This is when I am reminded of the fond memories of my
childhood: the stillness of the clear-blue, pristine seas and the sand castles
that my brothers and I built across it, on the shore; the times spent
ruminating on the swing and slipping down the slides, or whirling round the
merry-go-round in the garden; the annual picnics to a farm-house some distance
away from the city; my weekly routine of playing the music organ in the church choir;
the bi-weekly visits to the super-markets with me riding my youngest brother
Steven who was carefully placed on the seat of the shopping cart, across the
narrow alleys of market as he dirtied his hands with cheese balls; playing
cricket, catching-cook, hide and seek, and badminton in the foyer of our
residential building; the daily monotony of going to school, which then I
hated, but now sorely miss. I had come to spend all these moments in Muscat,
and as insignificant as these activities may now sound, it continued to stay
with me.
Of course, one would contend that this is nothing
close to what Mumbai had to offer; with all the hypermarkets, multiplexes,
designer stores, picnic spots up the hills of Lonavla and Khandala, smart and
economical shopping alongside Fashion Street, Colaba Causeway and, Linking Road
and Hill Road in Bandra, and not to forget the lip-smacking street food. Mumbai
is also where I found a footing, got those wings to fly, heard my calling,
followed my dreams, and earned my first byline. The city honed me, and I owe it
everything that I possibly am.
But some memories are like magnets, they draw you in,
and sometimes the best way to evade them is by entering the whirlpool and
becoming part of it. When I got my new passport, the first city on my mind was
Muscat; when I quit my job, the first place I thought I should visit was (let
us not bother guessing) again Muscat.
So, here I am, back to square one…where it all began,
and where I first took those small little steps. Tomorrow, it will be a week
since I came here. I must admit that I haven’t travelled much for want of a
car, except visiting supermarkets, the market area in Ruwi, and catching a
glimpse of the three old homes that we rented over a span of 16 years, when we lived
here. But nostalgia has already seeped in. For instance, I managed to grab a
bite of the yummiest shawarma I have possibly ever eaten at one of mine and
Saby’s (younger brother) favourite joints in Ruwi. Surprisingly, it cost only
250 baiza, just 50 baiza more since we last left in 2003; I was shocked because
in Mumbai, the price of a shawarma (not even close to the authentic one) jumped
from Rs 70 in 2008 to almost Rs 150 recently. But I am not talking inflation
here.
Getting back to my story, I remember how Saby and I
would play our own secret games to convince dad to buy us a shawarma every time
we went past the joint. It was not like dad refused to buy, but mom always
threw a fit, because then, we wouldn’t eat food at home. So we would take turns
at crying and telling our parents how hungry we were, as soon as we were in
good distance from the shawarma joint. So the first time, it would be me, the
next time Saby, and when Steven grew a little older, we drew him in our small,
stupid plan too. Games we little children play.
Moving on, I also happened to meet the barber, a
Bangladeshi national, who used to cut my hair when I was a child. Yes, I did
not go to a women’s parlour till I was seven, because mom preferred my hair
short; I don’t think I wore my hair down as a child; I embarrassingly strutted
around in what was popularly known as the “boy-cut” hair. This barber I
remember particularly well, because I would break into tears every time he
brought out his scissors. He would try to placate me with Sun-Top, the most
popular fruit drink here. I am glad it is still around; my fondest memory of
the drink is collecting stickers of the Sun-Top bear (the mascot then) that came
along with it. When I met him this time, he recognised me immediately and could
not hold back a smile, on the mention of the Sun-Top episode.
No, I do not intend to regale or rather, bore you, with more such anecdotes. I don’t intend to break into a spiel on
Muscat either. These moments I hold dear, and I just consider myself lucky to
have gotten the opportunity to relive them again. I am going to stop now, hold
back other thoughts that are currently running through my head.
But mind if I may mention that my father, who stayed
back here after we left Muscat for Mumbai, suddenly seems to be re-living the
old times too. Every time he introduces me to one of his young colleagues or
friends, he says, “Jane, meet this uncle/aunty.” Ask them their age, they might
be younger than me.
I told him, “Dad I am grown up you know, I don’t need
to be calling people as old as me uncle or aunty.”
His response, “Oh! Yes, sorry…I don’t know why, but
for some reason, I imagine only the young Jane here.”
It does not end there, yesterday when he entered a
sweet and dry fruits shop, he bought me so many chocolates. I guess he has
forgotten I am 26. But, I think, I like it that way.
