On Nigdi

Nigdi — the word conjures up such magic. Such a warmth that envelops each one of us in the family. Mom and her Mom, my dear grandmom whom we fondly called OMA, took us year on year, summer holiday after summer holiday, to this magical getaway.

Was it luxurious? No. A five-star getaway with a lazy pool to relax in — no. It was quite the opposite. We had no electricity, which meant we bore the crushing afternoon heat lying on cool floors, not moving, waiting for the harsh sun to go down so we could emerge.

It meant sleeping early because there was no light except the kerosene lamps.

It meant a bath every alternate day so that the house help did not have to draw too much water from our wonderful well.

But it meant climbing trees and playing catch and cook on them.

Trees — for me they were my magic friends. I could snuggle up in the crook of a branch and send myself to sleep swaying to a gentle breeze, or we could imagine this was the Faraway Tree of Enid Blyton and get transported to lands of giants, of chocolate, and of fairies.

It meant bathing with a samavat — boiling hot water heated with live coals, water that could burn you. Those days, kids seemed to be born with an innate sense of survival and did not need the constant supervision today's kids seem to need. Not one incident of burns, and the house was full of kids of all ages and temperaments. I remember so clearly the delight of mixing the scalding hot water with the absolute cold well water in just the right proportions to make my perfect mix. A bath sitting on a stool, pretending I was mixing ingredients for a cake mix. The delight of that water on my body. Even at that age I knew this was something to be grateful for.

What did we do for over six weeks with no internet and no TV?

With no Google and no computers.

I only know that the days flew by and we never wanted to get into that car to get back to Mumbai. I would sadly walk around the whole garden saying goodbye to every tree, every leaf and flower, and every secret hiding place, promising to come back soon.

Mom this morning got me to speak to Badar, who is now in Pakistan. Imagine my delight as she recalled growing up in Nigdi — staying in train carriages, and the little cottage that later my granddad bought from her dad. She also talked about how they loved to follow the stream, and how those days were magical. They would have to go to Pune to go to school, and the train would wait if they were late so that they would not miss school. That train station too, for us years later, was one that spelt adventure. Mom would drive us there at least twice during our holidays. We would wait on the quiet platform where the trains had stopped halting. Far away in the distance we would see the train chug in. We would have kept coins on the track, and after the train had passed we got flattened coins. Such little things amused us.

Today, of course, I do wonder if that was a wrong thing to do, but a child's mind found a game that involved a train and us!

Badar talked fondly of the railway carriages, almost as if they were stately homes. Yes, they were railway bogies placed on stones that became one large room given to her brothers to live in with their families. The cottage was small, with two rooms. My granddad later built extra rooms, and that is what I remember.

No swimming pools, but little tanks in the large sprawling garden to make it easy for the gardener to water the plants. Tubs situated so that water could be pumped into them and used. Mom would get the largest tank filled up twice a month. Each lady who took water from our well would be requested to put in a few handas each in return for the water — and we had our swimming pool for a day or two.

The mind, imagination, and freedom to explore made those holidays more memorable than any five-star, any luxury holiday I have ever been on. The friends from the village who shared our table and who taught us city kids some toughness remain friends today.

Today, as the little squirrels scamper on Mom's terrace in Mahim, we remember our little Frisky, whom we rescued from under a tree, who nestled on our shoulders and nibbled our ears. As we bump on speed breakers in this city, I remember the bullock cart rides that made us sore but made us laugh.

Today, of course, I think of those beautiful white graceful bulls and feel sorry that they worked so hard to entertain us kids once each holiday. They were brought to us by the Patil with his enormous moustache and flamboyant pagdi, who came always to have tea with my grandmom and lent us his bullock cart for an evening.

These are everlasting memories. I cherish them and thank my Mom for giving them to me. They ignited in all of us the love for nature, the respect for all creatures great and small, the joy of sunsets and rainbows, the ability to never want because there is so much already around and within us, and all we have to do is use a little bit of imagination.

These holidays taught us the value of friends who would run to us with open arms though we met just once a year. We learnt to play cards and word games and found things to do under beds and with pieces of string.

Today, as we cope with so much and people need so much to fill a day, I thank my Mom and my OMA for Nigdi — for teaching me to find happiness in the whisper of a breeze and the gentle sway of the swing.

And for the world that is coping with the lockdown, I say: look out of your window and be grateful. Enjoy that hot water on your body as you bathe. Listen to the sound of water and the birds who, even in this dust-filled city, still inhabit the few trees left. Reach for a book or sing a song. Life is in the little things.

To the family that sold us that beautiful place, I thank them, and it was so wonderful to reach across a generation and share the magic of that place that is still Green In My Mind and heart.