I woke up yesterday morning, gripped by a strange fear. I had spent the whole night tossing and turning, paralysed with the thought of our 50 year Reunion. Yes, it’s been 50 years since we did our school leaving examination – the ISC which has long been scrapped. Luckily, the school still exists as do most of my classmates. I haven’t seen most of them for over 50 years while I’ve been meeting some on and off and a few who are my dear friends till today.
School friends are a completely different kettle of fish. They know you almost inside out. They’ve seen you stumble through adolescence and probably helped you find yourself as you progress to adulthood. They can be brutally frank and honest, easily reverting back to the familiarity that existed in our schooldays.
Quite honestly, even though I managed to control my absolute fear, I am still a bit apprehensive.
Over the past month, I’ve helped in collating information about our classmates and compiling a ( for want of a better word ) Slambook. Seeing their photos and reading about the amazing things they’ve done since leaving school has left me dazed. Not only have they left the gawkiness of our teen years behind, but have been winners in the careers they have chosen.
Always the outsider
Growing up an itinerant Naval kid meant meant changing schools. Thus, I never felt I really belonged to any particular school. Even though I only went to three schools, I missed the closeness of my classmates who had shared memories of kindergarten, car pools, teachers who hadn’t taught me and events that I hadn’t participated in.
In January this year, I was invited by my classmates from class 4- class 7 for the 50th Reunion of their ( which would have been mine too ) school-leaving class at St.Mary’s School , Pune. This school still has a special place in my heart but I declined the invitation.
Coming to the present
I am not one for nostalgia because you can’t really turn back the clock. Over the years I’ve bumped into many of my school mates and it’s always been fun reminiscing about the days gone by.
But I prefer to look ahead.
So I’m off now to get set for the evening and hope that many of the photos of my classmates have been photoshopped !
We always had a dog growing up. And it was very easy because our lives were very simple. The dog ate what we ate – sometimes from his own bowl or sometimes from under the dining table when it conspired to help us finish whatever was served on our plates. Those were the days when our meals were simple too and whatever we ate was suitable for canine consumption whether it was daal chawal or roti sabzi. Since we didn’t have chocolates or cheese in such abundance, the dogs didn’t see them either. But they enjoyed the occasional munchies that we munched on all through the day – biscuits, chaklis, bhajiyas, kebabs etc.
Our dogs were simple too – they were trained by us and could understand commands like come, sit, eat, move, NO, in English, Marathi and Hindi.
They were bathed once a week by my brother or me, walked down four times a day by one of us and were taken to the vet for regular shots.
No grooming parlours, no doggie treats, no trainers or dog walkers and no pooper scoopers .
They often accompanied us on our road trip holidays, a stay at a friend’s or relative’s place or to a place where we could stay in a Government Inspection/ Dak bungalow. Or, if in a bind, since our househelp ( in those days we called them servants) lived in quarters attached to our houses, we could leave them in their care while we were out.
FOMO
Only once, I remember we had a problem : when my mum, brother and I were travelling to NEFA ( Arunachal Pradesh) for almost 4 weeks. We had given our maid a long vacation which meant Moti, our Samoyed had nowhere to stay.
Luckily, Mrs M, the wife of one of our army friends offered to take care of him. She simply LOVED dogs and they had big house with huge verandahs and half an acre of land around it and also plenty of house help. They also had NO children so the dog would be extremely well looked after. So they told us.
Sadly, the friend didn’t account for the extreme jealousy that would overpower him when he saw Moti being cuddled and pampered by his wife. And even though it was temporary, he just couldn’t bear it and consigned the dog to a former chicken coop. When we returned home, everyone was relieved – the couple because they could go back to their happy twosome, and us, because we were back with our beloved Moti.
Unfortunately, Moti developed a viral infection and eventually died of Distemper.
Strange are the ways of love
We had one more dog after Moti who drove us crazy with her antics but after I got married, I studiously avoided keeping a dog. It was much too much work.
So I deliberately avoided petting dogs and talking to them on the road. I didn’t want to get involved with pets and animals. Luckily, they avoided me too and I could walk past the cutest of dogs without a twinge of regret of not having my own dog a dog.
This surprised my mother who always felt that I was more comfortable with canines than humans and actually despaired of ever having human babies to grandmother.
Fast forward to 2024
All was well till Ms Iti adopted Anna Shetty and her Boy Gang and I was asked to Doggy sit by Anna Shetty who was going to an Island in the Sun vacation with her Boy Gang. I was most reluctant to do so because I haven’t had a dog at home for over four decades now.
‘It’s just for a week’ , she wheedled .
‘You must be mad,’ said all my friends.
‘We still have workmen coming home,’ said the rest of the household.
But somehow I landed up doggy sitting.
So I was left holding the doggie while Anna Shetty and her gang cavorted with the dolphins.
Literally, half an hour before leaving for the airport, she came along with Iti.
‘Don’t leave the balcony doors open! She can jump out’.
‘Don’t let her off her leash . She can run away and won’t be able to find her way back’.
‘Don’t feed her off the table’
‘Don’t forget to walk her four times a day’.
And with that, they left .
After they left, I pulled out an old, soft chenille bedspread and made a bed for her. She was still on the leash and curled up on her new bed. Then, Ms Papaya entered the room and wiggled between Hubby Dear and me, and we all settled down for the night…….
Within half an hour , Iti jumped in and squeezed herself between Ms Papaya and me ! That night we slept four to a bed. Needless to say none of us really slept.
I woke up before the crack of dawn and struggled with getting her on the leash . I hurriedly took her down. After she relieved herself, I realised I had nothing to pick up her poop with. Unable to find any scrap of paper , I asked the watchmen for some and gathered it all, dumped it in a trash can and dashed home before the other dogs in the building came down. Phew!
The afternoon walk was a nightmare because Iti dragged me to the front lawn ( VERBOTEN FOR ALL except the gardener) and in broad daylight evacuated her bowels.
‘Oh dear ! I hope Mrs Nosey wasn’t watching from behind her lace curtain’, and looked around frantically to clean up. There were some mouldy leaves on the grass and I scooped the poop with the dog threatening to run away . getting rid of it wasn’t easy because the lid on the garbage bin fell down with a clatter further scaring the dog who was already coping with the trauma of being in unfamiliar surroundings.
By the end of the day, I had figured out a routine and it became easier managing the dog.
Unfortunately, that might my father passed away and the next morning we had to leave for the funeral. Fortunately, Iti’s househelp came over and she didn’t feel too abandoned .
But when I returned, she stuck to me like glue. And that drove Ms Papaya away because she was feeling more jealous by the minute .
It was strange being sought after by a dog and a grandchild and the next few nights were quite eventful – getting the dog down, putting the granddaughter in her own bed .
And of course during the day, I had to make sure the dog didn’t run after or intimidate the workmen, run away from the house because the front door was always open and make sure the verandah doors were always shut so that she didn’t jump out .
One evening I found her happily destroying my memory foam pillow and one evening she demolished Hubby Dear’s leather Kolhapuri chappals.
After biting through a leash, I had only a six inch lead to restrain her and while entering the lift one day, I tripped over her and fell on my knees, while entering the lift as she was busy trying to sniff out which dog had used it before her!
So I went to ‘Paws & Tails’ to by a KONG toy which apparently soothed a dog who was suffering from ‘separation anxiety’. Sneaking out while Iti slept, I got her a squeaky toy that was suitable for a ‘strong’ biter.
Diwali night was a nightmare for Iti and I had to abandon a family Diwali-do to calm her down.
This morning the poor dog’s torture ended when Anna Shetty came straight from the airport to pick her up.
Despite this tightrope walk for me, I shall miss this little one.
Finally, this Saturday past, my father breathed his last. After a month of absolute misery, lying listlessly in bed, unable to do anything by himself. I hope he is now happy doing exactly what he wants.
Because, my dad was one lucky bloke. Most of his life he managed to do just what he wanted. He was quiet and seemed non-confrontational but he stubbornly refused to do what he didn’t want to do and if absolutely forced to do something he didn’t want to do, did with utmost reluctance.
He had the curiosity of a child and was always ready to try something new no matter how ridiculous it might seem to others.
For instance, I remember way back in the 60s he decided to learn Ballroom dancing. This was because all his other Naval friends danced so beautifully and he, being a doctor, didn’t have access to dance lessons which were part of training imparted to future officers and gentlemen. So he bought himself ‘Teach yourself Ballroom Dancing’ and some records to spin on his brand new Grundig record player. For months after that, he would twirl my mother around the wooden floors of our living room, while he counted the steps book in hand!
Perhaps, it was the record player that inspired him to learn Spanish. Because for the next few months we had to tiptoe in silence while he practiced his conversational Spanish to ‘Teach Yourself Spanish’ !
Every now and then, something would catch his fancy. Sometimes the interest was short lived. Like the time he went to Auli for ski lessons in his mid-50s or to Holland to learn mushroom cultivation. In time, he took up pottery, orchid cultivation and hydroponics. With each ‘hobby’ the house grew messier and messier but he carried on regardless.
But the one hobby that turned into his great love and lasted him all his life was GOLF.
I remember him coming home after six months in the North East, with a strange piece of luggage – a tall leather case which held some funny looking sticks.
Even though he started playing golf in his late 30s he was determined to become a champion. Our living room carpet became his putting green and our bookshelves began filling up with books on how to improve your swing and advice from several experts. Soon our front table catch-all conveniently became a receptacle for tees and balls.
He would participate in every tournament he could and woke up at the crack of dawn on weekends just so that his four-ball would be the first to tee-off.
Initially my mum resented this game that completely took over his life and disrupted ours. But eventually she began enjoying the hours of peace while he was away and actually began resenting the course shut-downs during the monsoon rains.
This was because my dad’s other passion was giving my mum the run around. She was willing to do anything for him and literally jumped to attention when she heard him call out her name.
Growing up, it was common for us to hear her name being yelled out while my mother dropped whatever it was she was doing and ran to do his bidding. So she did his bank work, packed houses while he moved on to a new town for his next post, got us school admissions, ferried us for various classes and activities , took us for medical checks etc, and almost single handedly managed the household. And despite all her own personal activities ( she was a school teacher) she never forgot that HE was her number one priority.
At the beginning of this year, the Golf Club banned him from bringing the buggy upto the Practice greens. It would spoil the turf they said. Notwithstanding the fact that he could barely walk with the intense pain in his legs, he was upset. This was bad news. As it was, his four ball was dying on him one by one and he literally remained the last one standing at 93.
Another blow was the discovery of a GBM growing in my mum’s brain. We had suspected something odd in her behaviour but put it down to the onset of dementia. Yet, she continued with her early morning breakfast routine for him which began with a 6 am tea. Then she ironed his underwear and laid it out with the rest of his clothes to step into after his bath, on his bed. While he read the paper, she busied herself in the kitchen trying to organise his meals before getting ready to do her daily chores ( which ALWAYS included some errands for him).
So when the tumour showed up, it literally sent his life for a toss. During my mum’s illness, he did little to humour her and after she passed, decided that life was not worth living.
Despite a heart attack in 2017 slowing him down, he continued with his Golf and occasional social visits. But after my mum, he completely withdrew into his own world. Of course he spoke to those who spoke to him and did go out for the occasional outing. But gradually, he began losing interest in everything that he once liked to do. No more newspapers, no feeding the birds, no yelling at his gardeners and no wife to really boss around.
After, two brief most reluctant hospitalisations over the last two months, he went peacefully in his sleep. In his own bed. In his own home . Just the way he wanted. He has now joined my mother in the last photograph they were seen together.
The last photograph.
Farewell, dear daddy. Hope you finally get the Hole in One , have a single digit handicap and munch on your crisp buttered toast while my mother hovers around you .
Twenty- five Seven 