Postcards from 1991

(Note: This post had been a draft since February ‘09. Rushed to finish it, which explains the patchy writing)

In 1991, a banker’s family moved to a small town in Gujarat. It was a postcard middle-class family, with their postcard-coloured Maruti 800. Husband with a bank job, wife who made excellent dal, two children, both of whom spoke English and also sang along “Mile sur mera tumhara” before the 9 PM news every night.

A little about the daughter. She went to the only English medium school in the town, a school with classes only till the 7th grade, a school where as a 7-year old, she got ribbed by her classmates for wearing shorts to a school picnic, classmates who sniggered, ‘Arre dekho, yeh chaddi pehen ke aayi hai.’ (Look at her, she’s wearing only underpants) She sniggered harder. It’s amazing, how children know so little shame.

A school where the English teacher recited, “Miss Molly had a dolly who was sick sick sick, she called for a doctor qyook qyook qyook”. The girl was horrified and perplexed. Qyook doesn’t even rhyme with sick.

It was also the school where she met Shaheen, a sun-kissed imp with big eyes and bigger questions. The precocious daughter of an engine driver, she had a biscuit-coloured face and short brown hair. She said what was on her mind.

‘You have a car? I have never sat in a car! Can I tell you something? When I saw you in the car, I felt like pulling you out and taking your place.’ It never occurred to her to offer a ride.

Shaheen was a straight-C student. The banker’s daughter was lonely. What followed was after-school tutorials, homework assignments, reprimands and stars (in red ink, for authenticity). Stories and lunch boxes were exchanged. In a few months, Shaheen’s report card was dotted with B’s. It was a proud day for two girls. (Yes, kids are adept at taking credit too!)

I have a small gift for you, teacher. She smiled.
It was a peacock feather. Shiny blue-eyed cyclop. Simple but complex, beautiful. Like haiku.

–
I changed many houses and towns in the years after. The feather slipped away, and I didn’t even realize it. Nostalgia often acts as inflation, making artifacts from the past seem worth a lot more than when you first held them. But nostalgia didn’t kick in for many years.

Till 27 February 2002, to be precise.

For the small town in Gujarat was Godhra, which became etched in public memory forever on that day. As the eye of a storm, a storm that started near the railway station, where families of engine drivers lived; an eye where a terrible terrible nightmare was born. But long before, the eye had seen many dreams.

I know one of them at least. A car ride.