Tales from ‘89

My memories started in ‘89, that is if I discount the taste of rubber from the milk bottles that i used to suck as a toddler or the lullabies that my mother sang to put me to sleep, or...well I remember quite a few things before ‘89 (I, in fact, do remember Indira Gandhi’s assassination announcement on the radio, hell I do) so I would rather say ‘89 had a long lasting impression on my memories.

I believe it is because of a number associated with that year - 272/89. This was my admission number when I got admitted to Mt. Assisi School - the English medium, neighbour’s envy/parents’ pride kinda school, at least in those days. The impact this number has on my life - the three consecutive admission numbers starting from 272/89 have been friends since then and will be life long ones, we believe.

I also remember, how a cousin failed to get an admit after the interview (yes, they used to take an interview even then) and how I bragged around at my nani’s place whenever we used to meet.

‘89 is also infamous for the Bhagalpur riots and I was in the midst of it (though too young to see it all) and for sure saw its repercussions. I have clear visuals from those days - Sanjay chacha carrying a few Singer sewing machines and boastfully exhibiting it in our neighbourhood, having snatched it from ‘them’, while elders in that house were criticising Bhagwat Jha Azad’s endeavour of serving ‘them’ khichadi!

As kids, we enjoyed this forced to live as a community (because of the riots) experience - everyone from the neighbourhood would gather in one house to spend nights there (we moved to a relative’s place, a few blocks away, later till things normalised) so that if any untoward incident happens we face it together. By evening we kids, motivated by some enthusiastic elders, would collect stones, brick pieces, metallic parts from the neighbourhood and anything that would make a dent in ‘their’ heads, in one corner of the terrace of that house. In our imaginary world, we were the first layer of defence that ‘they’ would have to overpower, where the plan was to hurl projectiles comprising of our collected paraphernalia from that terrace! Every night, for more than a week, we used to hear lot of clamour and sloganeering from either side, which sometimes would sound like ebbs and flows of ocean tides, till curfew was imposed. And what followed were vigilant nights where we would shout from top of terraces to communicate to each other - suggesting all is well (Tridev was released around then and Oye Oye being the most popular song was frequently used by us as signals)!


And then the story of my first fist fight - since I didn’t have many - I remember this one vividly and I ensured that the first cut was the deepest one, for my adversary. I never liked this guy in our group - he was a new addition and was cousin of one of our friends, who had come to study for a few months. This guy was like the-man-who-knew-too-much, the dher kabil in local lingo. While we would be doing some sorta treasure hunt (and what fun it used to be) running around in narrow lanes and finding new alleys in our neighbourhood - it was quite an interesting neighbourhood, as most of the houses were pretty close to each other sometimes connected via very close terraces or some stairs helping us in crossing over smaller boundary walls, uncovered drains through the lanes, which would open up in one of the main lanes - this guy would be smirking at us.

But this wasn’t the reason for the fight. It was something fairly trivial. It was Saraswati Puja and as was the norm, the pandal and the goddess’ idol had blocked the main lane. These pandals, after the Sandhwars had moved in our neighbourhood, had become quite colourful both literally and figuratively. While the Sandhwars suggested that we put triangular, multi-coloured banners (jhandi in simpler terms) throughout the lane - which we enthusiastically participated in; they also suggested that we have live musical programs in evenings during jagran - to which we were just mute spectators. These live musical programs had songs/instrumental performances by the entire Sandhwar family and also a perfect setting for a casual meet and exchange of mutual feelings between interested couples, if any. Behind this pandal on the morning of Saraswati Puja, this dher kabil shoved my friend Mishtu on the choice of jhandi probably and though it didn’t hurt him, it hurt where it mattered. I rushed in a rage and pressed him against a wall. Before he could come out of that shock, with all my might I swung a right upper cut across his face. It was such a sudden gush of testosterone, that by the time I was done with the act I was trembling. My adversary picked himself up while trying to stop the blood from his lower lip, spat and rushed towards me only to be blocked by the gang. We dispersed almost immediately with me sobbing (don’t know why) and the smart alec nursing his wound. I don’t remember much after that and vaguely remember my right upper cut but the visual is captured deep in my psyche. So much so that till the end of last millennium, I used to clandestinely practice it by throwing punches in air.


Like any other well oiled freshly conceived machine, memory tends to be working at its maximum efficiency in its younger days and probably ‘89 was the year when my memory was at its zenith. I have lot of visuals from that year like the one where our gang is trying to catch kittens and Bhaiya’s thumb is scratched by one (and we have kept it a secret to this day) or when we see roller skates for the first time at Dileep bhaiya’s house and fall hard in trying our hand or rather feet at it. Ah! We were an adventurous gang.


So even though it wasn’t exactly six strings and a rock band but it did build and shape my character - ergo, in a way, ‘89 were the best days of my younger self!

स्कूल या दफ्तर

अलसाई ऑंखों को मलते

बासी नींद में लड़खड़ाते

उबासियों की नि:शब्द तान लगाते

अब जो होड़ में लग जाते हैं

पुरानी यादें जाती जैसे बिखर!

क्या बदला हमें ही है खबर

पहले जाते थे स्कूल,

अब दफ्तर!

सिगरेट पीना स्वास्थ्य के लिए हानिकारक है

कमी थी तो बस एक सिगरेट के कश की। घटाएं उमड़ घुमड़ रही थी और करने को वैसा कुछ खास था नहीं। दिन के पहले हिस्से में एक बड़ा काम निपटा लिया था और दोपहर सुस्त सी थी और उस पर ये मौसम- शायर होते तो आशिकाना कह कर एकाध शेर पढ़ ही डालते।

 सुना है कि ख़यालों के घोड़े दौड़ने लगते हैं सिगरेट की कश से। उस पर से उन्होंने कहा एक-एक प्याली चाय हो जाए।तब तो तलब और भी बढ़ गई। ईस्टमन कलर के किसी आर्ट फिल्म का दृश्य आँखों के सामने तैर गया- जिसमें हीरो अमुमन सफेद कुर्ते पजामे में, तर्जनी और मध्यमा के बीच सिगरेट को फँसाए, उसी हाथ से चाय की चुस्की लेता है।  शायद हम एक सदी लेट पैदा हो गए- बेलबॉटम हमें हमेशा से पसंद हैं, फिर वो बड़े कॉलर वाले शर्ट(हाफ स्लीव हों तो और भी अच्छा) और लम्बे कलम वाला हेयरस्टाईल। कपड़े सफेद और उस पर जैसे सिगरेट के धुएँ का श्रृंगार- हम सच में एक पीढ़ी लेट पैदा हुए!

 खैर बात कश की- आप मंटो से लेकर अस्सी के दशक के लेखकों को देख लिजिए, जैसे कलम के साथ सिगरेट एक लिबरल सिम्बल हो गया था। और बात कहॉं आकर छूटी- सिगरेट के डब्बों पर जले हुए फेफड़ों से लेकर मुँह पर विकृत ट्यूमर तक; और एक पीढ़ी का फैशन बन गया अगली पीढ़ी का कैंसर!