!