Thinking aloud

Just this evening, I bought a set of three books that dealt with topics such as the Universe, Plants and Animals, a part of the Discovery Channel’s attempt to reach out to children through print publication. I bought those books for my cousin, a bright 11-yr old, who enjoys this kind of stuff. I felt pleased with myself over the purchase; they were nice books, informative and yet, easy to understand. It was while I was browsing through those books that an alien feeling hit me; fond memories of my own childhood suddenly welled up. Now I am so used to whining about my own childhood: the loneliness, the fact that I was a mis-fit in school, the boredom, the utter adultish-ness of it all, that I rarely, if ever, look back at those years with fondness. Most times, the feeling is usually one of relief, that the childhood got over quickly, leaving me in a better position to enjoy those things that give me pleasure. And yet, with those books in my hand, different memories of my childhood surfaced, ones that had been lying buried for a long time now.

Let’s start with the Time-Life books. An aunt, who at some point in her life, had been a promoter for those books, the modern equivalent of which are the Discovery books that I had just bought, had left behind a large collection with my grandma. Every summer vacation would find me at my grandma’s place, leafing through those books with utter wonder, devouring all the beautiful pictures and words. The books were a veritable treasure-trove of information; about the stars, about the Earth, about plants, animals, under-water life. I think I made for a geeky kid, but those things really did, and still do, hold me in wonder. I loved the pictures, delicate jelly-fish being propelled forward in inky-blue water, amazingly-detailed photos of fish embryo, pictures of colourful birds and animals. I remember my favourite page in the ‘Animals’ book was the one with cartoons, trying hard to explain to a child the dietary preferences of animals out in the wild; then there were those books on outer space, making me feel proud to be part of an exceptionally beautiful planet. The books that dealt with under-water life and space held special fascination; every day I learnt something new about the universe I lived in, and the sheer beauty of it all seemed magical.

Then there were the stories. It’s funny now that I think about it, but it wasn’t just Aesop or Hans Christian Andersen back then. Granny ensured that I got to hear the bestest stories from her. Little did I realize that her stories were my first dose of the literary greats. I sill marvel at her story-telling skills: stories by Shakespeare, Tolstoy and Wilde were distilled to their simplest levels, to make for easy comprehension by a five-yr old. It was thus that I got acquainted with truly marvelous stories like Wilde’s ‘The Happy Prince’, Tolstoy’s story about the shoe-maker and the angel in disguise, Shakespeare’s ‘Merchant of Venice’ and “Macbeth’. My personal favourite was the story about how a French nobleman, ‘Sydney’ lays down his life for the woman he loves, little realizing that what was simply a love triangle for me back then, was the literary classic, ‘A Tale of Two Cities’.

Next, of course, is the music. Sundays during summer vacations were spent listening to Abba, Michael Jackson, the Beetles and Boney M. Sadly, that kind of music is rare now, what with the infusion of electronic sounds in music. Back then, it was all about a bunch of ridiculous-looking people with some seriously good music. Nowadays, it’s about some seriously stylish folks with extremely crappy sounds. I remember we had a gramophone player in those days, which was soon replaced by a cassette player, which was then replaced by a CD player. Now, I listen to music on my pc. It’s become as simple, or as complicated, as that.

And finally, of course, the rains : I knew my summer vacation at grandma’s would end every year when the first rains hit the city. It became a tradition of sorts for me; I had to be at my grandma’s home for the first downpour of the season. The rains were of immense personal significance for me, and still are. I loved running out into the garden, and welcoming the rains. It was an event in itself. Over time, the welcome became a ritual in itself, something that I liked to call my rain-dance. It was my way of letting the rain-gods know that they I had been waiting for them. It all seems so way back in the past, as if I had just pulled forth memories from another life-time altogether. The rains were special, because I had somehow managed to convince myself that I was a favourite with the rain-gods too. They always did what I asked them to do; it rained when I wanted it to, and stopped whenever I wanted it to stop. It’s a heady feeling, you know, when you think the Gods were at your beck and call. I guess I was a pretty stupid child, actually believing that I could command nature. My childhood love of the rains was soon replaced by adult irritation at the way it ruined my clothes, my hair and more importantly, my plans for the day. But all of that changed two days back. It was raining relentlessly, and I decided to put my childhood faith to the test. After a long time, I prayed once again to the rain gods. It was like re-uniting with an old friend and I felt guilty that I had forgotten the simple pleasures that go with being able to stand under an open sky and getting soaked to the skin. I prayed that the rain would stop long enough for me to do what I wanted to; I wasn’t expecting much, rain-gods after all, belong to a child’s world. But then, the rain did stop. And it stopped for as long as it took me to get my job done, and when I rushed back into the comfort of my home, it started raining again. I guess the rain-gods haven’t forgotten me.

And then there are those orphaned memories. Little things that float about aimlessly, till you bump into them all of a sudden. Memories of the music band that my brothers and I had formed, our first song, the fights..aah yes, the fights. We fought over silly things, like the bird-plate. The bird plate was essentially a different plate; while all other plates in my grandma’s house had a floral print on them, orange flowers with green leaves, the bird plate was special; the print was that of a lovely forest with brown-red leaves and a single, colourful bird perched atop. The bird, if I remember right, resembled a colourful rooster, but that didn’t matter back then; what did matter was who ate off the ‘bird’ plate. Damn, we had so many fights over that particular plate, hee hee.

And now I know what people mean when they say they wish they could live their childhood all over again. I wish fights in adult-life were restricted to things like a bird-plate. I wish I could get drenched in the rain without a care in the world, instead of worrying that my childish enthusiasm may be construed as an invitation to rowdy sorts. I wish I could learn to read a book simply for its magical tale, without wondering if there’s sex involved, and if there is, who’s bonking whom. I wish I could listen to music simply for the lyrics and the melody, instead of looking at the videos and feeling bad about my body. And yes, I wish I were a child again.

PS : Something just struck me - lyrics from a cartoon show that I used to watch as a kid. I don't remember what the name of that particular show was (but I think it was about a city full of babies who float about on clouds and stuff) and the title track was awfully catchy; infact, I shall go ahead and declare it as the best love song on the planet. It goes :

Silamalinky dinky doo, silamalinky doo, I love you,
Silamalinky dinky doo, silamalinky doo, I luuuuuuve you. (Talk of getting straight-to-the-point)

Hee hee.