Childhood Pleasures (and Terrors)

Small things bring pleasure to children, but insignificant things can also terrify them. In my case, the pleasure came from the tangible physical world, but my fears were often rooted in the imaginary.

When I was seven, my father took on extra work for several weeks. Most days, after attending office all day, he came home briefly and left to work on a real estate deal with his friends. When he returned at night, I always looked at his hands, half-expecting a treat. But they were empty.

One night as he entered I noticed he had his hands behind his back. I was expecting empty hands again, but then he said, "Look!" and brought out a large bag of candies.

He must have enjoyed my utter delight because from that day he brought gifts for me whenever he had those night meetings. My favourites were comic books from the Classics Illustrated series. They were abridged classic stories – including The Jungle Book and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde – recounted in child-friendly graphical style.

My mother's parental home was only ten minutes away by rickshaw. She and I often visited there in the afternoon. Several families lived in the same compound and I always looked forward to joining the kids in neighbourhood games. The best part about these trips, however, was to see my mother happy and relaxed in the environment she had grown up in.

Our home had numerous trees. Some produced intensely fragrant flowers. A short tree, called Kathli Chapa, was within reach and I raided it often. The Nageshwar flowers, however, bloomed high on the tall tree. I had to wait for a strong wind or storm to drop these flowers. When I smell a Nageshwar flower today, it returns me to childhood. But Kathli Chapa seems to have disappeared (or become very rare.)

My childhood was not all pleasure, however.

On the farthest corner of our sprawling backyard was the outhouse. Surrounded by tall trees, it had no electricity. The worst time to visit the outhouse was on a stormy night: rain pouring, winds gusting and branches rattling. While a household staff waited outside I climbed the stairs to the chamber, lantern in one hand, umbrella in the other. Once inside, bhoot (ghost) stories haunted me. I pictured a gigantic bhoot with bloodshot eyes waiting outside, two incredibly long and skinny legs resting on two different trees, keeping watch over the area, ready to snatch me with its equally long hands as I emerged. This outhouse was the reason I hated the bouts of diarrhoea that plagued my childhood.

Another source of childhood fear was the chheledhora or child kidnapper. The adult narrative, designed to keep children from straying, went like this: "If you step outside the house alone, the chheledhora will grab you, tie you in a sack, and take you away. You will never be found again." This did not stop me from stepping out, but I watched my back whenever I did, whether visiting friends in the neighbourhood or swimming in the pond across the street.

More real than the chheledhora was the pagol, a mad man or woman with unkempt appearance who roamed the streets, shouted incoherently, sometimes threw stones and always came knocking at our gate. The sight of a pagol sent me scrambling for safety. Only in adulthood was I able to overcome my fear and start feeling sympathy for pagols.

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