Summertime Reminiscences

 

 

My desk, a weather beaten writing bureau with a row of shallow drawers and tiny cubicles stood facing the wall on the first floor landing. When opened out on its sliding supports, the slanting top cover served as the  writing surface. My very presence at this work station sent out  invisible ‘do not disturb’ signals to the family making this my obvious comfort zone. When springtime came visiting however, the strong south breezes were never far behind. Across the unbuilt acres southwards, filtered by the leafy canopy of the distant peepul and the enormous banyan and right through the wide open windows cooling gusts came calling straight into my head ruffling my concentration and curling up the pages of the text that lay open on the desk. As the weather warmed up, the breezes grew more daring making counterpanes fly off beds, banging shut all the open doors  and even knocking the table lamp off my desk top. These were the triggers for the collective thoughts of the family to turn to the plans for the easter vacation. Equally predictably Puri was the favoured choice for there was no better location to enjoy summer breezes. 

 

 

 

Some easter breaks found the family at the BNR hotel, luxuriously colonial with its enormous sea facing balcony, and huge rooms each equipped with two large bathrooms for one had to be with a bath tub and one without ! Room service was impeccable but the dining room experience was worth the trouble of having to present oneself in formal attire at the specified hour. Salt breezes blowing in through the arched windows were the only source of sound for conversation was in appropriately hushed tones. Liveried bearers moved around silently serving course after course and whisking away the used crockery. This last remains fixed in my mind as the feature essential to a proper English breakfast! Having done due diligence to the fruit juice, the cereal and milk, the bacon and eggs, the ham and sausages and the fruit platter, we would go back to the room to change for the sea side. 

 

The BNR would become an extension of the High Court during the easter week. The sea front of BNR was even better than a private beach. This outdoor club of the high court encompassed an exclusive circle of family and friends who knew each other well in the city and got on famously in their annual beach holiday activities. Greetings would typically be, “We couldn’t get the corner room this time. Which one is yours?”

 

 

Despite everything, our best Puri vacations are linked to a privately owned bungalow named Ananda Dham, owned by one of father’s clients. This was an enormous single storied squat structure comprising four large bedrooms with fourposter beds, an enormous hall and a large and airy front room. It stood in the first row closest to the sea and had no other buildings in close proximity. There were open balconies jutting into the ever encroaching sand dunes.The beach in front was as good as private. Being so close to the waterfront, it was quite a distance from the motorable road and accessing it always involved an undignified scramble across the dunes with luggage in tow, typically through the  large backyard adjoining which was the caretaker’s quarters. This worthy having been activated the rooms would be opened and swept out and beds made. All this made little difference for living in this abode involved making one’s peace with sand in the bedsheets and floors perennially sticky with brine. Sometimes it was the plumbing that gave up altogether necessitating water being drawn from the well into the two large primitive bathtrooms appropriately distanced from the bedrooms in keeping with contemporary standards of hygiene. Such minor hiccups we, the juniors, took in our stride as good exercise for the calf muscles. We even developed a fondness the post swim bath in the courtyard as the chill water of the well was just the right antidote after the prolonged exposure to sun and sea. 

 

Much later, on a trip very hurriedly arranged without adequate forethought, we found to our dismay that no train reservations were remotely possible until a fortnight after our joining dates at work. Hiring a car to come back was not even a possibility even if our collective finances could rise to it, for cars were simply not available on hire. Far from being cast into despair, I recall spending that evening waltzing in the moonlit front balcony to a rather rocky Blue Danube being played with great gusto on a friend’s harmonica. So how did we manage to return in time to join work? The next morning the said friend walked across to the BNR hotel to find any senior railway official who may have worked as a junior under his father, who had retired as the first Indian chief engineer of the Railways. This done, an extra bogie was attached to Puri Express to accommodate our needs. Wasn’t life  simple when such privileges held sway for the fortunate !

 

Ananda Dham was just perfect for a holiday with a large group of people, whether it was friends or extended family.  This was despite the fact that it contained simply the bare necessities of life with everything of greater value having seen better days due to erosion by sand and brine. One year as a large group of friends prepared to settle down for the night, one half of the front door came right off its hinges into my hand. In no way did this change the sleeping arrangements. Half a dozen of us were still eager to occupy the extended bedding on the floor of the front room now open to the elements. Mother and father, being the lightest sleepers were to occupy the main hall behind the first locked door. One bedroom was allotted to the four children and one to the fourth and newly married couple amongst us. Morning saw a travelling vendor of mishti sitting patiently outside the open doorway eyeing proceedings with immense interest as each person sat up in bedwith a stretch and a yawn. Promptly vast quantities of balushai, chom chom and samosas were bought filling available containers to the brim while the mishti wallah went back happily promising to be back the next morning. Breakfast having been demolished with great gusto, it was time to head out for the main proceedings of the holiday. 

 

 

The sky is a dazzling blue overhead. Sunlight glancing off the endless blue ahead is already fierce. An unmistakable scent of brine hangs in the air. Cooling salty sprays are carried by the winds raging in over the breakers. The boom and crash of the breakers followed by the long rumble and hiss raises the adrenaline to unbearable levels. We are all out on the beach right at the shoreline. Our children run around on the sand involved in some complex game running up from time to time to touch base. An image that flashes across my mind has my father sitting cross legged on the beach enjoying the breakers holding his cigar high over his head every time the foam threatens to extinguish it. He is surrounded by his entire brood. The women of our parental generation in their modest black swim suits as are the men, while we  the children, cavort around them. Beckoning to the nulias some of us go in for a dip while some are content to sit at the shoreline and be splashed by the occasional breaker. 

 

Memories fade and flower kaleidoscoping across decades. My sister lies alongside me, eyes tightly shut, totally at peace with the world. I sit up gazing worshipfully at the foaming blue sea. My stocky little tousle headed four year old drops his bat and ball and slides quietly into my lap blending into my mood, ever philosophical. My mind’s eye shifts to an older version of the son busy doodling on the sand and jumping up to run down to the waterline just to roll in the brine before he comes away and starts building a sand castle while an admiring row of youngsters stand around eager to help. Every so often I turn over to lie on my stomach enjoying the brine washing over me taking away the heat of the sun burning fiercely on my back. Out of the corner of my I see my daughter, a shorn and plump toddler, in a blue checked bikini contentedly collecting sea shells while the sand filled bikini bottom slips down to the thighs every time she squats to dig up a shell Our cluster of nulias sit in a huddle close by enjoying their smoke between dips. 

 

 

 

 

From time to time we sit up dust off the sand and head purposefully into the water accompanied by our trusted nulias. We position ourselves sideways at the water line for the pull of the receding water to help us plough into the brine. In we go taking big steps so that we are in at least waist deep water before the next breaker rolls in. Diving past the dangerously low water levels we ride the swell on our backs floating up high as each wave passes. In case we find ourselves washed in too close to the shallows we have to quickly raise ourselves and race into the sea before getting caught by one of the big ones where there is no place to dive under it. Out we head again diving under the rollers and floating over the swells being carried further and further away along the beach far to the left towards Chakrateertha, but always taking care not to move too far away from each other. Pleasantly tired out we decide to come out of the water. This involves throwing ourselves up just at the right instant to ride a roller back into the shallows and then scramble hastily out of the water. Once in awhile a mistimed exit results in involuntary somersaults as one is churned up with the sand and tossed around with no control whatsoever. 

 

 

My mind’s eye focuses on a couple come striding up along the waterline. He is bearded and long-limbed with silver glints in his hair. Droplets of water trickle down his bare brown torso. He sways slightly back and forth as he walks hand in hand with a nut brown woman on sturdily muscled legs, shapely in a shiny white swimsuit her toes curling into the wet sand. Her wet hair whips across her face turned up to the sun and the wind, glorying in being alive. Calf muscles ache pleasantly. Salt clings to the skin and dries on the lips. Exhausted we flop down in the sand silently stretching out our hands towards the group still relaxing seated under the canopy rigged up by  the nulias. The unspoken request is met with two freshly lit cigarettes finding their way into our hands. Dragging deeply I shut my eyes marveling at the perfection that is life.  

 

 

The bracing salt spray is flung high in the air as the boom and hiss of the surf continue endlessly. Buffeting winds and hot sun dry off the cool wetness off one’s back, caked in brine and sand. We lie on our stomachs soaking up the sun burning into the back. Cheek pillowed in the softly churning sand, we shut our eyes tight inhaling deeply the aroma of the sea and sand, waiting for the cooling waters to come racing up as the curling billows come crashing onto the sands. The roar rises to a crescendo and subsides to a long drawn out fizz as the tiny bubbles of foam recede tracing new patterns in the sand. Shells drag along the sand. Little brown crabs scuttle into their digs. We await the next onrush. The big ones sound a little louder and instantly the torrent comes racing over, spray rushing up in a fan, tossing one around like flotsam leaving sand billowing around and then, it is gone. Just like that.