Having developed a deep appreciation for the natural environment during my formative years, my move to Hyderabad at the age of 9, just on the cusp of turning 10, introduced me to the profound influence of the National Police Academy in my life.
Nestled among rocks, trees, and wilderness, it was a paradise, a sanctuary away from the bustling city of Hyderabad. The first memory I vividly recall is of a big blue bus resembling a frog, ferrying us to and from school in the city. Everything in it was blue, including the seats. There were 5 double seaters on both sides of the aisle and a long seat continuous last seat. Seat number 3 was everyone’s favourite – it had a little raised platform to put our feet. As the afternoon approached, the rush to secure the coveted third seat became a thrilling competition. The journey back, spent gazing out the window at the passing sights and sounds, brought a sense of comfort and reassurance.
The aroma of biscuits while crossing the Paro biscuit factory signaled nearing home, filling me with happiness. Entering the gates of NPA brought feelings of comfort and safety.
At home, my mother awaited with lunch, and despite the late afternoon hour, I savoured every bite while surrounded by piled-up books, especially Amar Chitra Kathas. Reading while eating became a ritual, creating a sense of sanctuary.
I recall very clearly, one such day, sitting down for lunch with my mother when the sound of a gunshot pierced the air. Abandoning my meal, I bolted outside, shouting that Jimmie had been shot. Despite my mother’s attempts to reassure me, insisting it couldn’t be true because it was known that Jimmie was looked after by us, I couldn’t shake the conviction deep in my gut that my fears were tragically real.
Jimmie, a stray dog, had been bequeathed to me by Shalini didi as she prepared to depart from NPA due to her parents’ transfer. She left me with firm and clear instructions: Jimmie was to receive one raw egg in the morning, followed by rotis later in the day.
Shalini didi was my idol, my role model. A top-notch student, she consistently excelled in her studies. Her handwriting was like poetry, so beautiful. I emulated her style, refining my own handwriting to mirror the graceful curves and flowing rhythm of her letters. I imagine her teachers would have enjoyed correcting her notebooks. There is so much I learnt from her.
You can grasp the extent to which I solemnly heeded her instructions and adhered to them meticulously. I informed my mother of the necessity to feed Jimmie raw eggs, and she dutifully provided the egg each morning. Transitioning from being Shalini didi’s dog to becoming mine, Jimmie seemed to understand the change. She refrained from approaching anyone else but consistently responded to my calls. Her instincts for survival were sharp.
So when I heard the sound of the gunshot, I dashed outside, calling her name in every direction. Our bond was so strong that I instinctively knew where she might be hiding. I ventured into the wilderness behind the houses, where only trees, wild vegetation, and rocks surrounded me. Standing there, I waited anxiously for her, oblivious to the passage of time. Suddenly, she appeared out of nowhere, rushing towards me with blood on her neck. Holding her close, I wept uncontrollably, the tears flowing for what felt like an eternity. Gradually, my tears subsided, and I sat there, comforting her with my words. With no one else in sight, I hesitated to leave her side. Eventually, I heard voices calling my name, likely searching for me. Jimmie caught sight of them approaching and bolted away into the distance.
I was a child and there was only so much I could do. I was very sad for the next few days, until suddenly, one fine day, Jimmie appeared at my doorstep, her tail wagging furiously, looking completely fine! I ran to her and hugged her and cried. I called out to my mother to come out. My mother ran out and she was also so happy to see Jimmie.
Jimmie was a true survivor, a fighter, and her resilience taught me valuable lessons. I believe there’s a significant part of Jimmie’s spirit within me.
Nature serves as an endless source of wisdom and wonder. In our early years, we view its marvels with fascination and awe, absorbing its lessons with open hearts and curious minds.
One such marvel I encountered were the tiny red velvet bugs, which I later discovered were called Birbabuti. Upon researching, I found out that they belong to the arachnid family and are called Trombidiidae, harmless creatures with eight legs, typically emerging during the rainy season. I vividly remember collecting 10-12 of them and placing them in a shoebox filled with mud and grass, ensuring air holes for ventilation, and keeping them at home, ofcourse releasing them back into their habitat eventually.
Reflecting back, it’s amusing to recall the unconventional experiments we conducted as children.
I had amassed a marvelous assortment of treasures, spanning from shed snake skin and bird feathers to leaves and flowers, each carefully preserved within the pages of books. Additionally, I cultivated a collection of pebbles, red seeds abundant in the area, and even indulged in the hobby of stamp collecting.
However, the crowning jewel of my collection was undoubtedly the weaver bird’s nest. These nests are feats of avian architecture, meticulously crafted by male weaver birds to court potential mates. Each nest is a testament to the bird’s remarkable skill and precision. I recall proudly bringing the nest to school, where both teachers and students alike were eager to admire it.
I felt very important. Undoubtedly, it was the pinnacle of my existence thus far.
