I was a die-hard fan of Enid Blyton as a child – much like all children that age – and this is the age which had not yet seen the advent of technology in the form of mobile phones. I remember this book I had, called Gossamer Elf and Other Stories. I always wondered what Gossamer means. And now, as I am writing this snippet of my memories, I have googled and here it is – a fine, filmy substance consisting of cobwebs spun by small spiders, seen especially in autumn. Well. I finally understand. My life in Jalpaiguri was like this spider in the fine silky web. I was completely oblivious to the world that existed beyond the boundaries of our bungalow, which boasted a sprawling lawn and garden, and a path leading up to it. I was 7 or 8 years old.
The most vivid memory I have is of those tall sunflowers, towering above me. And my mother supervising and instructing the gardener what to do. She told me that the sunflower turns in the direction of the sun. I was so fascinated. I stood there in wonder looking at the flower and then at the sun and excitedly jumping up and down clapping my hands imagining that I saw the flower move.
Another curious addition to our lawn was the polished driftwood piece nestled right in the center. It seemed to appear out of nowhere, like a misplaced artifact from a forgotten era, yet it lent a certain quirky charm to our surroundings. Adjacent to this eccentric centerpiece was the bustling chicken coop, a lively hub of activity. To this day, I still puzzle over why we kept chickens, though their antics certainly added personality to the whole Gossamer paradise. I’ll never forget the day they welcomed a brood of chicks into the world – I proudly showed them off in a cardboard box, a makeshift zoo for our curious visitors. As for their fate, well, I can only hazard a guess…
And then there was Gauri, our cow, who provided us with fresh milk every morning. I can still picture those big iron buckets brimming with creamy milk, topped with malai. My mother swore by its benefits, often applying it to my face, claiming it was good for my skin.
On one side of the bungalow lay a vast rice field that would fill up during the rains. One day I arrived home from school to discover a gathering of onlookers outside the gate. Intrigued and filled with curiosity, I ventured closer, eager to uncover the source of their fascination. Stepping through the gate, I was met with a sight that took my breath away – two snakes entwined, standing tall on their tails as if engaged in a rhythmic dance. It was a moment of pure wonder, one that left me awestruck and utterly mesmerized. Looking back, I realize that, at that tender age, I lacked the understanding to fully grasp the significance of what I was witnessing.
Behind the bungalow lay a Baandh or muddy dam, where people strolled morning and evening. It may seem odd to mention, but it completes my memory of that place.
Skipping school was never a big deal for me; it felt more like an adventure. I’d come home to unexpected surprises all the time. I recall one such very vividly, where I got ready and got into a Toyota to go to Bhutan. It was part of a convoy of cars – pilot, escort, etc. I remember being thrilled to ride in a Toyota, a foreign car that was a big deal back then. During one of our stops for tea, I met the most adorable fluffy puppies, irresistible in their innocence. Though I longed to take them with me, it wasn’t meant to be.
Despite my tendency toward motion sickness, I have no memory of feeling unwell during this trip. Instead, what stands out vividly is the sheer joy of our arrival in Phuentsholing and the warm welcome we received at the Druk Hotel. As guests of the Royal King of Bhutan, we were treated like royalty, with the red carpet rolled out and the discotheque opened just for us. It was a night of pure delight, filled with laughter and dancing, as if the cares of the world had been swept away. Not that I had any, at the age of 8.
The most peculiar memory of that time revolves around the market in Dhulabari. Back in those days, when export products were as rare as a unicorn sighting in the Himalayas, I found myself bestowed with a Sony Walkman from that very market. And oh, let’s not forget the legendary pair of shoes that outlasted even the most enduring relationships – they were my prized possession, until I had to finally give them away, after 10 years. But amidst these tales of consumer triumph, there lurked a mystery that even Patrick Jane or Anthony Dinozzo (big surprise I am a fan of Mentalist and NCIS) would have struggled to crack. Picture this: as one strolled through the market, eyes wide with wonder at the exotic things on display, one couldn’t help but notice a curious phenomenon. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, was clutching a chaata and chappal bought from that very export market. Remains a mystery till date. Perhaps it’s wise to leave certain mysteries untouched, lest they disrupt the delicate balance of normalcy in our otherwise mundane existence.
