Holiday homes in the seventies

The Sun was so much milder then. It seems hot and angry now. But during our childhood summers, we spent most of our time outdoors; under the mango and guava trees in the garden. They gave us shade and fruit and surfaces to etch our names on. In return we let them listen to our secrets and be a part of our games.

In the early morning on the first day of our summer holidays, the four of us would trek to the forest nearby. We would carefully select and bring back sticks for building our holiday home. We smoothened out the ground beneath the mango tree using our palms and feet and water. Then four sticks with a Y on top were fixed in four corners. The bottoms were sharpened to an arrow so that they would go easily into the wet holes we placed them in. This was done for us by Dad with a sharp knife. Sticks for the roof were balanced on the Y’s. Everything was kept in place with bits of rope.

The elder brother was the architect and designer; the elder sister more of a supervisor and refreshment in charge. She made trips back and forth from the kitchen to the backdoor garden. Building a summer home was a tiring task and Mom was always ready with homemade cakes, bread with tomato pickle, savouries and mango juice. The younger two siblings ( me and my younger brother) did the menial work…..digging holes, fetching water, sizing sticks. Then came the turn of building the walls with bushy sticks. And finally the piece-de-resistance…a small, soft, red cotton saree which had been gifted to us siblings by our maid servant…for our play times. She had bought it from the nearby village market because we sisters were so fascinated with the saree as a garment, particularly since Mom wore dresses. The saree wrapped perfectly around the sides of the house. The door was big enough for us and our pet dog and cat and whatever other creature we had adopted at that time. The size of the door ensured that Mom, Dad and visiting Uncles and Aunts could only admire our Holiday home from the outside. This would be our summer home for almost a month.

We spent all our waking hours here. We ate our meals, read storybooks, played ludo, did our holiday homework, made tiny clay pots and pans, fought with each other, made up, fought off flies and made repairs to the home when bits fell off. One or two of us could always be found here during the daytime. In the afternoon we cooled down the home by spraying water on the red saree with the garden hose. We cooled down ourselves by sucking on colourful ice cubes. These we made by freezing mango juice in ice trays in the tiny fridge in the bungalow. At night we boarded up the door of our holiday home with a piece of plywood and some bricks so that stray dogs, cats and nocturnal creatures did not take up residence.

The next day would see us back at our holiday home where new childish games awaited us. We tried to be on our best behaviour during the holidays. We knew that mischief or naughtiness could get punished by Mom. And sometimes that punishment could be, “Stay in the house, no going out”. It meant hearing your siblings having fun outdoors and seeing them through the bars on the windows of the bungalow. That was unthinkable. Better safe than sorry.

So everyone was happy, Mom was happy because we were on our best behaviour and we were happy because we loved our home.

A few days before the end of the holidays the red saree would be taken down and given to Mom to wash and store for our next playtime. The sticks would be dismantled and given to the gardener to use as support for the pumpkin and bitter gourd which would soon be planted in the kitchen garden.

And some sticks which had taken root and sprouted green leaves were allowed to stay there. They were living testimonials of a happy summer holiday home for four children and their pets. They were also proof of the sudden summer showers which occasionally occurred, giving root to the sticks and delight to the children inside the (not rain proof) home.

The four children returned to school after the holidays, happy with memories of a wonderful holiday. They were unaware that they had not just built a home of sticks but had also created memories to last a lifetime. All they knew was that in a few months another long holiday and another exciting way to spend it awaited them. But that is another story

The Empty Nest

Ready for the chirp chirp of tiny beaks
The perfect little nest had been lovingly made,
A long time it had taken the parents to be
And their labour of love now hung in the shade.

One by one they had flown down from the branch,
The ideal spot they had carefully chosen,
Collecting pieces of dried yellow grass
For the nest they had carefully woven.

Tiny beaks were their only tool,
The design and plan was all in their mind,
Each knew how to weave the yellow grass
They had flown all around to find.

Skillfully the beak wove the grass in and out,
Pulled and tugged and set it right,
Then hopped to the opening and waited there
Till the partner,grass in beak, was in sight.

They lined the egg chamber with cottony down,
Soft and white and ready to cocoon
The precious eggs that would soon lie there,
For them it couldn't be a moment too soon.

And then it was ready, not a twig out of place,
A marvel without, a home within,
And in it lay two little shells filled with joy
Safe in their home and under Mom's wing.

Warmed by the warmth of her love and her breast,
The eggs soon cracked and out popped little heads,
Eyes half closed, all sticky and wet,
Two hungry beaks demanded to be fed.

Turn by turn they came back to the nest,
Beak to beak passed the squirming worms,
Nudging and jostling each other as they moved,
To fly, the fledglings were soon ready to learn.

Hopping and beckoning from a branch nearby,
Coaxing the little ones to try out their wings,
The sun peeped out from behind a cloud,
As if to herald a brand new beginning.

The moment of truth as they boldly took off,
From tree to tree chirping in joy,
The wind beneath their tender new wings,
Doing what they were born to do.....fly.

And so also with us human beings,
We build a home, raise our children,
Knowing that they will one day fly the nest,
A new journey, new life to begin,

And as loving parents we can only say,
"Fly on dear child, soar high loved one,
Your wings are now strong,
Go forth, find your place in the sun."

 ------------********--------------

The Big Fat Pencil

The letters R and F were neatly cut into one of the sides of the biggest pencils you had ever seen. It was too fat to be held between a child’s short stubby fingers. But when held there, firmly lodged between thumb and forefinger, it extended way beyond the child’s elbow.

But R and F !! Were they the initials of the owner? If yes, then there were four contenders ......Rosemarie, Ryan, Rebecca and Ronald, siblings who all shared the Fernandes name. Well, that certainly helps! Now who did the pencil really belong to?

It belonged to all four of them. They were co-owners of the beloved pencil. How the pencil in question came into the household is not important but the fact was that there was only one pencil and there were four claimants for ownership. Sharing, inevitably led to squabbles, until Mom would intervene and confiscate the big fat pencil. Then it would be out of circulation for sometime, hidden away in her cupboard. It would be brought out again when one of the four children needed to be rewarded for a good deed.

This went on for some time. But with the joint ownership, none of the four RF’s felt particularly happy. They weren’t able to take it to school to show off to friends because that would mean getting permission from the other three. It was always a NO.

One of the four children hit upon a brilliant idea. This idea must have been inspired by the constant drumming of words by Mom that ‘Sharing is important’. And so it happened that three of the co-owners presented the Big Fat Pencil to the lucky fourth one on his birthday in May.
 “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” they chorused, extending the long, slender,brown paper wrapped package to the beaming birthday boy.

There were no prizes for guessing what the gift was but even after the birthday boy opened the gift, he ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ and thanked his siblings for such a wonderful gift.

Pleasures were simple in those days.

The gift in question came with some preconditions.
a) It was to be presented back to the sibling who had a birthday coming up next and
b) On no account was it to be used or sharpened to such an extent that there was nothing left for presenting.

The birthday boy accepted without question, happy that the big fat pencil was his from May to August. And thus the pact was sealed amongst the siblings.

Come August and the big fat pencil was once again wrapped in brown paper and fastened with rubber bands. Three smiling young children wished their elder sister a Happy Birthday. She accepted the gift with a blush and a smile.

Then came the October birthday and the whole happily planned event was repeated on the morning of the birthday. This was the birthday of the brother who loved to draw and sketch. So he was dutifully reminded by the other three that he mustn’t sharpen or use it too much. There wasn’t much chance of that however, because the next birthday followed immediately in November.

It was mine. 

I waited with excitement and anticipation the night before. I knew what my gift would be and that’s what made it so special.

On the morning of my birthday, I thanked my siblings and opened the brown paper wrapping with such wonder in my eyes that anyone would think it was the first time I set eyes upon the big fat pencil.

I was the luckiest because I got to keep the pencil the longest. It would be with me till May of the next year when the whole process of gifting would begin anew.

Years have passed and we have only memories that remain now. But the big fat pencil wrote such a strong bond amongst the siblings that even today a mention of it brings a smile to their faces. Surprisingly the pencil always remained big and fat. It never became a small stub. It was never sharpened unnecessarily.

As time passed and they grew up, the big fat pencil was forgotten. But the memory of those birthday mornings remains strong.
                                                   --------------**********-------------

The Little Brown Seed

Lost in the depths of the Earth

With darkness all around

And no hope in sight,

The little brown seed sighed

And recalled it’s days in the light.

It remembered in the deep recesses 

Of it’s little brown heart,

The sweet heady scent of over ripe fruit

As they cracked apart.

A tiny black beak chirping and pecking

And then Splat!

Falling down into the dry grass

Among scores of busy ants

Hurrying and scurrying.

From whence it looked up at the painted scene

The pastel blue with the wispy clouds,

‘tween the green of the leaves

And the birds chirping aloud.

The bees buzzing around 

In the hot summer noon,

Among fruit burst open

And seeds everywhere strewn.

And then being lifted

By dozens of minions,

Down a deep dark hole 

To the nether regions.

All this and more

It remembered fondly,

As it lay in the dark

And mused dreamily.

And then, an overcast sky,

The distant rumble of thunder,

The first drops hit the thirsty soil

And reached the seed hidden under.

The fragrance of damp earth,

It squirmed in delight,

And the little brown seed began

It’s tryst with sunlight.

Warmed and loved

With that gentle caress,

It swelled up with pride

And burst forth in tenderness.

Soft green feelers

From within it’s sheath,

One to feel the sky

The other, deep beneath.

Which danced in the sunlight

Sprouting freshness in green,

Delighted to be where

The little seed had once been.

Lessons from a Kite

Squinting against the sun

I looked up at the sky,

A gentle breeze blew the clouds

Today my kite would fly.

Proudly I carried the roller and thread

A hop and a skip, there was Dad ahead,

A glance now and then at the colourful kite

A smile curving all the way upto my eyes.

Then at the meadow

Where the flowers grew wild,

And the birds chirped in bushes

At the restless little child.

I tugged at Dad's hands

That held the kite tight,

And my head bobbed up and down

In childish delight.

"Make my kite fly high, Dad!

Make it go up in the sky, Dad!

Hurry up Dad, there's a breeze blowing now,

Here's the roller Dad, just show me how!

Looking fondly down at the excited child

The kite with the thread to the roller he tied,

"Patience my child, have patience, my son,

This kite won't fly until I'm all done.

You don't wanna lose your kite

'fore it's halfway up the sky,

'tis the wind on which it's borne

But the roller guides it home.

How high it goes up in the sky

Is anybody's guess,

It all depends on whether 

You roll out more or less.

You must know when to pull in

And when to let it free,

Life's lesson, you know",

He winked up at me.

"And when the kite is up high

Then applause it must share,

It mustn't ever forget

'twas the wind that brought it there.

And be thankful ever too

To the strength of the thread,

That held it so secure

As it raced on up ahead".

My ears heard his words

But it didn't seem to matter,

My eyes on the kite

As I felt the wind lift 'er.

Up , up and away, as Dad spooled out the thread,

Up above the trees and over my head,

Gently he guided, pulling in, letting free,

Today the kite.....tomorrow me!

Now as I watch 

kites dancing in the skies, 

I think of all Dad taught me

Of his words so truly wise.

Thus a day out in the meadow

Life's lessons I had learned,

As I aim for the skies

Feet firmly on the ground

-----*****-----

Those Eyes

Those eyes have haunted me a long time, you know

It's been a while but they follow me wherever I go,

I look back to see if she is there

No, not her.....just those eyes that stare.

Seven years to the day, I remember all too clearly,

If I could turn back the clock, I wish all too dearly,

Maybe those eyes wouldn't always follow me,

Torment me, despise me, haunt me, you see.

I still hear the rapping on the glass,

 Hoping to attract my glance as I pass,

 Of dirty fingers staining the pane

 Trying to draw my attention in vain.

 In the cool confines of my chauffeured car,

 Engine idling, his hand on the gear,

 As we waited for the lights to turn green

 I heard the rapping on the windscreen.

"Don't look up Madam, ignore them", he   said,

"This is what they do for their daily bread,

Thieves, scoundrels, beggars they are,

You stay put inside the car".

Happy to ignore, tapping away at my phone,

I lowered my glance and shied away from the unknown.

After all I was happy, in his advice content,

Maybe there was truth in his professed sentiment.

A blaring of horns as the lights changed colour,

A sideways glance now that the coast was clear,

Oh, why hadn't I kept heeding his advice?

That glance brought me face to face with those eyes.

Beautiful eyes, expressive eyes,

In a face very dirty and not at all nice,

Unkempt hair and unwashed clothes,

Smudges on her cheeks and a running nose.

But those eyes...they stared at me,

Accusing me, despising me,

Those eyes it seemed looked into my soul,

Opening up emotions  I could no longer ignore.

"It could be me in there", those sad eyes said,

"You could be standing barefoot out here instead".

"You gave not a penny for my thoughts,

Cause you're the haves and I'm the have nots."

Not a word crossed her lips in that moment there

But those soulful eyes said all in their stare,

"Here I am in my deep dark despair....

And you just don't seem to care".

Like deep dark wells filled with rain water

Those eyes had absorbed all the pain and  torture,

They reflected all the cold shivering nights,

The rumbling stomach and aching plight.

They spoke of all the slaps and tears

And also of the small moments of cheer,

They mirrored scenes of rebuke and scorn,

Of days spent with mongrels on sidewalks alone.

Of gazing through shop windows 

At goodies displayed there,

And then being shooed off

With a shout and a stare.

There was fear in those eyes, of the future unseen,

And a strange curiosity for places never been,

But what struck me most, more than anything else,

Was what those eyes seemed to say to me.

They promised to haunt, promised  to do more,

To touch my soul, touch me to the core,

To teach me, rebuke me, to jolt me from my sleep,

Remind me of that day, and sometimes make me weep.

I search for those eyes often and at every traffic light,

Oh if only I could once again set everything right, 

But try as hard and as hard as I may,

The fact remains that to this day...

Those eyes follow me, haunt me wherever I go,

Teaching me, reminding me never to ignore,

The plight of those less fortunate than me,

The poor, the downtrodden and the needy,

To give, to care, to love and to share,

For, as those eyes said..It could be me out there.

               

-------------********----------- 

Sailing Home : A Fisherman's Tale

At the crack of dawn

With bait box and tackle,

Rough hands hoisted net

O'er shoulders bent a little.

Cap pulled down snugly

And a sweater patched and worn,

He'd watched as she'd knit them

And had ever since worn.

She'd waited by the window

Day after day,

As the first stars began twinkling

Out over the bay.

And then when she'd spot him
Day's catch on his shoulders,
A silhouette in the distance
Near his boat by the boulders.

She'd warm up the soup

And cut up the bread,

And wait to greet him

Back to the homestead.

And then by the starlight

Out by the bay,

She'd laugh as she listened

'bout the one that got away.

But now as he fingered

The sweater worn and torn,

And thought of the hands 

Had helped him put it on.

Two score years and ten

She'd sailed out with him,

Not a presence on his boat

Just a feeling within.

She'd been with him in thought

When rain lashed o'er the waves,

And it was she who kept him warm

When cold nipped at his face.

'twas her prayers led him ashore

When he'd drifted far away,

As she'd watched by the window

In their house by the bay.

Last night as he'd walked up

After docking by the shore,

How strange that there wasn't

Any light by the door.

No soup on the stove

No wool on the floor,

Her sweet smiling face

He would see no more.

And now as he threw

His net o'er the side,

He cast a glance heavenward

And heaved a deep sigh.

And sailing his boat further

And deeper out to sea,

He cried to the waves

To please set him free.

Towards the setting sun

"Ah, there she beckons me",

No light by the window

The boat out at sea.