When life gives you a hard time, just chill. It’s true. Papa said so. Like when he gave me a card which read “When life gives you a thunderstorm… Find a puddle to play in”. Inside was a little handmade picture of a little boy jumping in a huge puddle. The catharsis that comes with being caked with mud can only be truly revelled in when you’re a child or a dog. The fact that it was actively encouraged is liberating.
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All the screwed up stories we hear all the time about messed up families is jarring against the sepia toned simplicity of our childhood. Birthdays meant homemade chocolate cake elegantly peppered with hundreds and thousands, with a giant Crackle chocolate propped up against it. The window opened onto meadows and yellow-green grass. Snoopy & Gang would be lined up on the table to join our celebrations. The kitchen knife with a red ribbon on the handle. Streamers. And few of us huffing and puffing away at the balloons. The secret surprise guest who came to dinner. They made me dress in a pretty frock, all scrubbed andclean. They rang the doorbell and asked me to go see who the surprise guest was. I opened the door, and confused to see no one, I turned back to see huge grins, *SURPRISE*.
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Christmas meant hours poring over carefully boxed-up strings of Christmas baubles. I learnt to cherish scattered baubles gathered from friends and family over the years. A box-load of them. From Calcutta to Pune to Mumbai to Delhi to Goa. Still under my bed. Socks would be strung up against the window. The four cousins would subject their parents to garish face paint and ghastly concerts with a tinny Casio and a cheap mike accompanied by felt-pens banging on a box or chair for the drums. Then there’d be elaborate plays, with more ghastly facial contortions to depict ‘acting’, (yes, we were fairly influenced by the little Bollywood we had access to) and our mothers’ dupattas twined around our heads for turbans or long hair, depending on whether we were male or female characters. The simplicity of not knowing sexism. Our days began with clambering over a wall followed by a romp under the red-seed trees. And ended with long walks under the stars, with us swinging from their wrists, listening to stories of Orion’s belt. And I still look up at the sky on disoriented nights searching for the solace of spotting Orion’s belt. Steady in his stalking. But right there, when I need the comfort of clinging to steady hands to throw me high up towards the sky, and catch me when I fall.
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Doing the best we could merited full parental support. We brandished badminton rackets to guard pigeon nests from predators. Earning money meant doing chores – anything, everything. We learnt inflation by polishing Papa’s shoes. 10 p when I was about 7 years old…upto 5 INR by the time I was a teenager. Appreciation of hard work was a must. I have vague memories of Papa secretly bullying my friends over food being wasted. The fact that someone would want to shove carelessly food that had been lovingly cooked while standing for hours in a hot, airless kitchen was preposterous.
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We moved from scratching on yellow paper with pastels to using inks in college hostels. The Christmas performances led on to leading schools and addressing large audiences. Compassion taught over many rescues peppering our already exhilarating lives led to active campaigning for animal welfare. Even Facebook counts these days. It gives us massive strength that we can talk about our passions and weaknesses with far more honesty than we often can with our peers.
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We’re always looking for role models. Like you. The great rescuer of all hurt souls. The kinda guy who carried that emaciated dog that couldn’t walk so it could poop in its ‘spot’. And never gave up looking for the lost, friendless, starving puppy. The one who waded through a filthy pond to rescue a half eaten kite, and spent money on three cylinders of oxygen attempting to give it a chance to live. The one who dug through piles of half-burnt rubbish in the poshest residential area of Calcutta (much to the shock and horror of local residents) to gently pull out a terrified baby barbet. And then nursed it back to health.
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The kinda mom who never complained about the endless stream of animals we brought home, not even the mouse which we dug out of one of the dogs’ mouth. She gave us a small shoe-box to bury it in. The mum who didn’t freak when I accidently released a box full of caterpillars into her prized garden. Who found the chrysalis and we could then all watch it become a butterfly. It sunned its wings before it flew off forever. I love that she knew I ate up my science project of sprouts, and helped me grow another cotton filled box of it in time for submissions. She saved strips of shiny paper and taught me to cut out 5 pointed stars. I had the best science project that summer. Because I learnt every single thing I drew or wrote about. She let us dance in the rain, eat up hail stones.
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So here’s to all the awesome people and bizarre decisions I met and made in life. Without you, life wouldn’t be as good as it has been. Thank you to the coolest Math teacher I could ever dream of, and the most hardworking Bengali tutor willing to work with me. Thanks for all the big balloon games. Piles of comics, and lofts full of paperbacks. Next-to-zilch-knowledge of Bollywood. Thank you for a well-read childhood. There have been long evening walks and endless silly questions and red seeds and birds. Random animals (and people) we’ve brought home, and you’ve always got our back. Thank you for having given us the time to languidly say ‘Chill’. Thank you.
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Radhika is a Travel Tripper, Dog Lover, Hippie Blogger, & Trance Dancer currently engaged in advocacy & awareness for animal welfare & human rights. She believes in body art, the power of karma, pure freedom & the possibility of a happier world. When she’s not playing with puppies on the beach, she can be found at Video Volunteers in Goa. She blogs at http://dogblogsrandomtrips.blogspot.in/
Thank you Radhika for growing up into an amazing young woman.