Oh, Snooooow!

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Snow has arrived this year in our little Midwestern town with a vengeance. That stirred up a flurry of flakes swirling in the ever-shrinking snow-globe of my mind.

Having grown up in a place where snow was never a topic of discussion, I had absolutely no idea about this facet of life. As I went to Calcutta for my visa interview, the visa officer, a Ms. Laura Livingston looked at my I-20 form from U@Buffalo and asked me what I knew about the place I was going to. I launched into a narrative about the research program on Computational Fluid Dynamics at the university. She lost interest quickly beyond a pitying "you fool" look and signed off on the paperwork. After all, how bad could it be, I mused. Apparently, Ms. Livingston knew it well, quite aware of the Blizzard of '77 when 100 inches of snow had blanketed that city with wind gusts as high as 70 mph. I later learned that a Mr. Jimmy Griffin, then the Mayor of Buffalo, had become famous internationally during the blizzard for providing absolutely practical advise to the local residents of the City of Good Neighbors to "Stay inside. Grab a six-pack."

I arrived in the Fall '81, landing at JFK after an unforgettable trip on Maharaja's Chariot and then, Shuffling off to Buffalo. The campus was a glorious riot of Fall foliage and the warm weather in western New York was spectacular that year. Wonderful. I was smug about my choices, armed with your regular clothes, a pair of sandals and nice brown leather shoes from Bata, a pair of gloves. Add to this a thin jacket that was considered more than adequate for my hometown winters and an even thinner understanding of what “lake-effect snow” meant. Until one fine late-October morning. I stepped out… and saw white. Endless white. It looked as though someone had emptied a million sacks of cotton straight onto the world, only colder and wetter. The stairs had disappeared under a thick blanket, cars and trees and buildings looked like snow-sculptures. I stuck my tongue out, caught my first real snowflake, watched it melt instantly, and thought, Well, this is magical… right? Right? I was cold. But I was also enchanted.

My first winter was mostly spent on-campus in a graduate dorm and my lab at school. Both places were nice, warm and cozy. The only hitch was the five minute trek braving the elements twice a day. Snow was anywhere between boot-deep to knee-deep in spite all the effort made by the campus maintenance crew. The winds howled like crazy; by the time you covered the distance between the dorm and the lab, you couldn't feel your nose or your ears and any exposed part of the body was pretty much numb. My sturdy brown leather shoes lost the battle quickly and fell apart, the soles separating from the uppers without much fight after the first couple of encounters with the salt and snow, right on the sidewalk. This cold-weather noob forgot Computational Whatever Dynamics for a bit as he learned the basics of snow boots, woolen socks, layered clothing, long johns, ear-muffs, ChapStick® and so on. Young co-eds on-campus who had been sun-bathing in skimpy outfits only yesterday had all transformed into shapeless but colorful blobs. A fellow desi grad student named Partha from Calcutta had actually brought with him his manki-tupi. However, it seemed to provide no more protection against the wind and the snow other than open stares and snickers from the amused natives.

Then came the winter break. The dorms didn't have that many foreign students in those days, as most of them usually lived off-campus in the "affordable" rental units, aka, student ghettos. Sharing kitchen facilities, leaky toilets, threadbare carpeting, with hulking old black & white TVs that received three channels on good days, and cockroaches. I was one of the very few and rare non-native dorm denizens. We were asked to move out of our cozy digs for those two weeks of winter break and had to find a place to crash at a very a short notice. For me, that was a 20-something year old couch with three-ish legs at a friendly student slum. A place with drafty windows that whistled with the wind, a rattling ancient heater that reminded one of steam engines, and a front stoop barely big enough to stand on without sliding off. Others sharing the unit were gracious and no one made a fuss when my friend allowed me to take over the couch. We all shared the common bonds of misery, the trials and tribulations of being phoren grad-school creatures, the lowliest of the lowly bugs on-campus. 

During those two weeks, I kept my routine to make my daily trek to my lab and the library, now on the other side of town, after a ten-minute walk and then an inter-campus bus. However, each cold morning it was becoming more difficult to force myself to make it to the lab ignoring the open invitation from that nice, warm spot on the couch in front of a droning old TV. So I did go one day, stayed inside the lab, probably playing text-based games on the mainframe into the evening, venturing out fairly late to go back to my temporary off-campus abode. Only to discover that weather had changed drastically, and a blizzard was on. Winds were howling mercilessly, snow, sleet, stinging ice-pellets flew at me sideways, and it was absolutely miserable. Took the last bus back to the other campus as one of the few intrepid souls on the bus who learned that the rest of the bus schedule which would normally run into wee hours of the night was canceled due to bad weather. 

The usual ten-minute walk that late evening took me only half an hour, wind pushing hard in every direction. All street signs and neighborhood landmarks obliterated by thick snow-cover by now, no other color except pristine white. Visibility was a few feet at best. It was miracle when I stumbled into the barely-familiar place where I was staying, bitterly cold, questioning my life's choices, dripping icicles and snot, looking like the abominable snowman. I became an instant and avid fan of fledgling Weather Channel, checking it multiple times on the ancient TV before poking my nose out the door. There was no internet in those days, no cell-phones, etc. The only other way to get weather forecast was the radio or the local newspaper, printed the night before and delivered during wee hours of the morning. Weather forecasting was in its infancy, computer models were non-existent, relying mostly on Ye Olde Farmers Almanac. Local TV weather people were mostly vivacious young ladies, impossibly sunny, cheerful and chirpy no matter what the forecast, or older men with no other real qualifications except their soothing personalities and droning voices. 

Following grad school, with my first job and a sporty car, I moved to a semi-decent one bedroom rental unit in a block of apartments. It had a living room and a galley kitchen. 850 sqft of neo-middle-class opulence with shaggy brown carpet. Come November that year, I stepped out in the morning and saw my neighbor who was already out there with a shovel and a snow cleaner brush that he shared with me until I acquired those for myself. He was muttering something unprintable loudly that sounded like (I can only repeat the parts that were not blankety blank) “Here we go again…” I learned a few previously unfamiliar phrases that day to add to my already impressive and colorful IIT lingo. We commiserated, we cleaned our cars, we went to work, we came back and hid in our warm rental caves daily, all winter long which lasted many many months. I also learned that "sporty" car was not really a good thing for winter driving. I wish I had really understood what Ms. Livingston was trying to tell me.

Fast forward, Mrs. Yours Truly (YT) arrived and joined me and my trusty feline buddy, Stranger in that one-bedroom rental one summer. My feline friend abandoned me hastily and started following her like a puppy, he had an uncanny and innate sense of which one of us had a better value proposition for his needs and wants, responding to his variously pitched meows. Mrs. YT had brought with her a suitcase full of Bollywood snow dreams. You know, the costume changes in billowing chiffon saris and dazzling salwar suits, in sub-zero temperatures, the running up on the gentle slopes in Kashmir or among the Swiss Alps. Without slipping, the singing, dancing around trees typically native to warmer tropical climates, not these mountain terrains. The dramatic twirls, those long eyelashes fluttering to choreography, out of sync, unlike the ten lords a-leaping and the nine ladies dancing, pirouetting like peacocks. My attitude towards snow, unlike the Bollywood leading men, was sadly tinged grey with my recent real-life experiences with snow. Not as enthusiastic as Mrs. YT certainly, and she delivered the ultimate insult later (much later) that my attempts at appearing romantic that evening were quite half-hearted. "Not Kgp-worthy. What did they even teach you there, that IIT?" Apparently not the right stuff, I think. I want a refund now on that vaunted "IIT education."

No matter, when the first snowfall arrived, she nearly flew out the door. “Come! LET’S MAKE SNOW ANGELS!" Before I could even zip up my jacket, she had thrown herself backward into a pile of snow like a full-on Bollywood diva making a grand entrance to a soaring orchestra. We built crooked snowmen. We made elaborate snow angels. We staged our own mini musical, although without exchanging jackets, gloves and hats, or other attire, this poor man's version sans Bollywood costume changes. No selfies in those days, alas.

And, most importantly, we had our first snowball fight. I didn’t want to hit her too hard, so I tossed a gentle one. She responded with a fastball straight to my face. This movie heroine unleashed her inner Xena, the Warrior Princess. She had surprisingly good aim and very strong arm. She had been plotting, scheming and planning, apparently. Positioned herself strategically close to a huge pile of snow. She could shape and build up a rapid supply of well-shaped snowballs of exceptional size and weight, experience gained from making chapati dough-balls, I guess. She used those very particular set of skills acquired over her teenage years with the available supply of abundant snow. Effectively. Ruthlessly. Relentlessly. Mercilessly. That rental parking lot became my Napoleonic Waterloo, I was hopelessly outgunned and yelled "uncle" after a semi-valiant effort, and my white flag fluttered after a brief but intense battle. None of it was supposed to happen per any Bollywood scripts favoring the hero to the best of my knowledge, they all turned out to be wretched lies. Mrs. YT marched back inside triumphantly like the Conquering Queen while I dragged my sorry self in abject surrender. She did make hot chocolate with s'mores and said, "There, there." I did not quite grasp the significance of this moment, another one in a long series of an oblivious, clueless existence, for this was the turning point in our relationship. From that day onward, I don't recall a single battle that she has lost while my white flag has seemed to have fluttered desperately numerous times.

The snow magic lasted exactly until the next couple of snowfalls that week. Our rental parking lot was now buried under six-ish inches of snow and ice. The city plow had created grimy snow walls at least four feet high on the sides of the parking lot. Ice coated the car windows so firmly it looked like nature had laminated them. People were gingerly shuffling out there doing their penguin waddle. The more adventurous had swiftly reverted back to being less adventurous after a few spectacular landings on their rumps on slick surfaces with an icy glaze. Then the cheerful TV weather person came on: “8 more inches expected tonight…" Mrs. YT stared  at the screen in sheer horror. She did not believe me nor her favorite avuncular weather person on TV. That the forecast for next several months would continue to include snow showers, snow flurries, snow fall, snow flakes, snow squalls, snow drifts, snow swirls, and all manners of that dreadful four-letter word. Long before it became popular among the unsocial media, she decided to "do her own research."  She discussed this in depth within her ever-expanding circle of intimate friends and casual acquaintances, natives and desis, young and old. Her fascination with snow turned into shock, at the prospect of facing many more months of this sh..tuff. Quietly at first and loudly shortly thereafter, a new Bollywood tune emerged, a song of betrayal, with open hostility and outright malevolence with the J'accuse, with a refrain of "...tum méré ko yéh kahan lé aayé,O saajana..." (Where have you brought me, you...?!) Oh, and Stranger? He used to poke his nose out, and express his opinions loudly about the weather. All of us howled together. "Meouw ouw ouw ouw."

The next year, we moved away from Buffalo with my new job. Life took us to a small Midwestern town. “Winters are milder here,” people said. “You’ll love it,” they promised. We believed them. Desperate to believe anything hopeful about less snow. We built our first house with a driveway that looked reasonably sized in summer. But then the first snow arrived, while nothing compared to Buffalo, mind you, our snow trauma kicked in with sore muscle memory. And then our next move was to the Windy City which was pretty much the frozen tundra in the winter months, grey, gritty, cold, wretched and miserable. With wind off the Great Lake that shrieked and cut through the multiple layers of clothing like a sharp knife. We were shell-shocked snow veterans by then, and the now familiar song continued to play every time but with love and exasperation "...tum méré ko yéh kahan lé aayé,O..." Every snow event.

One incident from our years in The City of Big Shoulders stands out. After one big snowstorm, the street plows had come by and had cleaned out the streets the best they could. But the careless plow-drivers had piled up hard packed snow almost two feet against the mouth of the driveways, making it impossible for cars to get in and out. Mrs. YT had had enough, after all of us having spent hours cleaning our driveway. She called up the Superintendent of the City Garage and gave him a piece of her mind in her own unique way, usually reserved for unruly kids and errant husband. The kids and I were very silent, very quiet witnesses to her fury, the irresistible force unleashed at the poor civic administrator. Within 15 minutes, snow removal crews arrived back in our cul-de-sac and cleared up those snow boulders blocking our driveway. To her credit, Mrs. YT called up the same Superintendent soon after, dripping honey and being Miss Congeniality and Miss Sweetness Incarnate. The kids were in total awe at the transformation. 

We have since moved back to the small Midwestern city. We had some good times during the next few winters with our kids, by now beyond toddler stage, fiercely debating who got the better toboggan, helping clear pathways in haphazard zig-zag patterns, making snowmen, sliding down our steep driveway with their friends, the snowball fights. Happy at delayed start of the school days, still praying fervently for occasional snow-day school cancellations, learning to accept the snow as a way of life. And the song from Mrs. YT still continued to play every dang time with all intensity of marital love and exasperated maternal resignation "...tum méré ko yéh kahan lé aayé,O..." 

The kids have now "grown and flown" the nest. These days, our driveway feels longer every winter than the year before when snow arrives. Growing much, much longer each winter. Much, much wider. Instead of shrinking in cold weather, expanding, stretching, defying all the laws of Physics. Much, much steeper as though the earth had tilted overnight. We engaged Randy and his two Elves for lawn maintenance and snow removal. Randy was a child at heart, enjoyed life and would also stop by singing Christmas Carols every year for some extra cash. After his sudden and shocking departure at a youngish age to the Great Snowy Driveway in the Sky, these days Señor Raimundo's crew performs their snow magic. We save ourselves the sore muscles and the aching backs for the most part in exchange for a little lighter wallet. Only very occasionally, I get around to shoveling snow like a veteran who had survived many a snowmageddons of life, those snowcalypses of The Second City, the snowapaloozas in The Queen City. These occasions just become hours of quiet rumination, some fresh air, a little exercise, followed by steaming mug or two of masala chai and complaints of stiff necks, sore arms and aching backs. I prefer doing the driveway myself, slow, steady, methodical. I have a process, a path, a technique. A private battle between me and the snow. Man vs. Mother Nature, although I know fully well that Mother Nature always has the upper hand as Mothers normally do. 

But Mrs. YT? She insists on coming out every time. To "help". She’ll grab her shovel, make three enthusiastic scoops, then declare that her shovel isn't any good. Reminding me that one she really wanted, nay, needed was that one was On Sale at the neighborhood Big Box store at 25% Off a few weeks ago. That I had apparently questioned her very unfairly and argued too loudly, in public, about the usefulness of another such high-tech, lightweight snow-removal implement and caused her much anguish. That the ones we already have are too old, too unbalanced, too heavy, too worn out, unsuitable for the task at hand. I wonder if she is talking about her shovel or YT, the other person behind the shovel. Refusing my offer to exchange the shovels or buy new ones the next time we go to the Big Box store. She would survey the endless white expanse, muse loudly about her friends who run their households "back home" with four and more helpers and have never had to do any snow shoveling, before launching into her snow song with some new verses but with the same refrain "...tum méré ko yéh kahan lé aayé, O..." Within moments, she’s shivering, melodramatic, and fully immersed in her tragic snow-soaked routine. I ask her to go inside. After a few more woe-is-me verses, she surrenders and does. And I keep going, just good old me me and my good old shovel. Our two felines venture out cautiously sniffing the cold, wet, fluffy stuff, suspicious, not enjoying the cold but reluctant to follow her inside. And the memories of yesterday's winters loom over me like a cold, wet, fluffy ghosts.

Yet every first snowfall…No matter where we have lived, no matter how much my back protests in memory, the first snowfall always brings a spark of magic. Mrs. YT hums a cheery Bollywood tune. We pretend not to think about the cold, snow, ice, the wind, the dripping noses, stiff fingers, sore muscles, or aching backs. And for a few brief moments, before the shoveling, slipping, sliding, sighing and singing begins, we are again two naïve dreamers having lop-sided snowball fights in that snow-covered parking lot. Still dreaming. Still jousting. Still walking the delicate line, chasing the mythical Bollywood snow dreams before waking up to the snowy realities in this winter of our lives. With "...tum méré ko yéh kahan lé aayé, O..."

The Village & The Bubble - Part IV

Dawa Wala Dabba
(The Medicine Chest)

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

The summer we moved into our current home, some of the neighbors got together and decided to throw an outdoor party. Most of our neighbors were younger couples in their own family Bubbles with toddlers. One of the toddlers was "Sticky" Ryan, so named by our daughter who babysat for him and his older brother occasionally. No matter how often his parents bathed him or changed him into fresh clothes, he always smelled syrupy and felt sticky with his love for tactile, intimate, full-body interaction with everything gooey. Sticky food, sticky candy, sticky mud, sticky glue, you name it. 

The adults were enjoying themselves with freshly grilled burgers, hot dogs, etc. and typical adult beverages. The toddlers were toddling around in the unfenced backyards in the warm summer evening. At one point, the adults all moved to one side to watch one of the other adorable kids doing something adorable. And Sticky Ryan used the opportunity to find a tumbler half-full of red liquid with alcohol in it. True to his reputation, he was found being his usual babbling, sticky self with a huge grin, red liquid all over his face, on his clothes, his bare feet having successfully shed his footwear earlier. Probably most of the content of that tumbler on the outside rather than inside him. He wasn't slurring his words or unstable on his feet any more than his usual toddling self. 

His parents were quite concerned, of course, quietly but fiercely debating if they needed to rush him to ER (Emergency Room) or induce vomiting, etc. I spoke up and said that we had Ipecac syrup, an emetic, in our first-aid kit but would not recommend using it. His speech seemed no more incoherent than his usual doo doo gaa gaa. I told them not to panic, we just all keep an eye on Sticky Ryan as the evening wore on, and they check up on him occasionally after he went to sleep. We shared tales from our grandma's times as to how, back in her day, they cured colds, tummy troubles, toothaches and most other typical childhood problems with shots of brandy in milk. During the good ole days. Our neighbors later told us that the little boozer woke up the next morning with no hangovers whatsoever and resumed his sticky pursuits. His mom wasn't so fortunate. 

I was reminded of this episode and more while looking into our medicine cabinet for a Band-aid recently. Our childhood medicine chest was no ordinary place, it was an old aluminum school-box, repurposed and resting proudly on the top shelf of the Godrej almirah. To us children, it was the chest of forbidden treasures, a mini mystery apothecary miracle perched high, filled with the secret world of cures. Every squeak of the lid, every rattle of bottles, it was summoned due to some misadventure… or, more accurately, a summons to relief from some minor childhood disaster.

Inside that dabba, little bottles and tubes stood or lay in a haphazard manner like tiny soldiers, resting after the previous battle with our family ailments. 

First and foremost, Dettol. Brown, antiseptic, ready to disinfect the daily occurrences of scraped knees and skinned elbows from of the wounded warriors from the battlefields also know as playgrounds. For the more serious cuts, Mercurochrome, red as a cardinal, turning minor cuts into badges of courage as you couldn’t tell the blood smear from the smear of the red liquid.  

And of course, the dreaded sting, that sharp burning that followed which every child feared. Every mother insisted the sting was the proof positive that it was “working.” You’d whine, squirm, and swear never to play so rough outside again, but she’d only smile knowingly and you believed her without questioning the wisdom of such information: “The more it stings, the more it’s working, killing those nasty germs!” Pain, apparently, was part of the prescription.

Sometimes one feigned a tummy-ache to try to get out of going to school. Moms had an instant remedy, the clear bottle of (Mr. William) Woodward's Gripe Water, sweet and syrupy, whispering promises of “no more gripes, no more tummy aches!” Or the notorious blue bottle of (Mr. Charles Henry) Phillips's Milk of Magnesia, white, chalky, sticky sweet liquid, often followed by the big burps and exaggerated belches. Made its appearance regularly, deployed by moms, ensuring "regularity." 

Then came the wonder-pills: Saridon & Anacin, the latter with four fingers displayed, for its fourfold properties (chaar faayadé), with its way too cheerful jingle still echoing somewhere up there. And for sticky situations, chapped lips, mysterious rashes, pierced ears for my sisters, any and all wounds needing extra love during the healing process, Mr. Gour Mohan Dutta's ubiquitous cream Boroline, the thick, magical ointment, dabbed in generous swipes by hands that would soothe and scold at once. Khusboodaar Antiseptic Cream, Boroline! 

And there was more. There was good old Band-aid, the sticky-strip supposed to protect any cuts and help them heal. Whatever glue was used in those days on those strips, the darn item somehow managed to stick forever, thus providing the vaunted "protection", refusing to let go of your skin long after the wound had healed and the memory had faded as to its existence. It's removal was usually accompanied with a layer of outer skin, some hair and lots of yelling. 

There was fitkari, the cool, translucent bar of alum that sat with my dad's shaving tackle, sharp, stinging, and strangely satisfying, also used for everything from shaving cuts to swollen gums. And how we loved the unique bottle of Eau de Cologne, too, which sometimes joined forces for fevers with the rest of dawa wala dabba, its citrusy, assertive aroma mingling with Dettol’s sharpness, each marking its territory like a flag of bravery after occasional shaving mishap. 

Our dabba also sported an old-fashioned mercury thermometer, the only one in The Village. One watched with fascination how the opaque, shiny thread shot up in the tiny capillary channel. And after its use, the adults carefully shaking it vigorously in the air guiding the mercury back to its bulbous home. That instrument was borrowed by all in The Village whenever the need arose. The superstition was quite strong among the other households - against owning such an instrument, with a strong belief that the ownership of such an instruments would basically be and open invitation to sickness and disease into the household. Besides, The Village already had a shared one, right?

And when all else failed, there was the ultimate refrain: Mom's kisses fixed it all. Any mom in The Village would do. And they did. When our faith in a mother’s palm was unshakeable, sometimes a soothing caress, sometimes a stinging slap, with a generous dab of Boroline, a good night’s sleep could fix nearly anything. When the sting of Dettol and the scent of Old Spice were rites of resilience, not reasons for alarm.

Today, The Village seems to have been replaced by many Bubbles. Minor issues? Off to Dr. Google, Miss Chatty Patty, LLMD, or other dubious online sources, frenzied and confusing chaos, the conflicting opinions resulting in frequent parental panics of the century. A scratch? Out comes the sterile, ouch-less, non-sting spray, the hypoallergenic plaster with cute and cuddly cartoon characters, the antibiotic cream with lavender extract, guaranteed to kill 99.9999% of the germs, vermin and rodents. Every cough, every runny nose, every sneeze is a crisis, every fever, every rash a potential medical emergency. Parents hover like noisy drones, armed with digital multimeters and holistic wellness apps, oximeters, sprays, OTC elixirs, potions and pills, "essential oil" diffusers (as one child put it recently, a "confuser")... and parental agita. The Bubble's medicine cabinet glows with sterile precision, yet feels oddly soulless without The Village's input. The Bubble often ignores the medical professional's advice to let the child's body fight off the problem and build immunity, demanding antibiotics from the pediatricians whether the kids have a viral infection or a bacterial one. The Bubble is often skeptical, deeply suspicious of the Big Pharma-led cabal. The TikTok videos by "concerned moms" are more convincing that "you should do your own research." After all, what do those so-called experts who spent years in these medical school really know? 

Maybe that’s what the old Dawa Wala Dabba really held, not just soothing ointments and stinging potions, but the quiet courage of a simpler world. A world where a little sting was the proof that healing had begun. Lots of sting meant it was really really working. And every cure came with a jingle, delivered by Dr. Mom, firmly, patiently, with equal parts of love and just a hint of irritation, singularly well-informed by generations of folklore of The Village. Dadi amma ké gharélu nuskhé (grandma's home remedies).

After his boozy adventurous evening and following our neighborly advice, Sticky Ryan's parents embraced the advice from The Village a bit more and invested in their own version of Dawa Wala Dabba, a combination of the first aid kit with neighborly advice. I know that their dabba has been used quite regularly since that summer evening, with "Sticky" Ryan getting into many, many more adventures while growing up. He has now turned into a hulking teenager with apparently hollow legs (his mom does grocery shopping at least twice a week.) The boys "cat sit" our furry boys when we are out of town. We do the same for their pet hamsters. Mrs. YT is well-informed about Ryan's (and other kids') activities and keeps track of their birthdays, their grades, their allergies and their after-school shenanigans. 

Sticky Ryan and his brother occasionally stop by for some ice-cream and are quite familiar with all the locations in our pantry where Mrs. YT keeps the "good" stuff, much better than myself. The contents of Mr. YT's goodie bags bulging with Halloween candy for the kids on our street is a neighborhood legend; our house is a "MUST" stop for all Trick or Treaters. I keep a watchful eye out on them while sipping coffee on my front porch, as these kids shoot hoops on one of their driveways, shouting with joyful abandon late into the summer and fall evenings. I do want to make sure that Sticky Ryan and his cohort, still toddlers in my mind, look both ways before crossing the street while pedaling their fancy bikes at breakneck speed to cruise the neighborhood. On our street at least, things have evolved a bit. The Bubbles have morphed and melded quietly into The Village.

The Village & The Bubble - Part III

Old Spice, in New Bottle

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

In my cluttered cranium, the lightbulb is getting dimmer by the minute. There are jingles, those ear-worms that vex me to no end ("Daddy has a frightful cold, dear, dear me!" "Lifebuoy hai jahan tandurusti hai wahan...") There are some dramatic scenes from life, probably more vividly imagined now than when they actually happened. Those fierce debates, the war of words, sharp and intense hurt, are dull aches now, mostly forgotten as to why we had them in the first place. But the one thing that that lingers on is that fragrance, long after the bottle is gone. Never forgotten. You probably know it well, too.

For many of us who grew up in The Village in the 1960s and 70s, that was the scent was Old Spice Aftershave. The fragrance of fathers, uncles, and older cousins who carried themselves like the heroes from a different age, as in those black and white pictures looking sideways, upwards, not directly at the camera. The headshots without smiles, often in formal western suits or traditional ceremonial attires. Surely you get that whiff emanating from those dusty, old, faded pictures.

I can still visualize that unique bottle as clearly, the old mirror above the Hindustan Sanitaryware washbasin. Heavy, ceramic, solid and cool to the touch, the color of pale ivory, smooth conical shape on the smooth cylindrical body. It had a quiet dignity that no cheap plastic can ever imitate. On its top sat a hexagonal blue-grey stopper, slightly sticky from use, guarding that mysterious potion within. And on the front, a blue sailing ship with many sails proudly full as if it were catching the wind straight from the Arabian Sea, and beneath it, Old Spice written in bold red ornate font, both foreign and familiar at once.

This wasn’t just aftershave, it was a symbol of achievement. In The Village, few luxuries made their way past the acceptance criteria for respectable men. At one time early in my childhood, this potion as not available in the local shops in our town. Most men who shaved themselves just used fitkari, so the local shops probably didn't see the need to carry it on their shelves. But somehow every household in my memory seemed to have an Old Spice bottle, usually brought home by an uncle who worked in Bombay. Or an older cousin returning from some exotic location after their post-graduate studies. They would regale the adults with tales of those uncultured phoren wala's exhibiting uncouth behaviors. And those mem sahibs, who had no inhibition shedding their clothes, donning something that sounded like zucchini wukini in hot weather and, oh, those ladies who smoked openly and brazenly. The only woman that I ever knew who smoked in those days was an ancient, wrinkled old lady who helped my mom do the household chores. She would puff on a bidi sometimes, and dozed often huddled up in a corner. None of it was of slightest interest to me compared to the box of chocolate that the cousin had brought. It said Cadbury's, but was darker in color, not as sweet, not as sticky.

The Old Spice bottle stood on the bathroom shelf beside the tin of Godrej shaving cream, fitkari and the ceramic mug for rinsing the razor. And the Lifebuoy soap. The morning ritual was always the same. The men would finish their shave with a flourish, a few brisk strokes, a rinse of the safety-razor, and then the moment of bravery: the splash of Old Spice. You could hear the "oooh ahhh" before you smelled it, that sharp intake of breath, the hiss of a man pretending to enjoy it, pretending it didn’t sting. And then the air would fill with that unmistakable aroma: spicy, cool, a little sharp, and completely confident.

The fragrance would drift out of the bathroom and into the morning, mingling with the smell of chai, coconut oil in hair, and the faint smoke from the coal-fired chulha working overtime, with moms and household help preparing breakfast. It was the reassuring sign of normalcy of our weekday mornings, of clean white shirts hung out to dry, of the fathers and uncles heading out to sabji mandi for the freshest vegetable of the season with freshly combed hair, parted sharp and clean and a sense of purpose. Us kids mostly kept busy avoiding adult attention, pretending to finish homework, pretending to be taking baths on cold winter morning, desperately looking for opportunity to sneak out for some quality play time before heading off to schools.

For us children, that bottle had a kind of magic. We weren’t allowed to touch it, of course. It belonged to the grown-ups, to that mysterious brotherhood of men who shaved every morning and spoke of things we didn’t quite understand. About non-alignment with phoren camps whatever that was, the constant threat of atomic bombs vaporizing us all, and so on. Sometimes, when no one was watching, I would sneak into the bathroom and lift the bottle of Old Spice, its cool ceramic weight transforming me instantly. It was a fleeting brush with coveted adulthood, that stage in life that seemed to be freedom, without any restrictions, without the annoying, relentless interference from The Village. Little did we know. I would pull out the stopper, breathe in deeply, and for a moment I too was ready to take on the world like my father and other adults.

Today, Old Spice comes in plastic bottles, apparently competing with thousands of other choices, domestic and phoren in The Bubble. Most have unfamiliar fragrances with unfamiliar names that sound like jungle safari, dreamt up by smart young lads on crack Marketing teams who can break out the demographic data in nauseating detail... but are not old enough to shave yet themselves. None of them seem to smell quite like that Classic, from the old ceramic bottle, the one that carried not just a scent, but a story. Because Old Spice, wasn’t just about grooming. It was about aspiration. It was the aroma of the modern world arriving in The Village, a whiff of confidence acquired from Bombay, or some place beyond the horizon with an exotic name, brought home in a battered leather suitcase with many stickers slapped on it. Wrapped in newspaper and in a rolled-up white banyan. To protect it from the bumps, shakes and rattles during the journey from its original destination to the shelf in our bathroom. It was the fragrance of fathers and uncles who believed that looking sharp was not about vanity, it was just part of being respectable. That a man’s scent should say something about his place among the bhadralok of the society but quietly. For men with gravitas who exuded subtle personal aroma, armed with weighty opinions. Old Spice aroma without the correct worldviews lacked class. Worldviews without the Old Spice aroma were considered mere hot air.

These days, I don't catch that familiar whiff in the air in The Bubbles around me. Only in my mind, and I’m instantly back in that bathroom with marble floors, with the sun streaming through the window up high, watching my father slap on his aftershave, wincing, peering, smiling into the mirror, and starting his day with the quiet assurance that comes from smelling like the very best version of oneself. Many other gents in The Village stepped out from their homes in a similar fashion. The Village was all that - shared words, shared newspapers, shared jingles. Shared incidents and interactions, shared opinions about the price and quality of the freshest daily produce, the shared views of national and international geopolitics of the day, the shared concern about the shape of the world that their children would be unprepared and ill-equipped to navigate. And the shared odor of Old Spice. I am not sure if any of the modern-day competing pretenders in new, sleek, plastic bottles in The Bubble will ever evoke the same feeling in today's young'uns.

The Village & The Bubble - Part II

... and the Pursuit of Happiness

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

Part I of The Village & The Bubble elicited a lot of feedback from friends and family. A couple of them below inspired Part II following it. 🙏🏻due credit to them, blame to me.

"...we spent endless hours running gleefully across the lush greens, barefoot, wet under bright blue skies, carefree... they grew up glued to TV , eyes glazed at the computer or hunched over mobiles and Playstations (sadly, enabled by us)."

And an elegant phrase that really resonated, summing up our chat. "Same Village, Cuz." 🙏🏻

---

I remember The Village of our childhood as a landscape of dust and cobbled lanes. Our feet were sometimes bare, running out the door in our haste to join our friends, sometimes clad in threadbare slippers if Moms intervened in time and prevailed. Our knees and elbows were almost always scraped, caked with the stubborn brown of earth. We didn’t notice any the pain right away. It arrived quietly, only when a mother’s voice asked, “Why is your shirt torn? Why is there blood?” That’s when we realized that our day's adventures, our games, had left their mark. And tears once repressed rushed out. We had washed our hands and drank from that leaky public faucet out there at the corner, the water cold and tasted metallic. Thirst trumped caution as we drank eagerly, sipping along with whoever was next in line. Whatever lining we had in our tummies overcame any bacteria. Mostly. 

Our little town was slow and mostly sunlit with quick downpours most of the year. The cobbled lanes reflected the afternoon heat, temple bells mingled with rickshaw bells, waking up the neighborhood canine sentries and the bovine population ruminating contentedly. Every wall, every alley, held promise of a secret game waiting to be re-invented. We fell, we skinned ourselves, scabs on scabs, we laughed, we learned to stand again. Pain and joy were inseparable companions. Resilience was not something to be taught, it was absorbed, like dust in our hair, winter freckles on our faces or sunburn on our shoulders.

We never looked towards our parents for providing entertainment. From early on, we realized that any whining like "I'm bored, there's nothing to do" was swiftly followed by  extra math problems, spelling sheets to memorize and two-page essays to complete in both Hindi & English on assorted topics.

When the weather was nice outside (most of the year), we were running around, shouting, chasing each other, climbing walls and trees, conquering the world. There was marbles and cricket with tennis balls. Hiding and Seeking, debating the fairness and hoarse from screaming. A little drenching from a sudden downpour was never a reason to leave our outdoor adventures. We took a break sometimes for meals at any one of the homes in The Village. All were welcome. And until Moms had shouted at least three times sounding really irritated, there was no reason to go home, was there?

When the weather was too hot, too cold or too wet to be outside, there were board games. Ludo with specific rules, some rules around the "Six" roll of the dice, made up on the spur of the moment, hotly disputed by the affected participants. Snakes & Ladders (not any Chutes to slide down, thank you, instead of Serpents). That one long, big, fat, slithering reptile with a forked tongue, the one up in the "90s" seemed to always find me. You probably know it as well. Arghh, to this day. And the endless games of Carrom. With all the black and white pieces, the red Queen and the pale blue Striker all worn smooth from usage. The board, its lines fading, already quite frictionless, still got a liberal dusting of talcum powder surreptitiously swiped from Mom's dressing table. World Champions were crowned daily. Our sisters played more quietly, sometimes joining us for board games, but mostly by themselves - swapping stories, singing songs with made-up lyrics during antakshari,  playing hopscotch, skipping ropes, etc. Lots of giggles from that crowd.

Now, I watch our children play in The Bubble, in a world we have consciously shaped for them. Convinced ourselves that it is better than The Village of our generation. Their play is scheduled, carefully planned, sterilized. Playgrounds are padded, color-coded, age appropriate and carefully supervised. A local children's play area boasts "recycled and triple-washed chips from tires" to cushion any falls. No grass, no dirt, no rocks in sight. The slides, the jungle gyms, the merry-go-rounds are all pleasantly colored soft plastic, not metallic with sharp edges and rusting handles, no surfaces that would grill your rear end on a scorching summer day. 

Every scrape, every tumble is preempted or padded over. Play dates are orchestrated, with adults hovering on the edges, ready to intervene. Learning is measured in activities, lessons, portals and Apps. Our children’s laughter is sanitized, clean, safe, and contained. More colorful toys but seems soulless. 

We had no idea of anything called a video game. Nothing buzzing, beeping or otherwise mind-numbing. Electronic gizmos were on nobody's distant radar. The only soundtrack in our lives was carefree laughter, the loud debates, those fierce and intense arguments, forgotten in a few seconds, Mothers calling us for food or to get home before it got pitch dark. Howzzat!

I tell myself it is out of an abundance of love of our children, out of how much we have learned from the self-anointed InstaCram experts on childhood development since our own upbringing. That our desire to protect them is valid. And yet, I can’t shake the sense that in our quest for child-rearing perfection, we may have traded the development of their resilience for comfort - ours and theirs. When every fall is softened, every risk eliminated, what do children learn about themselves? About limits, boundaries, or the thrill of testing them, transcending them, discovering new horizons?

Where are those dusty lanes, the scrapes that stung and water that tasted of iron and adventure. The freedom to play carelessly again, to discover that hurt is temporary and courage is built slowly, one fall at a time. There is beauty in vulnerability, and I fear we have packaged it away in The Bubble.

"We don't stop playing because we grow old; we grow old because we stop playing." -George Bernard Shaw

Perhaps the truest gift, the gift of play, we can give our children is not a life without bruises, but the chance to earn them, to stub their toes, to stumble, to rise, and to know, in their own small bodies, that they are stronger than they ever imagined. In that dust, with scraped knees, and  the sting of a sudden fall, to learn to get up, not just to survive, but to come alive and thrive. For a chance to continue playing, not to grow old too quickly. Perhaps what is really needed is a splash of The Village in The Bubble. And a dash of The Bubble in The Village. We need The Village of Bubbles.

The Village & The Bubble - Part I

Life, Liberty...

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

(inspired by a recent chat with a friend 🙏🏻)

Like most of our generation, I was truly raised by The Village. Not in the poetic sense people use it now, nor an actual place, but in the raw, unfiltered version where everyone had a say in how you turned out. Parents, uncles, aunties, teachers (a few brilliant, many mediocre, some truly awful), neighbors who knew your full name and your family history of many generations,  they all claimed partial ownership and actively participated in the shaping of your destiny.

There was no concept of privacy, no liberty, no “safe space,” no bubble wrap. You belonged to everyone, not just your family. You got fed along with others by your mom or a neighbor auntie, all  keeping an eye out that all the kids running around in your para, mohalla or society. The Village was watchful and noisy, shouting unsolicited advice and admonitions, mostly ignored by us but not resented. Parenting was a collective effort from the sidelines more than hands-on, delivering life lessons disguised as scolding, warnings of doom if you didn’t study, behave, or respect your elders. They said it out of love, mostly. Out of fear, too, fear that we’d turn out worse, lazier, softer than them.

We didn’t know words like "childhood trauma," "dysfunctional family," or "emotional boundaries." All families were the same. If someone had used those phrases, we’d have stared blankly and gone back to our endless games of cricket, marbles, or tag. Life was what it was, soft and tough, perfectly imperfect, unfairly fair, and you learned to swim in it. The Village made sure you didn't get swept away, with hushed tales of those few wayward and errant youngsters with long sideburns, smoking on the street corners, aka The Road Inspectors. There simply was no other choice. There was no App for food delivery. If you didn't like what was on the table, you went hungry. 

I suppose being a boy in The Village had its perks: more freedom, fewer restrictions. But it came with invisible and heavy weights, expectations you felt instinctively but couldn’t name, the constant hum of “be strong,” “don’t cry,” “make us proud.” Excelling in academics perhaps seemed the expected way to show it. Our sisters in The Village were expected to be "lady-like," learn "traditional values" and absorb skills needed to "run a household" as well. 

Now, years later, I look at our children. We as parents were soft-spoken. No yelling, the Childhood Experts expertly warned us. Surround them with gentle words and gentle hands. Built them cocoons made of love, empathy and understanding. We listened, we embraced, we reasoned, we cajoled, we protected. We called it nurturing, and maybe it is. But sometimes, I wonder if we’ve gone too far, if our constant cushioning has made the children allergic to the rough edges of the real world out there.

They seem to be hypersensitive, bruise too easily now. A bad grade feels like a mortal wound. A disagreement among friends, a full-blown crisis with tears, unsocial media drama. Too often, parents jump in. We rush to smooth it all out, fixing their problems, patting their backs, drying their tears, terrified that a scratch on the heart will leave a permanent scar. We call it love. And it is love, but also fear. The same fear our parents had, just dressed differently.

The world hasn’t softened with time. It’s louder, faster, crueler in subtle, quieter ways, in glaring, blaring ways. With harsh, jagged edges, not the rounded, soft Bubble. And our children, fragile, tender,  articulate, sensitive, are rushing into it, wanting to grow up with open hearts but thin armor. With lots of information literally at their fingertips, mostly garbage but no life experience to sort the wheat from the chaff, the pure metal from the slag, the wisp of truth hidden by smoke and mirrors. Listening to their equals, their peers around the world mostly, their teachers only occasionally and to the parents rarely. Maybe they’ll all learn to build their strength later, through gentleness rather than struggle. Maybe they’ll redefine resilience entirely. I certainly and fervently hope so.

Still, I sometimes miss The Village of our generation, flawed as it was. The noise, the blunt honesty, the unspoken resilience we absorbed just by surviving it. We grew up in the wild and we called it normal. They grow up in carefully curated gardens crafted by us.

Maybe both are right for their eras. Maybe both are wrong. Maybe our generation simply overcorrected for the perceived shortcomings of our parents' generation, trying to love better, hurting differently, always hoping, despite it all that our children will turn out okay.

Given a choice, I would consider The Village over The Bubble for myself again.

Patjhad पतझड़

A beautiful poem by a dear friend. Thank you, Nilabh Narayan, and with my poor translation following. 

बीते पल फिर से आयेंगे 

- नीलाभ नारायण

मधुबन की रौनक उमंग

खींच रहीं सबकी नज़र 

हर पत्ती सज धज जश्न मनाती  

रंगीन, रूमानी, इतराती 

थिरक उठती हर झोंके पर 

रोमांच जश्न मनाने को 

कुछ आपा भूल चल पड़ीं हवा संग

कुछ यूँही उड़ चलीं मद मस्त

कुछ देखा देखी, कुछ कौतुकी में 

कुछ गलती से सखी को रोकन में 

पेड़ों के बंधन छोड़ सभी 

फैली घासों पर कर चिंतन 

तय कीं औरों को मदद करेंगे 

नव जीवन सबको वरदान करने 

मिलजुल रंग बीरंगी कालीन बन ख़ुद 

बनने लग गईं मिट्टी परत 

सम भाव शाख़, समाधिष्ट बाग 

मौसम परिवर्तन तो होती ही है 

नव किसलय पत्तों का इंतज़ार  

विश्वास समित करें मुदित मन

पेड़ों पर बचे चंद पत्ते थे जो वो 

देख अनंत वसुधा, आकाश, समय 

चिंतन विचार कर बोल उठे 

कितना सटीक यह सृष्टि नियम

अगले झोंके में चलो हम भी 

इसी कालीन में लोट जाते हैं

Those Moments Will Be Back Again

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

The garden glows in joyful grace,

It draws all eyes towards its face.

Each leaf adorned, so richly dressed,

Rejoices fragrant, colorful, blessed.

They sway and twirl with every breeze,

Thrilled, they play, they dance, they tease.

Some, losing self, adrift in the air,

Some soar aloft with joyous flair.

Many follow others, curious, bright,

Faltering, calling friends in flight.

Free from the trees that once confined,

Rest on grass, in a pensive mind.

Vowing to give, to heal, to share 

The gift of new life with tender care.

Their mingled hues, a living thread,

A magical rug of gold and red.

Layer by layer, soft they stay,

Becoming one with earth’s own way.

The boughs calm, the garden still,

Accept the turn of season’s will.

Awaiting buds of green, rebirth,

They trust the ever-changing earth.

The few leaves left upon the trees

Reflect at the sky, at time, at breeze.

And whisper deep, in hushed esteem,

“How flawless is Mother Nature’s dream.”

“With the next gust of wind, let’s all hug,

And gently lay down on this plush, thick rug.”

Memories Not Erased

© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆

A recent exchange with a classmate took me swiftly back to the heady days of late-70s IIT KGP, when bell-bottoms roamed free, the sideburns were thick and long, where scraggly mustaches were sported with pride, and the shirt collars resembled floppy beagle ears. The greasy smell of fresh samosas shingaras & vegetable chops chaaps hung thick over Tech Market. The two ME classmates, myself and AT, had lived parallel lives, were now united by the shared struggle of Lab reports, ET Tutorials, slinging those 20-lb sledgehammers in Forging workshop, the endless home-works, etc. Filling those brown PT files with acceptable 3B (Blah Blah Blah) stretching over multiple PT sheets was the goal. The eternal paper chase was familiar from early childhood to both of us, and with that, the unending hunt for the right stationery that didn't make ink-stains spread, nor cause perforations instead of punctuations from sharp pencils and nibs, the main weapons of our generation prior to the arrival of ball-point pens. I recall the grave and disapproving look from my teacher, Sri H.N. (Aichan) Singh bemoaning about how it would ruin our penmamship. Content quality took apparently a secondary spot for him, content quantity and appearance were primary and paramount. 

AT, a bona fide campus kid, knew KGP like the handlebars of his new Hercules. From the faculty quarters, he had the sort of insider knowledge that made him the de facto guru to all things Tech Market. He had grown up on Thackers. The legendary shack, part shop, part archaeological dig, stacked to the ceiling and lit by a flickering tubelight, had been his go-to since childhood. It stocked everything from books to PT files to notebooks, even those mysterious  grey market, "Parker" jotter refills that leaked with a sense of purpose. Mr. Thacker knew their family well. They were steady customers and accorded due courtesy, unlike the curt nods to any on-campus students visiting his store.

I hailed from a distant town where Kailash Stores reigned supreme, a magical establishment that sold dreams. The owner, Mr. Sharma Sr. always greeted my father warmly and personally attended to us during our visits, leaving other customers to his son, literally Sharmaji ka beta, and the other staff. Besides the textbooks and other school supplies of minor importance, my most coveted possessions in those early years were a Koh-i-Noor pencil, a shiny Camlin geometry box, and the stuff of legends: a fragrant green'n'white eraser with a cartoon character.

It wasn’t just any eraser. It was The Eraser. It smelled heavenly. A treasure that evoked raw envious looks from other kids during those salad days. Like from Samir "Scooter" Singh, the bounder. The rotter was fast and agile on the football field, hence the moniker Scooter or SS. The utter cad. Yes, most likely, you also an SS character menacing your life on and off the football field,  arch-nemesis since Grade 4, LLB, the Lord of the Last Bench. 

AT had paid a visit to KGP in Dec 2013. Thackers, in a  testament to its location and longevity, were still there! Same shack, same location, same size, same layers of dust. Tech Market always had a chaotic village sabji mandi feel, with those little tin-roofed shacks. Apparently, it still retained that post-apocalyptic rustic charm in 2013. Like every shop was built using leftover workshop scraps from the Institute. Thackers looked untouched since ’60s. Same faded "CAMLIN" poster. Even the cobwebs seemed original. Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.  With all the e-books and online material, they probably didn’t sell half the stuff they used to. But both the store and the Tech Market seem to continue to survive.

I only ever went to Thackers in full-blown panic mode, adrenaline pumping, pedaling his rattling chariot, a Rayleigh. For those "Oh, $hit, is it due tomorrow?!" assignments needing PT file fillers, graph papers, and those oversized, infernal large white sheets needed during those 5 long semesters of ME Drawing misery. Oh man, those sheets! Never once did any of them roll up properly. You’d put rubber bands around them, secure them, and the dang sheets would wiggle free and spill out of your shoulder bag, taking the ungainly T-square along as you were merrily tooling down on Scholars Ave, halfway to the Institute. Sigh.

Back home for me, Kailash Stores was THE store. It had everything. My entire early academic career could have been sponsored by them. Oh, the joy of buying that one new Koh-i-Noor pencil, and, mmmm, yes… that eraser. 

It had a two-tone look, green at one end, white at the other, and the feel of opulence. Scented. Pure luxury. Until SS stole it. I fumed and burned at the devastating loss. But Sr Carmella wouldn't entertain any complaints just with circumstantial evidence.  Gut-feelings and anecdotes of SS's prior perfidy and assorted villainous behavior weren't enough. A stolen eraser and a lifetime of trauma. Some wounds never heal.

Those were the Glory Days of Analog Survival. AT swore by Thackers. I romanticized Kailash Stores. Both AT and myself, I suspect, knew well the feeling of sheepishly following out fathers to these stationery stores, him muttering some dire admonition barely suppressed, five minutes before it closed, desperate for that single last-minute item that could prevent academic annihilation.

And somehow, mysteriously, Thackers / Kailash Stores always had that one item in stock. Usually hidden under a decade-old invoice pad and a dusty bottle of glue, Mr. Thacker / Mr. Sharma managed to hunt it down and brandish it with a dramatic flourish of a magician.

On AT's last visit, he stood fascinated by the seeming permanence of Thackers. Same chipped faux wooden counter. Same sleepy setting, perhaps with Thacker Jr. in-charge. Same ghost of a stapler sitting proudly in the glass case like a museum artifact.

An acquaintance wrote back recently that Kailash Stores is still in existence, too. But now they sell selfie sticks and phone covers also. Childhood’s officially over, man. 

Fifty years later, those ME drawings, the hatches of Sections, and 3rd angle projections of weird 3D industrial shapes have blurred. The dusty piles of PT files with the yellowed, crumbling PT sheets have long been discarded. But in the corners of their minds, both of us still carry the heady scent of new books, notebooks & other supplies at Thackers / Kailash Stores... and of that one unfair eraser heist that shaped someone's lifetime. Five decades later, I can't look at a scented eraser without muttering, “Bloody SS…”

Scenes of life lived long ago now bubble up infrequently, scripted by shared laughter and formed over collective trauma. A few memories surface unexpectedly from casual text exchanges between classmates, one a native Kgpian & an adoptive Nehruite, the other a native Nehruite & an adoptive Kgpian, over the bittersweet recollections of the special ambiance of special bookstore treasure troves and... the sweet, fresh fragrance of that special eraser still vivid amidst the rapidly dimming fog of  fading memories.