Many eons ago, when the world did not have cell phones, and the Ambassador ruled the road, and the cool owned a Gypsy, life was a little slow. You did not have all the fancy vaccines that you have now. When The Sound of Music, My Fair Lady, and Mary Poppins were considered must-watch, with schools holding special screenings for them; when Richmal Crompton, P.G. Wodehouse, Jim Corbett, James Herriot, and Agatha Christie were found in the club library. And yes, people went to the club to read books! Apart from bridge, tennis, and badminton, typical evenings were in clubs, and you would turn in at 8:00-ish for dinner. When boarding schools were where all the chaps went, and you came home in winters for around 3 months.
In those days, one day in the summers, I found myself summoned to Mukteshwar, as my dad was looking at some land revenue records. And as is the wont of burra saabs, he takes justice to the village and the harbinger, the patwari, whose rope can magically reduce the land holding or increase it as he wants—sometimes for fun, sometimes for spite, and more often for money. However, as is his wont, the burra saab understands the vagaries of the marriage market, and using that excuse, many a Tehsildar and Patwari escape the wrath of justice, but they do get transferred into extremely interesting places. For example, Jat land where farmers love taking potshots; the Terai area where female mosquitoes have a habit of drinking blood. Believe me, there is nothing a man from the mountains fears more than having his blood drunk by his wife and a mosquito. Then there is Ballia; for some reason, everyone is scared. And then come the ravines of Chambal, where the dacoits love to kidnap revenue staff and take money from their family.
But I am digressing from the story of a boy, mumps, and a stay in a PWD guesthouse which extended for 3 weeks. So I was summoned, and I reached Mukteshwar in an open-top Gypsy with a couple of cops giving me company. The area was well known to me, and I skipped going to the Neem Karoli temple on the way because my mother, who had an affinity to temples and godmen, sadhus, and the whole bevy of them, was not with me. Crossing this temple without the mandatory visit would somehow inspire the Durga in her, and that was something my father and I had learnt to try and avoid for peace—which, they tell me, was not only important in the Mahabharata, but the modern man too wants war only in the office. Plus, in those days, the temple was not full of people, and there was no queue, and you could reach his cave in summers where he used to practice meditation, which is what my mother liked to do.
So we pressed on. It was a balmy day, and then, like it happens in Kumaon, the gods—perhaps angered, perhaps because they were having a difficult time from their wives... ah yes, dear reader, in India the gods are like your bros; we are not scared of them like those in the West, but here we are like a "my dear fellow" type of acquaintance with our gods. So Indra Dev, who probably resents me for being born in Krishna Paksha, and since he could do nothing to the original fellow, loves to take it out on me, and he sent in a gentle Himalayan rain. Somehow, being aware of the vagaries of God and having given up on him, I have learnt to enjoy the rain. And plus, if you are driving in it, you don’t get wet for some time, especially if you have a windscreen in front of you. But somewhere down the line, the driver stopped and put up the soft top, and we had sweet tea in brass glasses. And for reasons unknown to me, tea in Kumaon seems much nicer than anywhere else. Or, as my maternal grandmother used to say, unless the person making the food does it with love, the food does not taste good. I don’t know about you, but the dal chawal of my nani, the tehri, rice cake, pizza, etc., and the fruit cream of my mom... well, I have searched high and low but never found it, not even in Michelin-star restaurants. That food was for the soul, perhaps cooked with love, and that love is long gone. Perhaps that is why it's not there, like many other things in life.
But I reached the guest house. It overlooked a lovely little garden which somehow felt huge to me, but now seems little. And my two dogs, who I personally believe had replaced me in my parents' life, bounded up to me like dogs do, and since they were Segals, by nature they did not take kindly to being chained. So they bounded up. Then Dollar, the more social of the two, took me to meet his friends; of course, they were all doggies of all shapes and sizes. In fact, he was so social that when we were away, he would invite them for lunch, and at times we would find them jumping on the bed, something that irritated my mother, who would change the sheets of the bed. Plus, his friends tended to ignore her while running out when my father yelled at them. It did result in bad blood, and she would not allow him in her kitchen, while Jack was always there at the entrance. Over a period of time, Jack went with my mother and Dollar stuck by my father. Dogs, it seems, have their favorites. In fact, the first AC came for them and not me. Go figure, I was just the son.
But as is my habit when I go toward my memories, I tend to ramble; after all, that is all that is left of everything I had once. But I reached, ran in the rain, jumped, got gloriously wet, soaking to the skin, and then had tea and pakoras while still sitting in wet shoes. People who have never done this have never lived their ghastly life; believe me, it builds immunity and character like nothing else. It was a good day. I had food that was tasty; when you eat in a mess, you somehow love the simple home food. Then I read a book, not worried about school work, and lo and behold, the next morning I had a fever. Of course, fever in India means it's your fault, and as is natural, I heard a lecture on being responsible, which I did not hear as I was already running in sunny England with William in my mind. But being an Indian, the expressions on my face were, I am told, sad, so this lecture would have ended in 15 to 20 mins in any case. They were generally my mother's idea, and my father would only do it for peace at home, is what I believe.
Then the next day, I felt huge pain in my jaws and swelling below my earlobes. My father identified it as mumps, and the local doctor also confirmed it, and the best days of my life started. I could eat whatever I wanted, including unlimited amounts of Maggi, which to my generation is like what khichdi is to you when you are a little old. Nevertheless, the advantage of being young is even when you have a fever, you have boundless energy, and I would go for walks, which my father told me made it risky for public health. So I shifted it to night. And believe me, the Mukteshwar Mahadev temple feels special at night when it's moonlit. Yes, leopards were supposed to eat me, but somehow I have felt a special affinity with them; they always felt a little cuddly and cute. And somehow, perhaps because I am a dog person, they really keep their distance from me. And also, I used to take my dogs for this walk. Always felt since Mahadev is also Pashupatinath, he and I get along fine, plus he is a loner at heart, and due to circumstances, so am I.
So I would roam over the temple, go to Churail ki Jhali, and hope to find the famous witch. She never came; like ghosts, ghouls, and other such creatures, they seem to have a strong dislike for me, though I dare say I have seen possessions and firmly believe they happen to chaps who are a little weak in the brain, to put it gently. Anyhow, these days were great for me. Moonlit walks with the two chaps who were my partners in crime, Jack and Dollar. Jack was the rather cautious type, always holding back, telling me, "You will get into trouble." Dollar was, "Oh yeah, let's see." He was rather too adventurous; once he jumped from the mountain peak, giving me a heart attack, but he knew what he was doing—there was a ledge he was jumping to. Generally, he would know, but at times he would get caught, and then came the famous Provincial Armed Constabulary who would rescue him using ropes, I believe Pandey ji from Ballia. Also Sharmaji from the Forest Department, who taught me the multiple miracles of the forest: like moss grows on the north side; don't wear perfume in the forest, or red t-shirts as monkeys can see color like us; stand behind a tree and the leopard can't see you unless you move; make a figure of 8 and dogs can't follow your trail; how pine trees make the best torches. Oh, it was fun. Look at it from my point of view: read what you want, walk where you want, do what you want even if it's late at night when your parents are asleep.
The time I spent down with mumps is the best I have ever had and more than what anyone deserves. Later on, my father told me that at the same guest house, he had broken a leg when brought by his father, and now I got mumps; he had stayed for 3 weeks, which is exactly the same period I was there. Weekends were spent talking about anything under the sun, from philosophy to religion. Those were good days, and I spent a long time remembering those days, been to Mukteshwar many times trying to find those Fursat ke raat din, but somehow never found it. As you grow old, I believe that you start to lose these small heavens, and eventually, you want to leave this plane and go to the next one. Perhaps that is life. Perhaps that is life, who knows. but if you find the answer let me know and if I am gone perhpas the comment section can tell others after me what it was and what it is
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