Hari Sankar and I grew up together in that compound of childish
possibilities galore. The low walled, sparsely wooded and kid friendly land of
the Meghadooths, which we would declare our kingdom and make our own for the
next decade or so. It helped that our parents became good friends too, although
that was inevitable I think. It was an ideal situation in many ways.
Apart from the fact that our names being so similar made it
sound like we were brothers, maybe it was the fateful thing that we were the
same age and perhaps even of kindred mind sets. At least it feels that way now.
Being born in a family with a great legacy of music, and
generations of amazing and respected musicians, Hari Sankar nourished in
himself a deep and abiding passion for it. It didn't hurt that he was a gifted
singer even back then, and now turns out, a talented musician all around.
My own parental pool of genetic predispositions for the arts
made it so that I took a liking to the stage and drawing. My sister, who was
born when I was three and three quarters of a year old, would fill the gaps
with her talent in music and dancing.
But the really powerful memories of that time that stick
with me till this day are not of us children delving in to our respective arts.
No, it is of the games we played and the lessons we learned.
Imagination was our toy of choice and the entire compound of the three adjoining Meghadooths was our playground.
Hari Sankar and I went to different schools, so the well
flavoured dishes that were our much awaited evenings would be peppered with the
tales we heard from our different friends in class. Or from our parents or
relatives. It didn't matter the source as long as the story was a good one.
Like the time we had an argument, that eventually split us
up for the evening in frustration and anger.
The reason?
Hari Sankar was adamant that the low walls in the
compound, that were our friends and a source of steady entertainment as far as
I was concerned, were in fact dreadful things that would bite us if we got too
relaxed around them.
Looking back, it seems obvious that some grown up had of
course convinced him of this, with the aim of deterring him from climbing or
running on those walls. But in the tempestuous indignation of childhood, I
couldn't let it go and eventually there was a stalemate of will. I have
distinct memories of questioning myself at one point in our argument, and carefully
studying the surface and edges of one particularly sinister wall, looking for
hidden mouths full of concrete teeth.
There was also the time he almost had me convinced that
elephant tusks were just good sized bananas.
I can’t help but think he really had some unfortunate
sources of information. I, on the other hand, was an embellisher of facts and
truths, little and big.
I can think of one occasion in particular where I really
over did it.
My maternal uncle was an Assistant Commissioner for the
Income Tax Department at the time. This was also, much to my delight, around
the same time that the hugely successful Suresh Gopi movie ‘Commissioner’ had
come out. Suresh Gopi played a loose cannon kind of a cop who ends up shooting and
punching his way to victory, with some fiery monologues thrown in there to add
some extra zing.
I, of course, took this as my one moment to really shine at
the expense of my uncle and informed Hari Sankar one evening that he, being a ‘Commissioner’
of repute, carried a gun with him at all times. I also added that I was unsure
when he might feel like using it or who the target might be. I mean I was safe
fortunately, I told him. I'm his nephew after all. But anybody else was fair
game.
Anyway, the end result of this lie was that my poor friend, for quite a long while, ran for cover each time my uncle dropped by our house.
Run, Hari, run… screamed I, helping him get to safety
once. Sigh.
(still more to come)
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