My Boyhood Fixations

Retd. Brig. Rattan Kaul

It has dawned on me that a boy’s growing years in Srinagar are not, and have never been, hassle-free. Decades ago, as now, errands, school, studies, play, and friends took up most of a boy’s time, leaving little room for personal inclinations. Nostalgia often brings back those somewhat different days when I could freely roam the town—from Gaw Kadal to Safakadal, Dal Lake, or climb Shankaracharya Temple. Ah, those precious days…

The age of ten is a strange time for a boy, especially when he’s made to accompany his grandmother on visits to her relatives. He’s neither an escort nor an appendage, unsure whether to join younger cousins playing marbles or older ones playing cricket. Such a visit felt like punishment, as my grandmother, a dictator, wouldn’t accept ‘No’. This is exactly what happened when I reached my grandaunt’s place in downtown Srinagar at Safakadal with her.

Efforts to join the younger cousins were met with, “Bhaiya, aap bade ho, bado ke saat khelo” (Brother, you are grown up, play with the older ones). With the older ones, someone always asked me to hold his sweater, making it clear I should keep off the field. My presence also barred the cricketers from using their choicest epithets in front of a young boy, and they tauntingly told me to have snacks at home. Literally in tears, I slowly walked back from Idgah when a six-year-old girl in a pink dress and ponytail hairstyle engaged me in conversation.

Talking about books, school, and friends, an aura built around our acquaintance after a few visits. I started looking forward to my grandmother’s trips to her sister’s place, cajoling or forcing company on such occasions. On arrival at Safakadal, my first task was scouting for my pretty friend, making my day complete. The exchange of toffees and knick-knacks gradually led to a friendship band. Two years later, class studies put brakes on my visits, and the friendship faded away, like a forgotten dream.

Years later, after joining the Army and experiencing a failed romance, it was time to settle down at the request of a very close friend who had sacrificed everything for me. My parents, too, were keen to see me settled. Grandmother found a prospective bride from Safakadal.

Possibly, I would have said ‘No,’ but her stern stare made me mumble ‘Yes.’ She had her way, choosing a girl from a clan known to her. If she had her say, she would have let me see the girl only after marriage, but my parents insisted otherwise.

A few days later, it was time for a rendezvous. I liked her, especially her ponytail hairstyle. A year-plus of courtship and exchanging letters while I was on border duty, my mind focused on her photograph with the ponytail. Beginning life as a married man, I forgot childhood fixations and the six-year-old girl. What remained were the guilt pangs of a teenager and the married life ahead. After a tenure on the border and a posting to a peace station as ADC to a General, I received her at the station with her baggage. She refused my offer to carry her small airbag, as if it contained treasure.

A few days later, once settled, I mustered the courage to show her my photo album. Blissfully, we saw photographs from my toddler days to my time in uniform. Suddenly, she jumped, rushed to her bag, and rummaged through it, giggling all the way. She handed me a bunch of photographs, and my eyes got glued to a photograph of a six-year-old with a familiar ponytail hairstyle. Turning to her in disbelief, her giggle wouldn’t stop, for she never remembered the ten-year-old me. Gathering her, I looked heavenwards, thanking God for small mercies.

For once, I had gotten someone I once longed for.

Far bells rang in praise of God,

A rose sacrificed itself at the altar.

The sun smiled with its blessing rays,

Dewdrops shined like sea pearls.

Happily, he remained glued to her,

For she meant everything to him.

How could he dare to miss her,

His dream world was in her eyes.

This being his daily prayer,

For a dream with only her,

She was everything to him,

He was incomplete without her.

Coyly, she smiled and felt proud,

For he had shunned prayers for her,

To be in his wonderful dreams,

Why then should she despair?

The ponytail has been a hallmark hairstyle for our two daughters, despite their longing for a boy cut. Possibly, it will remain so for generations, as our daughter has applied the same hairstyle to her daughter, Bebo. Looking towards the main personality in the house, my wife, with her modified ponytail, I remember her airbag she still keeps locked in the box she brought from her parents home at the time of marriage. On rare occasions, when we gather for anniversaries or birthdays, these photos see the light of day amid the resonant giggles of our children and us. However, she was dismayed when she recently showed these photographs to her three-year-old granddaughter, born in Russia, who insisted they were of Bebo, her own pet name, saying forcefully, “Nani nahi hai, Bebo hai. Russia main uthaya tha” (No, it’s not Grandma; it’s me, Bebo, while in Russia).

Not ready to accept her granddaughter’s outburst, she helplessly looked towards me. I had to get up, pat her, touch her modified ponytail, and say, “Of course, it is you, my dearest six-year-old first girlfriend.” It’s another thing that I was now on the firing line of my granddaughter Bebo’s tantrums, while the house reverberated with the giggles of our children.