The Hanging Children of Meghadooth

So here I am on this pleasant day reading an e-book, lying in a distinctly unhealthy manner, cutting off the circulation to my left arm, on my warm bed with its comfortable arrangement of dusty pillows, towels and wrinkled sheets – and I felt like writing a little something. The idea began to take root in me because I was reading. Reading and writing, I've discovered, have a cyclical relation in me when it comes to motivation. If the author of whatever book I'm reading has an interesting way of writing, this prompts me to write a few words myself and conversely, if my writing feels satisfactory, I feel like rejuvenating the little grey cells with more words from perhaps a better writer.

The book that has me got all excited today is David Mitchell’s “Backstory”. I should point out that this isn't David Mitchell the novelist who authored “Cloud Atlas” but the British comedian and television personality. I just love the man and the moment I became aware of this book, I had to get it. It’s a really witty and well written memoir by Mitchell.

In the first part of the book, he talks about his childhood, recalling various incidents while also a providing refreshingly funny and astute social commentary, moving in and out of the past and the present with amusing ease. Couple of lines had me chuckling and laughing out loud and I've barely made it to the second chapter right now. A good read indeed and I recommend it to anyone interested in a light hearted and original piece of literature for a cosy afternoon or late night sleep stalling.

Anyway, it got me thinking about my own childhood. Though I am someone who considers it generally dull and typical in an absent minded way, I do tend to look back on it with fondness. I was a sickly kid, thanks to my asthma, but whatever experiences I had of being ill seems to have faded in to the background of memories now. They give me no sorrow and what stand out are the good moments of being a ‘typical’ child in the eighties and early nineties. You know, before there was cable television all around and computers ate up all your time. Game consoles were still a fantasy, at least in my world back then.

Television meant a single low resolution channel at first, and soon there were two and then three. The Door Darshan days. The days of entertainment depending heavily on frequent power outages, adjusting the bony antenna on the roof and banging desperately on the side of the television when tinkering with its knobs failed. Though I have really good recollection of my obsession with watching the flickering screen of black plastic magic box that stood in my bedroom/ partial living room, I am turning this post away from that to the more eventful time I spend with my best friend.

Hari Sankar.

We lived in a house called Meghadooth. Actually I lived in a house called Meghadooth – II. No, it wasn’t a sequel to the block buster that was Meghadooth – I, but the second house in a series of three Meghadooths, all of which were rented out by a single owner. Though it seemed all perfectly normal then, but I can’t help but find it funny now that the owner seemed to have named a house Meghadooth (which means a message from the clouds), and then apparently ran out of inspiration and resorted to naming the other two in an unimaginative serial manner. Or maybe the Meghadooths were a dynasty of kings he was affiliated with, of whom I know nothing about till date.

Me and Hari Sankar (1989)

The Meghadooths were, in any case, a fantastic place to live as a kid. Not so much joy for the parents though, because they were tiny little homes with aged, semi functional facilities. Each of the houses had its own yards, with trees, and were separated by low interconnected walls that would later provide Hari Sankar and me with ample opportunities for climbing, running and other less risky acrobatics.

My parents, as newlyweds, moved in to Meghadooth – II, because it was a cheap place to live, and in a year’s time, I had arrived. Hari Sankar’s family moved in to Meghadooth – I when I was a year old. Could be a year and a half old. Or two.

Let’s just say that it was before the time my brain had begun to actively register memories and so it came to be that I can now say this - for as long as I can remember, Hari Sankar and I have been friends.

(more to come)