Wow thanks. On Apr 14, 2024 at 9:05:17 PM, Shenoy N via Silklist < [email protected]> wrote:
> Lovely piece, Veena! Here are a few recollections of my childhood > > I grew up in Bombay and it was a very different Bombay. We lived in a > small house in Malad, a distant suburb that my uncle, in a fit of pique, > called 'the armpit of Bombay'. My father had a busy medical practice > there, which meant he couldn't move very far, and the house was small. It > was perennially run over by out of town relatives. My parents, who had to > sleep in the kitchen sometimes, under the dining table at other times, and > often in the little balcony, depending on how many people were living in > our house, desperately wanted a larger house. But the only one my > father could afford turned out to be in the middle of a mangrove forest > swamp. They took it without another thought. > > When we moved there, I was ten. There wasn't much to do. We would play > cricket but if the ball went into the mangroves, as it often did, everyone > had to chip in to buy a new one, which caused great fiscal problems. And > the mangrove forest had its fascinations. It had little waterways in which > fisherfolk would row little canoes, fishing for crabs and small fish. They > were generally nice, friendly folk who would give us kids rides in their > boats if we asked nicely. Sometimes they would charge 25 paise. I remember > one time, thanks to the generosity of a visiting uncle, I had an entire > rupee in my pocket. The fisherman to whom I offered this was so > overwhelmed, he took me all the way to Versova, which Bombay folk will know > is a good 15 km from Malad. But through the waterways, it's quite close. My > rupee had still not run out, evidently, because he took me out into the > ocean. I remember being terrified. I didn’t even know how to swim. The > gigantic waves buffeted the canoe around like it was a leaf. My fear seemed > to amuse the fisherman. I think he genuinely thought I was having a great > time. Eventually we reached shore in Versova, an entire universe away. I > didn’t have a penny in my pocket but such was the kindness of Bombay, > people gave me rides all the way back home, which is a story in itself. I > got off at the Versova jetty and found a BEST bus there. I went to the > conductor and asked if this bus went to Malad. "Malad?" the conductor > asked, with unconcealed astonishment. I tearfully told him my story. He > asked me to get into the bus, which went to Andheri station, stopped > another bus theere which went to Malad, and handed me over to that > conductor with a brief account of my tale and a "mulga veda aahe" (Marathi > for "the boy is crazy"). This other conductor dropped me off to Malad from > where I walked home. My parents of course had no inkling. If I had drowned > and died, I’m sure no one would have known. This sobering thought sorted me > out for good and I started doing better at school. > > And there were the murders and ‘half murders’. This latter term always > fascinated me. A half murder, I now realise, is a failed murder attempt. > Back in the day, I thought of a precise, scientific killer who would stab > someone just enough to kill him fifty percent, and would spend hours trying > to think of what it might mean to kill someone fifty percent. But on with > the story. Where were we? Right. The mangrove forests. > So the mangrove forest and the fisherfolk’s boats made it an ideal > conduit for smuggled gold. These were the glorious days of socialism when > the powers of the day had outlawed gold entirely, making gold smuggling the > number one industry in the country. Steel making, agriculture, automobile > manufacture, all came a distant second, third and fourth. The gold would be > brought in big boats which would moor themselves outside the 12 mile Indian > waters limit. Small canoes and fishing boats, like the one that had taken > me to the ocean, would row there and carry small consignments of gold back, > which they would hand over to the landing agent and receive a handsome fee. > The gold bars would be sewn into jackets which the fisherman would wear, > and hand over to the landing agent, who would then wear it under his shirt > and transport it wherever instructed. The personnel involved in this supply > chain were called jacketwallahs. Naturally, none of them acknowledged that > they were in this trade, but Bombay knew. Whenever a jacketwallah passed > by, there would be surreptitious nudges and nods with “jacketwallah” > whispered. An uncle of one of the boys in my class was a jacketwallah and > he was the coolest guy we knew. He used to wear Ray Ban sunglasses and > smoke 555 brand cigarettes. That boy was our window into the dark > underworld of the jacketwallahs. Ever so often, the thought would strike a > jacketwallah that if he simply disappeared with a jacket, it might be > written off as an accidental death. Gold bars are really heavy. If you wear > a jacket laden with them and fell into the waters, you would drown without > a chance. If I feign a drowning, the ingenious jacketwallah would reason, > and laid low for a while, I could trouser all the cash and live happily > ever after. > Sadly, this almost never worked out. Retribution was swift and brutal and > the corpse would usually be laid out in a visible spot in the marshes as an > example. Our class mate would whisper “Murder!” and all of us would run to > the spot in the lunch break to get our glimpse. Usually, the corpse would > have been moved, or if it wasn’t, by the time we reached there would be a > lot of policemen who would shoo us away, but once, I saw a murder victim. > It was a young man, his face pale, mouth slightly open and no sign of any > blood. It was super scary but gave me a thrill nevertheless. Then I > realised I knew who he was. I had seen him around school. He was a relative > of a boy a year junior to us. It’s strange how death affects us if we know > the deceased person, even slightly, as opposed to a stranger. My thrill > turned to sadness and I lost my interest in going to see murders and half > murders. > > Thanks and regards > > Narendra Shenoy > > > > On Sun, 14 Apr 2024 at 19:51, Suresh Ramasubramanian via Silklist < > [email protected]> wrote: > >> Also, lovely article Veena. Spending most of the early 90s in a small >> town with 4 digit phone numbers was even more fun of the sort you describe, >> so this resonates a lot. >> >> >> >> *From: *Silklist <[email protected]> >> on behalf of Udhay Shankar N via Silklist <[email protected]> >> *Date: *Sunday, 14 April 2024 at 12:25 PM >> *To: *Silk List <[email protected]> >> *Cc: *Udhay Shankar N <[email protected]> >> *Subject: *[Silk] Summer holidays, and boredom as creativity enhancer >> >> Silklister Veena Venugopal has published this powerfully evocative >> picture of her childhood: a time before screens and the internet - where >> the only constant wass endless stretches of time fading into the horizon. >> >> >> >> A highly similar account was from former silklister Ramu Narayan of his >> childhood holidays (written ~25 years ago, but the period in question >> would've been ~60 years ago), which sadly I can't locate a URL for at this >> time. >> >> >> >> Reminds me of the saying that "creativity needs constraints". >> >> >> >> Any folks here have similar stories to share? >> >> >> >> >> https://www.thehindu.com/society/charm-80s-school-vacation-leisure-holiday-kerala-veena-venugopal/article68031842.ece >> >> >> >> Udhay >> >> >> >> -- >> >> ((Udhay Shankar N)) ((udhay @ pobox.com)) ((www.digeratus.com)) >> >> -- >> Silklist mailing list >> [email protected] >> https://mailman.panix.com/listinfo.cgi/silklist >> > -- > Silklist mailing list > [email protected] > https://mailman.panix.com/listinfo.cgi/silklist >
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