The fun-filled summer holidays

OUR two-month-long summer vacation in the 1970s was always exciting. My cousins and I would set out for our annual sojourns to our dadka (paternal grandparents’ home) and nanka (maternal grandparents’ house). The first port of call was Jaito, a Mandi town that was home to our clan and my birthplace. The two-storey haveli, with its umpteen rooms and chobaras, was big enough for over a dozen of us to play hide-and-seek and perform Ramlila, kirtan and swang. We would play pithu and stapu (hopscotch) on the terrace.

At night, this terrace would be reserved for taais and chachis and their unruly wards. Dadi was happy in her ground-floor abode. She would come up to gossip with her bahus and grandchildren before retiring for the day. We would cool the roof with water every evening before spreading 20-odd cots on it. Water was sprinkled on the sheets for more cooling.

Some evenings were special as my dad narrated stories from the Ramayana, Mahabharata, Panchtantra and the Arabian Nights. We were also initiated into stargazing. Those learnings never made us lose our north on the moral compass.

Babaji, our grandfather, looked stern and inaccessible. However, he occasionally called all his grandchildren for a treat of kulfi, barf and mithai. A visit to his hatti (shop), where he dealt in grains and moneylending, was a veritable tour of a museum. Several posters and calendars of heroes of the freedom struggle adorned its walls. He would open his galla and give us pocket money.

Our visit to the market took us to Rugghe di Hatti, the stationery and book shop. Each one was allowed to purchase a fountain pen, a pencil, a few nibs and dozens of pudias of Raj Roshnai, the granules of colour which, when mixed in water, made excellent ink. With this ‘arsenal’, a duel would begin between cousins in cursive writing. Our taayaji, the local government senior secondary school headmaster, used to be the judge. To keep us all happy, he would declare a new winner every day. We enjoyed our small victories.

In the evening, we went to the municipal park, which was full of flowers and fragrance. Alas, it now looks forlorn, with stray animals occupying it.

Every Thursday, a visit to the bageechi was mandatory. We got prasad from Heera Moti Sweets to distribute in the nearby basti and our family. The bageechi, a small vegetable garden, was a place of reverence for us because it housed the samadhis of our ancestors. We would clean them, make floral offerings and light earthen lamps, seeking the blessings of the departed elders.

Sadly, it all ended on the day of our departure. All family members, led by dadi, marched to the railway station. Dadi poured water on the wheels of our coach to ward off misfortune and prayed for our safe journey.