I miss Dehradun

In many ways, I am living a childhood fantasy. Its quite incredible in a 'connecticut yankee..' sort of way. After all, how many children do grow up to be astronauts or royalty-trapped-in-a-tower?

But I miss Dehradun

And this was driven home to me during a visit this week. Some aspects of it I still don't like- the 'might rules' attitude, the xenophobia..but, but..

You see, I shared my dehra with the people I came to love.

The fruit-seller who was so happy to see me, he insisted i sit down with him and eat some grapes. The old man who is now senile, but still recognized me and managed to convey it. The colleagues who made rice and brought my favourite foods in their tiffins. The little girl who spent all  the previous day making a drawing and mounting it on cardboard for me and Mian. The little boy who thought I am moving back and was overjoyed till he learnt the truth. The only slightly older boy who couldn't stop talking and remembering the last time he had been home. The friend who drove out of her way to meet me for fifteen minutes. The families who took me into their homes and fed me and entertained me. The woman who nearly burst into tears when she saw me.  The colleague who bumped into me 'accidentally on purpose' and proceeded to tell me of a land dispute- he knew I couldn't help, but 'I can't tell anyone else', he said.

And this is the gist of it. Somehow, I touched lives there..I realised this week that just as they were part of my life, I was part of theirs too. And I miss that. And I hate that this seems to be one more instance of my unreliability. I will be back, I promised them as I left. More than for them, the promise was for myself.

 

Close, too close

Finally able to share, and thrilled about it.

What would Lemos Teacher say?

Mian and I both dread the days when a button comes off his shirt. That is when something primordial rises up in me and despite the fact that he is better with a needle and thread than I am, drives me to say, 'I'll do that! No, really. I can do it,  honest. It's easy as pie!' Being the gentleman that he is, Mian refrains from pointing out that I can't bake a pie either and hands over the shirt. If the shirt is lucky, I forget about it. An unlucky shirt gets mangled beyond rescue and handed back to its owner with the promise, 'I'll buy you another one. Honest.'

And this is despite Lemos teacher. In the fourth standard, we were taught the basics of sewing. In that entire school, she was perhaps the only teacher who saw being left-handed not as a sign of moral depravity, but as a reason for extra effort on her part. And so she picked up the needle in her left hand, and slowly, painstakingly, pricking herself all the while, taught me to hem and sew on buttons. Her return on investment was dismal.

All this  is to justify my unrestrained pride in this:

 Made all by my own self with half a pair of old jeans and bits of an older kurta!
Which brings us to the question I asked earlier. Would she grimace at the unfinished edges, or be pleased with the frugality of the project?

Eye candy

In lieu of words, images  of the little one working it  for the camera.

She's grown, hasn't she?