I rack my onion (a fun word the evergreen P.G. Wodehouse used to denote the head and what is—or is supposed to be—inside!) to stretch my memory back to my diaper, or nappy, or whatever they were called in those days. I was born in a first-floor house in Pahar Ganj, Delhi. No, no, this is not from memory, but a learned fact—or what I was told is a fact. I stayed there until the age of seven, I think. It had a very narrow and steep staircase. My first memory is from when I was crawling and not yet walking. Somehow, I had managed to climb down to the ground floor. Luckily, there was a door. But while climbing back up, I can still feel the fear and panic I had, thinking I would fall. Maybe this trauma forcefully embedded itself in my tiny brain.

In 1998, when my elder son was visiting India, my family, along with one of my sister's families, were in Delhi on the way to Chandigarh and Manali. I managed to locate the house and took the group for a sightseeing trip of this historical place. In fact, the sister who was with me was also born there—this I didn't learn as a fact; I just knew.

Another memory was of the celebration of my sister's first birthday, which was very grand and pompous. There were huge pandals, ice cream corners, and the like. I was six, and not knowing it was our own function, I hesitated, with shaky and nervous legs, to eat what I wanted! One may call me a fool or simple, depending on the point of view. Right? I am generous with myself; I call myself simple.

It was a narrow street with two sawmills on one side and a sort of dairy run by a then-famous guy. It was him I sought after nearly 43 years to locate the Pahar Ganj landmark house I talked about.

During one Diwali holiday, we were coming back after an outing, and the whole street was filled with people, noise, and chaos. A rocket had hit the first sawmill, and the entire mill was burnt down. All the people were expressing how lucky they were that the fire did not spread to their houses. The sawmill owner was forgotten temporarily.

There was a government dispensary on the main road where all the government servants and their families were treated for minor ailments. Except for the eye doctor—or the complicated term, ophthalmologist—I never remember having gone to any doctor other than the dispensary. So convenient, so simple, and so useful.

A couple of Sardarji families were our immediate neighbors and great friends. One always felt safe when they were around.

This was the time I learned about a game called "Trade." Being a novice, I was told—and believed—that the game was a never-ending one. In later years, when I started playing this game, I realized we could end it whenever we wanted!

There was a family on the ground floor strictly run by a lady known to us as Bhuvaji, which later turned into Baaji.

More about her in the next post.

To be continued... 9. The Simplicity of Childhood Part 2