Retreat to the Hills: Revisited

(thats my papa!! second from left. the one in the nerdy glasses)

The internet is a fabulously fantastic thing.

My dad (a.k.a. "Pradhanacharya" B.K. Puri) just mailed me articles from local Hamirpur newspapers describing the heroic exploits of the sports contingent from his school... specifically on how they totally creamed the competition ("Jaypee Samirpur ne jamayee dhaak").

Its one of those district sports meets. The dignitaries are made to sit on a stage and everything, given fancy "Gaddedaar" kursis and soft drinks. I don't mean to boast or anything, but I was almost a dignitary at last year's sports meet. Of course shyness got the better of me. I opted instead for a chair along the sidelines and a steel tumbler full of water. Pooch was there too! We were both in full "fish out of water" mode.

Being stared at with such dilligence you'd think we were Martians.

The sports meet concluded with a prize distribution ceremony in honour of which everyone (except the aforementioned Martians) was dressed in their Sunday best. This was promptly followed by a jam session (genuine Punjabi songs... not the shitty Jazzy B. variety). The girls danced on one side of the field and the boys on the other end of its diameter. My dad stood somewhere on the circumference, clapping his hands (in the way that old people do) and tapping his right foot (in the way that dad's do) and ignoring all invitations from his students to join them on the dance floor (in the way that "Pradhanacharyas" do)

The stench of youth and celebration was overpowering. But in a good way.

And what celebration would be complete without a sumptuous meal? The arrangement was sort of like a langar... everyone sat on the ground (dignitaries included) on carpets under a humungous tent. And the food was so so brilliant, made more so by the lack of cutlery.

I remember stopping on the way back home to fill a bottle of water from a little stream in one little corner of a hill. That and coming close to death as Sher Singh drove us back to the Institute in his signature (bordering on Schumacherish) style. My belly was so full of food and happy thoughts I knew dinner was out of the question. Even the thought of Ghanshyam's (the cook) guilt inducing pout could not convince me to eat.

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I'm glad my father sent me these pictures. There are so many little things I suddenly remember (eg. dirty steel tumbler, the stream of water, near death experiences. The poor man suffering from kidney stones who had to be ferried all across the hills for want of a doctor, the trip to the water source, leopard stories, ghanshyam's killer desi ghee mithai. Una - probably the world's cutest little railway station, the fire miracle at Jwala Ji, the inordinate amounts of time Pooch and I spent taking naps, that terrible Shahid Kapur movie).

And I distinctly recall wanting to preserve each of these memories in the minutest of detail.

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Such a terrific summer. I'd just finished up with my exams, just got done having my Law term paper ripped to shreds by RS. I'd just gotten a fancy job, in a fancy bank, in fancy Bombay. I was in the process of planning a trip of questionable intentions to Nainital (so delirious with excitement you'd think I was visiting the Alps). Everything was shiny and glowy and round and complete. I wish for everyone I know to experience such bliss at least once.

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And now here I am in Bombay. Precisely a kajillion miles away from all that. Still shiny and glowy (I am reliably informed that Bombay has improved my complexion) and only slightly rounder. And pleased as punch that despite the distance in space and time from that summer of sheer unadulterated joy its memory is enough to make me happy. All this from a newspaper article that doesn't so much as mention me, a photograph which doesn't feature my face and a trophy I didn't win.