My simpler times

I grew up in a small town, that was among the first of the organized townships to come up around here. Think of it like Springfield from The Simpsons. It had wide, evenly paved roads, clean constructions, evenly spaced footpaths, street lights, a hospital, good schools, gardens with paths, a creekside, and a bunch of other amenities including a swimming pool for the rich folk.

Those who moved here were mostly middle-class folks, who had slogged their asses off, trying to make a decent income. These were educated, skilled people. Most of them took loans that they would repay through their careers, just like my father, who worked his way into retirement. Back in the mid-80s, the population of our town was a healthy mix of different faiths and castes. I think we were quite liberal for the time, at least, the early settlers were. Most were recently married couples with children of my age group. Overall, it was nice being in a brand new school, in a brand new town with mostly similar minded folk. I started my first grade here, away from the hustle and bustle of the city.

We resided last in a company-maintained colony in a noisy town, and it had slums the moment you stepped out. I had seen chaos and it wasn’t pretty. I had my first brush with nature at the tender age of 4 when I was mauled by three dogs from my thigh to my right cheek. I spotted some fallen mangoes from our window and ran out to grab them. The dogs did see me as a threat and certainly didn’t like my presence in their territory. That experience, along with the injections, instilled a terror in me like no other. Dogs were to be avoided at all costs, no eye contact, and definitely no running around them like a mad man.

I have always been naive, or at least I was till my late-20s, the credit of which goes to my father. He was and still is, a modest, optimistic, righteous, eternally soft-spoken, calm, and helpful individual. He is fitter at 76 than most today at 35. He still hikes and treks, wakes up at 5:30 am, avoids unnecessary medications, and prefers disciplined fitness and a well-balanced diet. He has kept himself surrounded by books, photography, developing film, hiking, telescopes, cars and more.

My mother, in contrast, was domineering, more set in her ways, assuming force and intimidation was the way to school children. I was pampered after any such confrontations with her. After all, I was the second child, and it didn’t help that she lost her first just days after his birth. Late parents with contrasting backgrounds and temperaments, they did their best to bring me up. For better or for worse, my father’s ways are still more appreciated, although bits of my mother’s immaturity flare up when my patience runs thin.

My father taught me to be honest, always, no matter the cost or how long things took. Any instances of wrong-saying, or wrong-doings, were corrected verbally and calmly and with reason. My mother wasn’t spared either. Any attempt at brainwashing me was promptly and abruptly halted. Not by fear, but by admiration, is how I adopted his ways.

I lived a quiet, easy-going childhood. I was happy with small things, like my Avon cycle that I used for nine long years, with its mudguard removed and with a new extended seatpost for my height, it’s where I spent a lot of my time. I got a used computer from a local computer class in the early 90s, which my dad paid a lot for, forgoing things he might have chosen to buy instead. I had a small circle of friends, about 4, who like me enjoyed football, cycling and playing games on a Nintendo or later, my PC.

I spent most of my free time with my dearest friend, dreaming, playing, plotting and executing our wayward plans. Those included riding our cycles through a half-full, flood-water reservoir, blowing explosives inside compacted tile structures and building giant bonfires out of burnt out firecrackers. He once looked back from his window seat in our school bus, to tell me he’d be my brother for life since I had none. We were 10 or so. I smiled and thanked him with thumbs up. Learning out about his death in a bike accident, at a tender age of 22, would be one of the worst things that happened to me. My isolation would only worsen. I don’t think I have ever cried that much for anyone.

I don’t think I was stubborn as a child, but I was jealous when all of my dad’s attention was focused on the not-so-nice brat of a cousin, who would always cheat and cry, to get his way. He would visit us for a day or two, but when my dad left me behind at home, to him to show him around I would cycle my way to him in tears, being angry and riding back home. It was mostly the feeling of unfairness that got to me, and it still does. I also learned how to blame myself for my wrong-doings and wrong-thinking, maybe a bit more than I should have.

I did not cheat at games, at sports, in exams or lie. I didn’t attend tuition classes and studied through high school all by myself. I would avoid dubious crowds, didn’t smoke or go to any bars. I got my spoonful dose, sometimes a quarter glass, of whisky, rum and beer all right from 8 or 9. My dad, even as a non-smoker, gave me the freedom to ‘try it’ at family get-togethers. I think I was 14. Thankfully, all of this kept my curiosity satiated, and I think I turned out alright.

I never got into trouble or got myself tangled into fights. I’d keep my discontentment to myself and my anger under control. Bullies would try but give up after a single instance just because my reactions were numb.

I was regular to the church. I went for confession and was always honest with the priest. I would come up with transgressions, which in my mind, were immoral, simply because I saw others spend 5 minutes explaining theirs. “I said a bad word in my head”; “I didn’t finish my homework even if mummy asked”. I disliked Sunday school, but I did not wish to disappoint anyone. It never made sense, but I figured I would understand what they were on about when I grew older.

Academically, I was very bright till about Class 6th, and as computers started drawing my attention, my grades dipped, and although I remained an A grader, my marks could’ve been better. I could pull off anything practical but couldn’t mug up things. I still can’t.

In my 10th, I secured 63% much to the disappointment of my parents. My saving grace was my score of 145/150 in Science and my decent Math marks. I ended up in a boy’s school for two years, completely overlooking the fact that some fitting colleges had a quota for Christians. I figured they wouldn’t offer it to someone with such low percentile. Here I was, a naive boy, amid a rough crowd, a lot of hooligans and a few questionable characters from well-to-do Christian families. Oddly enough, they did not influence me. It opened my eyes to the world but did not change me. I had gone, from being a very hopeful engineer, to be some kid in a lousy school.

I made a couple of good friends there, but their plans for the future were more robust than mine. One chose not to appear for the 12th in fear of poor marks. The other wanted to be a CA, then a pilot then a lawyer. We went our ways soon after those two years. I wasn’t sure what my future had in store for me.

My 12th board results were even worse than the 10th. I secured an aggregate of 43% and spent the next few months running door to door, pleading for my papers to be re-evaluated, with signatures from government officials, with the help of a cousin and my dad. After much delay and annoyance, I gave up on that idea and for the first time, informed my father that I wanted to abandon the legal proceedings. I told myself, I had fared poorly, way worse than every student in my batch. The others from my batch had secured seats in engineering and other fields and were on their way to a ‘normal’ life.

It felt unfair. These guys indulged in cheating, copying, carrying chits, paying peons, and most of them couldn’t string together a sentence, even if their lives depended on it. Many of them scored 70% in English. I had scored 45%. That was my first hard lesson. Later that year, at the tender age of 18, I would become a writer for a magazine.

That phase of being nice, being honest, being bitch-slapped, then showing unending patience while the rest went by, is what defined me. For me, it grew into a pursuit of going to bed guilt-free. If I ever slept guilty, it would transform me into a very different person.