Childhood is a precious time

Some of the most evocative memories of childhood are of the home one grew up in, the street that ran adjacent to it and the people who gave it its character …

My home in New Delhi, India where I was born and grew up has a galli, or lane running conterminous to the huge French windows in my bedroom. When I was growing up it was often referred to as Prem Ki Galli – ‘Prem’ being my Mother’s name. It was always mentioned with a smirk, as ‘Prem’ also means ‘love’ in Hindi and the literal translation ‘lover’s lane’ always conjured up images of clandestine meetings under a clear starry Delhi sky in our teen years. This was, of course, years before pollution blocked the sight of the stars and the galli became a neighbourhood garbage dump!

During my University years, the most delicious part of my day was when I drifted out of sleep, not to the piercing shrieks of an alarm clock but to the lilting tenor of kabareeeah … teen botalwaalla kabareeeah. The kabareeeah or the second-hand collector of old empty bottles, obsolete newspapers, ancient brick-a-brack and antiquated junk items you have wanted to get rid of for years, was part of a huge ensemble of characters who walked the streets, lanes and by-lanes of villages, towns and metropolis of India plying their trade of bartering, buying, collecting and selling items.

Amazingly, the voice I heard sounded exactly the same 50 years down the road! Who knows this may be the second generation carrying on the trade, though I hoped my childhood kabariwalla’s progeny had progressed further up life’s ladder.

With great anticipation, I waited for what should be next. And, as if on cue, the sound of the koyal’s shrill trill pierced the morning announcing day-break. It was indeed dawn as the sun rose majestically in the East. A few moments later the sabziwallah (vegetable vendor) passed by chanting, “taza tammatar, mooli, dhaniya” (fresh tomatoes, radish, coriander). Instead of 2 annas the price had shot up to a whopping Rs. 35 for a pao or a quarter of a kilo.

The vegetable vendor was followed by the all-time favourite – the chooranwallah. Now, the chooranwallah enjoys a very special status in a North Indian’s heart. He sells tiny, spiced balls of digestive mixture which were delicious enough to be eaten as an any time treat. With their sweet-sour-spicy taste combination, tightly packed into big glass bottles, they were loved by children and adults alike. Just the thought of the chooran made your mouth water and the passion for these digestive treats intensified as you grew older!

Today it is perhaps dangerous to even go near his assortment of goodies what with Delhi belly, typhoid, cholera, jaundice, Covid-19, their off-shoot bacteria and viruses all waiting to find a drooling victim.

Prem ki Galli also brought back memories of sinister happenings in the dead of night – when tyres screeched to a halt and people began arguing loudly. Sometimes, the arguments would lead to fist-fights and once, as I recall someone actually got knifed and would have bled to death had not Ramu, our chowkidar (guard), intervened. We certainly took it all in our stride as kids – we were brought up to believe that the world was a safe place to live in and people were basically kind and honest.

However, it should not be construed that Ramu was an efficient, owl-like night-watchman or security guard. I recollect a hot and humid summer night when the galli was buzzing with activity. People were running helter-skelter and there appeared to be a lot of jostling going on. I stirred reluctantly from a deep sleep to hear a loud voice shout “Chowkidar aap ke ghar me chor gate se chalang mar ke ghus gaya hai.” (“Watchman, a thief has just jumped over your gate and entered your house”). In a split second I was wide awake and I heard the Chowkidar’s confident reply “Anne do” (“Let him come”)! There was total silence after this solemn declaration, and I turned over and went back to sleep perfectly secure and unquestioning because I believed Ramu was incharge at night so he must know what he was talking about!

A far cry from what we tell our young ones today. There are more don’ts than dos, and a problem or disaster seems to lurk around every corner. Or is it just that the disbursement of news is so instant all over the world, that every street happening anywhere is instantly everybody’s business? We lived in relative oblivion and our world encompassed a hundred-mile radius from our nucleus which was home.

Childhood is a precious time and one’s securities are often spelt out by the mundane happenings of life. I was lucky that I could still indulge in my reverie as time stood still in Prem ki Galli.