It's yesterday once more: Memories of childhood

Last fortnight I talked about my grandfather’s beach resort property “Devka”, memories fresh in mind as if it were yesterday. Breakfast and teatime were two special memories — breakfast because it was accompanied with a glass of sweet neera (comes from palm trees which by evening ferments into “toddy” which was strictly for adults) and teatime because my aunt would open the goodies cupboard and like a magician pull out delicious cakes, cookies and sweets.

Evenings were always on the beach, running around, playing games, making new friends, experiencing first crushes, exchanging glances, hands meeting under the sand in the hope that no one would notice. But it was difficult to escape the roving eyes of our aunts who would be smiling away remembering their younger days. Travelling in bullock carts to picnic spots, munching omelette sandwiches on the way contributed to the joys of childhood.

Upon returning home in the evening, we’ll see our granduncle and his friends sitting on the verandah enjoying tête-à-tête under the full glow of Petromax lights since there used to be no electricity in Devka in those days. In another corner our uncle and their pals will be sipping toddy while the women would be busy preparing dinner.

My biggest fear was getting up during the night to go to the toilet. The villas and houses in those days had toilets quite a distance from the living area since there was no flush system. Hurricane in hand, frightened as hell, I would tiptoe through the rooms, then climb down the steps and walk towards the destination. My brother and cousins would joke about this with others. My grand uncle used to call me “Burjorji Botch”.  Botch is short for Botchiu, which is a Parsi slang for someone timid.

My grandfather visited Devka only occasionally, leaving the reins to his elder brother, who was kind, jovial and yet knew how to rough up the lazy local staff both at home and work. He was a philanthropist and gave freely to charities. A charitable hospital in Bulsar is named after him and so is the Parsi Fire temple.

His daily routine was driving down to Daman, just twenty minutes away, where he would spend time with his dear friend a doctor called Castellino. Sometimes we used to accompany him. We would go around town, especially to the big bazaar ogling at foreign goods. My aunts and cousin sisters would go gaga over the lovely silk sarees and textiles.

Taking them out of the Portuguese territory was prohibited. My granduncle’s strict orders were not to buy anything which would embarrass him since the cars had to pass through several police checkpoints. Because of my granduncle’s clout and position, our vehicle was never stopped and the women fully aware of this would go on a shopping spree.

However, to avoid taking chances, they would convert the sarees into loosely stitched petticoats and wear them one over the other and then back home unstitch them. I dread to think what would have happened had my granduncle ever found out.

Once a year, our tennis court became a five-star ballroom, petromaxes replacing chandeliers. It was party time in honour of the Governor of Daman. Portuguese men in their regalia, ladies in long, flowing gowns mingling with other guests from Daman, the “bawaji” friends from Devka. The ladies in our household in their finest silks would watch couples waltzing to the music of a local band. Since we were not allowed to join, we would stand in a balcony overlooking the dance floor, gaping in awe.

When you turn 80 you want to become kids and re-live all those wonderful childhood days once more! Adieu until next time.

The author is a well-known stage personality.