By Monica Bakre
EARLY 1980s— Bangalore! My sister and I, new migrants from the capital, taking stock of the ‘simple’ South! With our flowing hair and confident ways (tinged with cheeky arrogance), we were how most teens all over the world are. One person who became a target of our mischievous attention was the baker’s son in the neighbourhood. Along with his father, he ran a well-stocked bakery, his Anglicized ways juxtaposed with the ‘naam’ on his forehead making him a serious contender for being the ‘most laughed at by us’!
Ignoring his squirming, we would walk into his bakery, giggling at his parrot green pastries and shocking pink cakes with coconut toppings. Things became worse for him when we trooped in to report the discovery of a cockroach in one of his loaves of bread! We would cruelly check with him every time after that if he had checked the dough before baking! The worst embarrassment came for him when he was to get married and invited us for the wedding.
“Oh….So you are a ‘dulha‘ (bridegroom) now?”, we teased with disdain, even nicknaming him ‘dulha‘.
Time passed, years rolled on—-marriage, parenthood, jobs— we moved to different parts of the country separated forever from our simple, middle-class neighbourhood.
JANUARY 2004— Returning from my clinic late one evening, I passed the same neighbourhood and wanting to make an emergency purchase, parked by. I found the same bakery and walked in. The bakery was larger, neater, and more hi-tech now. The parrot green pastries wore a soft pista look, the cakes, a lovely baby pink. And then, I saw dulha— slightly portly, balding, bespectacled now, he wore the same ‘naam’ and swift business ways.
“How are your mother and sister?”, he asked politely. I was surprised that he had recognised me. Briefing him on their whereabouts, I enquired after him.
“I have a son studying engineering and a daughter in high school”, he informed me.
“My son is 18, an adult now”, I replied softly.
Quite suddenly, something happened.
“It’s nearly 25 years…”, he said.
“Yeah, 25 years is a long, long time…”, my voice trailed off.
I saw that his eyes were moist and I could not speak too. In silence, we ruminated, perhaps remembering those carefree days in the 80s.
What our tears meant, I know not. I don’t know if we rejoiced the brief reunion or lamented the loss of days bygone. All I know is, that in that moment in time, something intangible, yet palpable bonded us. We were on even ground now.
About the Author: Monica Bakre is a qualified counselor/psychologist, with interest in reading, writing, cooking, music, and pets. She describes herself as an observant, absorbing, thinking, speculating, and sensitive individual.