This is a story of a city , a flood and a backyard .

Once upon a time there was a city called Poona . This ancient city which was called Punyanagari became Poona when the British wrested it from the Peshwas.

During Peshwa times, the city was divided into “Peths” or neighbourhoods named after the days of the week . So you had Shaniwarpeth ( Saturday) , Somwarpeth (Monday) , Shukrawarpeth ( Friday) and Budhwarpeth ( Wednesday) . I’m not too sure whether there was a Mangalwarpeth named after Tuesday and Ravivarpeth named after Sunday so at the risk of annoying genuine Punekars and history buffs, I won’t mention them. But if I remember correctly, there was also a Sadashivpeth, Narayanpeth and a Rastapeth named after the founders/ eminent personalities of the time. ( So I imagine ) .

These were the neighbourhoods that made up the original inner city of Pune. And which my father used to often refer to as The Bermuda Triangle, inhabited as they were by the ‘People who mattered’ and who could be vengefully vicious if rubbed on the wrong side .

When the British took over Pune, thry changed the name to POONAH and established their own sprawling congenial “township” in a military area labelled Poonah Cantt ( Cantonment) colloquially known as Camp. Unlike the alley riddled peths, this area had wide tree lined streets with pretty homes in wooded compounds.

Now with the city already bursting to capacity, the more cosmopolitan inhabitants ( or perhaps the newer natives) established a neighbourhood called Deccan Gymkhana on the other side of the river.

This story takes place in this part of the city.

Yesterday my father posted a story on HIS Facebook page which goes thus :

12 July 1961.On 11th I had come to Poona on annual leave. Early morning ‘Sakal’ had headlines ‘ Dam safe, no danger ‘ !!After b’ fast I set off on my usual leave routine. Walked up to Patole’s cycle shop to hire a Cycle to go tothe city to meet old friends. No cycle was available. So I Started walking . At the beginning of Sambhaji Bridge I saw policeman chasing people away. Last man escorted away from the bridge was good old Prof. Hardikar. Most of the citizens were not prepared to belive the policemen that the dam has ‘bursed’ ! In the past we had experienced water over the bridge. I retreated my steps and entered International Book House but a few moments later thought of returning home. Near DG ground I met my parents who were going to watch the flood waters ! Soon the chowk was under 25 feet of water !! The water kept on spreading till 4 o’ clock ! The worst was to follow.The next morning the pollicemen were warning people to run to the ‘ tekdis’ as Khadakwasla Dam was about to collapse !!! Poona has never been the same again !!!!

The story of the Great Poona Flood of 1961 has been a landmark of sorts in my family lore. Though none of us except my father actually experienced that flood, we heard about it often enough in our childhood . So often, that my brother and I actually thought we were there while the waters were roiling around the city, washing away all that came its way, and how lucky we were to have survived it.

I thought I had heard all that there was to hear about the story till last night when my father told me two more which I thought I must share with all of you .

The Man Who Swam Home from the Andamans

After my father returned home, he was hanging around in the balcony watching the waters, when he spotted a man lying collapsed on the road in front. Being a conscientious doctor he ran down to help .

It turned out that this gentleman was the father of a class mate of his at elementary school. The gentleman in question was a former Forest Officer who was posted to the Andaman Islands . When the islands were over run by the Japanese ( during WWII) the man, fearing for his life, ran all the way to Port Blair and swam home to Pune !

Now this story definitely beats all logic and credibility and I am sure is greatly spiced with imagination and conjecture. I doubt it was narrated by the gentleman himself , but for the rest of his life, he was known in the neighbourhood as the Man Who Swam Home From The Andamans.

After he swam home and retired from the service, the man had built a house on Deccan Gymkhana. It was situated by the river and the man was so shocked to see it under water that he literally died of a heart attack!

Rather a strange end for a man who braved the waters of the Bay of Bengal isn’t it ?

Now coming to the second story .

A Skeleton in the Backyard.

With several aunts and uncles, my father’s maternal family was large. And even though they didn’t ALL live under one roof, and despite not having phones , they were extremely well connected to each other and knew exactly what was cooking in each one’s pot .

One of the aunts happened to live close by ( actually many of them lived within walking distance of each other) so the day after the flood, my gallant father went over to see if they needed any help scraping off the sludge that had covered the entire house.

Several years later, when the house was reduced to just two residents, my Uncle decided to sell it and redevelop the property as most of the original residents of Deccan Gymkhana had done.

After the papers were signed, the bungalow was brought down and excavation for the new building plinth began.

Imagine the horror of the workers when they discovered a skeleton buried two feet deep ? Was this really a skeleton in the cupboard of the original inhabitants ? Or was it a pre-historic remain of Early Man ?

The forensic report surmised that this must have been a body washed up during the Great Flood which remained undetected during the Great Clean Up and decomposed to bare bones after forty odd years .

I wondered what dredged up these memories in my father’s mind when his part of the city is completely dry.

Is it the lull in the monsoon?

Ciao