Communication in the good old days:

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1960’s.

Though our city was the capital of the state, there was only one “Trunk Call” office in this big city!

We had to go down from our residence to the heart of our city - nearly six kms – to make an outstation phone-call!

You go there, book your call and join the waiting people! The man at the counter would go on trying different waiting numbers, turn by turn. He would announce your name when the connection is through. Till that time you wait and wait .... May be half an hour; may be two hours!

How a youngster of today would digest such hassles of the past!

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The Missing Road Sign

I very distinctly remember the main roads of the city in the early sixty of the last century.

The nation was a neonate freedom-winner.

There were signs at the junction of the roads: "KEEP LEFT." I recall that they were painted in yellow and black. At some places, they would light up at night.

By the turn of the decade, all of these signs disappered.

A Book for Children

Fortunately, I own a prized collection of a few old books.
Invaluable treasure, indeed.

I just happened to glance through one of those old books.
A book for children.
"Nelson's Indian Readers", printed in Great Britain (1927).

As the 'Prefatory Note' reads: "This little book is intended for use in the East in the first class above the Primary Department."

What impressed me was the pictorial form of the book.

A book meant for young children.
Full of pictures. A number of black-and-white pictures.
A number of coloured plates, too.

How happy the child would be to study a 'foreign language' from such a nice book!

In silence

Retrospection in silence is invigorating.

Who knows when may the vocality stem out of wordlessness?

Sometimes, atop a point in life .......

You try to view the slope that you negotiated upto the point.

You gaze.

Doing nothing. Thinking nothing.

Enjoying the moments full of void.

A PRECIOUS GIFT

God showered His choicest blessings onto us.

And you bloomed in our life!

What a precious gift of God!

Vividly recall the first glimpse of yours.

Existence as fresh as a dew-drop.

A little innocent face.

A captivating smile. The smile brightened our world.

How pleasant it was to grasp the softy hands!

Grasping those tiny hands, a bond was established.

A bond born of love unutterable.

Years have rolled by.

Kiddy face has grown mature. So have you.

But, by God'’s Grace, the bond is the same.

Moments of togetherness still spell the same warmth, the same love, the same happiness.

So, when we say "“Happy Birthday"”, the words echo the feelings inexpressible.

One knows not what's in store.

Tomorrow the world could be different. The worldly objects could be different.

The appearances, the shadows ..... everything may change.

The relationships may redefine their meanings.

Even utterances and silence may cease to bear meanings.

What will not lose meaning is the bond, the stratum underneath, wherefrom springs the love ineffable.

My Loving Father

Parenthood cannot be adequately defined in the absence of a loving father.

My father was a self-made man. He hailed from a respectable family of moderate means.

At a young age, he shifted from a small place to the City to make a fortune.

He was kind and articulate; genuine and graceful. He could establish contacts with leading families in the city which helped him in shaping his life. Achieved a fair degree of success.

He was a man of action. A real karma-yogi. A very hard-working man who knew little rest.

More than all that, he was an extraordinarily loving father. He would keep the family closely knit with a blend of firmness and love. His firmness was devoid of harshness, certainly mingled with sweetness.

He loved us a lot, and with all his heart.

He was greatly influenced by the ideals of Montessori. He had absorbed those ideals into his heart. He would put them to practice in life. He would treat a child in such a way that even a mother would turn pale before him!

He would speak to us in a soft tone. Never would he use harsh words. Never would he hurt our self-respect.

We would eagerly await his return in the evening.

Everyday, his bag would have something for us. No, it was not branded chocolates or fried chips or wafers. It could be some fresh, seasonal fruits or peanuts, or may be sweetmeat.

Whatever he would bring, we would share among us - among the little brothers and other family members.

He would happily watch us enjoying ourselves. There would be a sparkle in his eyes. A smile would adore his "fatherly" face.

A short spell of happy moments of togetherness.

Long enough to energize us for a wait till the next evening.

Those moments have mingled into past. He also left us for his eternal journey.

But the memories have not faded.

I bow to you, father!