I grew up in this big colony at the outskirts of a small rural village in a remote district of Karnataka.
Born as a sibling to 2 elder sisters and then followed by a younger brother; a father who hardly even knew the class in which I studied and a mom who tried her best to make us fit, life has almost been like a story taken out of a Yash-Raj movie. Vivid memories of my summer vacations spent at the grand parent’s place in Mangalore. Back in those days, with limited buses plying between our place and Mangalore, it would take us 24 hours by an ordinary, red KSRTC bus to reach our ‘holiday destination’ and then everything was as if it was taken out of a C. S. Lewis Narnia book. Etched in my mind are the four mile walk from the maternal grandparent’s to the paternal grandparent’s house, the trek in the fields, wading through the lakes and crossing the man-made wooden bridges, picking wild berries along the way – unforgettable. The family gatherings with 30+ cousins, then the aunts and the uncles during the summer vacation, the musical performances by the kids and the elders, the group Saturday bhajans, the group cooking and then the eating, and the row upon row of sleeping children – poetic. The house construction stints in the huge farm, the mass swimming in the family pond, milking the cows, cleaning the sheds – memorable. The late night chit-chats, regaling the stories of the tigers and the porcupines and the group mourning on the passing of the pet dog – meaningful. The dress-ups and the pranks played on other cousins, neighbours and the servants, the attempt at being ‘posh’ by speaking ‘butler’ English – hilarious. The trips to the hill-top temple, overnight yakshaganas and the many festivals, marriages and poojas – treasure trove of memories.
And then, with a flip of the coin, everything changed.
