It is more than a year. I visited my blog today. The feeling was akin to what you feel when you visit a place where you have spent time in the past. The gush of feelings experienced by a time traveller as he hurtles into a long forgotten past. The feeling of deja vu as one experiences a horde of myriad images floating in the deep recesses of one's hazy memory.
Life in the army had given me enough opportunities to trip through memory lane. At first it was as a child, flitting from cantonment to cantonment depending on what fortune had in store for my late father. Each new station was a process of rebirth. New house, new school, new friends and and entirely new environment.
The earliest memory of such a change is our house in Goa where we could see the orange ball of fire being swallowed by the Arabian sea every evening. The memory of dad in his favorite chair regaling a doting mom with colorful tales of the day. The small garden in front with steps leading you to it. The small house on the hill, afforded one a luxurious view of the sea as it lashed the shores in eternal fury. It was only an Army cantonment that could provide one with such luxuries without having to dig deep into one's pocket.
The house in Kolkata was quite bare in comparison. The memories too are quite black and white in stark contrast to the myriad images of Goa. It was the time when India undertook an adventurous campaign to liberate Bangladesh. The experience of blackouts is one that never fades from memory. It was also the time when dad went on a mission to Jessore. The only time in his Army career when he had to leave us behind and go on an operational stint.
Delhi cantonment brings back vivid images of long bicycle rides along the wide roads with sparse traffic. A group of friends would go from house to house and tinkle their bicycle bells to announce arrival. This would result in the addition of one more member to the group, The school with its vast array of bicycle stands was a sight in itself. Last month I happened to pass by the same road. I craned my neck to look out for a bicycle. Even if there was one, it would have been lost in the mad rush of an endless stream of cars as drivers honked furiously and looked out for ways to overtake each other.
There were a lot of other places. The journey continued even after dad hung his uniform and I donned mine. There is more to say but let us leave it for another day.
Life in the army had given me enough opportunities to trip through memory lane. At first it was as a child, flitting from cantonment to cantonment depending on what fortune had in store for my late father. Each new station was a process of rebirth. New house, new school, new friends and and entirely new environment.
The earliest memory of such a change is our house in Goa where we could see the orange ball of fire being swallowed by the Arabian sea every evening. The memory of dad in his favorite chair regaling a doting mom with colorful tales of the day. The small garden in front with steps leading you to it. The small house on the hill, afforded one a luxurious view of the sea as it lashed the shores in eternal fury. It was only an Army cantonment that could provide one with such luxuries without having to dig deep into one's pocket.
The house in Kolkata was quite bare in comparison. The memories too are quite black and white in stark contrast to the myriad images of Goa. It was the time when India undertook an adventurous campaign to liberate Bangladesh. The experience of blackouts is one that never fades from memory. It was also the time when dad went on a mission to Jessore. The only time in his Army career when he had to leave us behind and go on an operational stint.
Delhi cantonment brings back vivid images of long bicycle rides along the wide roads with sparse traffic. A group of friends would go from house to house and tinkle their bicycle bells to announce arrival. This would result in the addition of one more member to the group, The school with its vast array of bicycle stands was a sight in itself. Last month I happened to pass by the same road. I craned my neck to look out for a bicycle. Even if there was one, it would have been lost in the mad rush of an endless stream of cars as drivers honked furiously and looked out for ways to overtake each other.
There were a lot of other places. The journey continued even after dad hung his uniform and I donned mine. There is more to say but let us leave it for another day.
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