The past weekend was excellent weather-wise. Today, however, it was hot. Hot summers remind me of India in April and May, prior to the onset of monsoon and invariably my childhood. Funnily today I was craving for Limca, a lime and lemon flavored soda that is so Indian. After India opened her markets in 1992, Coca Cola bought the company that produced this popular Indian soda. I have a childhood story attached to Limca.
My paternal side of the family is extremely close knit. We would go on vacations together and invariably do a lot of activities together. My father is very close to his cousins so our trips included our extended family as well. We would go on vacations and short weekend trips. My parents are polar opposites; my mother was and still is extremely protective while my father always let his kids be independent. I was a daddy’s girl and always used to follow my father like a shadow.
When I was around eight, my family went on a weekend trip to Lonavla, a popular destination in the mountains. While returning home, my father’s car broke down and we decided to leave it there and take a train back home. My entire extended family, including uncles, aunts and cousins decided to take a train from Lonavla back to Bombay (it was not called Mumbai then). I remember that we had to get off at Karjat, a major rail terminus and take a connecting local train to our respective destinations. Our group consisted of 20-25 people and we were thoroughly enjoying ourselves singing songs, laughing and joking.
Karjat is famous for its vada pav, which is a fast food dish native to my state. My parents were strict and did not like us to eat street food especially food that had zero nutrition. My uncle, however, decided that there were no rules on a Sunday, which is a fun day, and treated all of us to that. After we were done eating, all but my father and I, walked away. The reason was that yours truly wanted another Limca. While my father was paying for it, I smartly suggested that I would walk by myself to where the group was waiting. My father asked me if I knew where they were and I rather confidently said yes. It was on the same platform but in the opposite direction of the cafeteria and I thought I was smart enough to go there by myself.
Unbeknown to me, the station announced the platform from where the train would depart and the group left to go to the correct platform. So I walk out of the cafeteria and along the length of the platform, to find that my group had already left in the interim. I ran back to the cafeteria to find my father gone as well. Before you think my father is irresponsible, he thought that I had reached the group while my mother thought that I was with him. They were in for a rude shock when they didn’t find their second born in the group. Within minutes the platform was deserted and there was not a soul in sight!
Despite my bravado, I was still an eight year old child. I did what any eight-year old would do, which was burst into tears. Suddenly a crowd gathered around me asking me questions as to who I was, where I lived and if I were lost. In that crowd was a group of tribal people, the Bhils, who insisted on taking me to my parent’s home. I had not seen Bhils in my life before and to see strange people speaking a strange form of Hindi was scary. I barely understood Hindi then so started crying even louder. I have to say that a child’s instincts are rather good and I had paid attention when my mother used to teach us to not speak to strangers or take anything from them or go with them. Therefore I stayed glued to the ground bawling on top of my lungs. In all probability the whole town of Karjat might have heard me.
Suddenly in the commotion, which I had caused, I hear a gentle voice ask me in Marathi, “Do you know where you live child?” I look up to see a beautiful Maharashtrian woman with peaches and cream complexion and deep green eyes. She had no make up on and was dressed in a pretty cotton saree, mangalsutra and bindi (I must say the Wikipedia entry has another fellow Maharashtrian of course with a lot of make-up). She was with a boy, probably her son, who was around my age. I was shaking and between my sobs, I tell her that I know my parents address and my home phone number. She asked me if I knew how to get home from the train station, and I nodded my head in agreement. Then she gently asked me if I wanted to first come with her to the station's office as she was confident that my parents must be worried sick and must be looking for me. I calmed down and agreed to go with her, when I heard another gentle voice calling my name. It was none other than my mother! I leapt across the crowd into her arms. She hugged and kissed me and we ran towards our waiting group. In her excitement she forgot to thank the lady. When she realized that, she turned around but the kind lady had already left. My mother for a long time after that used to feel bad that she had not thanked her. You know this incident is etched in my memory, however I don't remember if I even drank the second limca or what happened to it after I got lost.
The course of events of my being lost and found probably occurred in less than five minutes; however it seemed like an eternity in my and my parent’s mind. When I got back to the group everyone was relived that I was safe and sound. When the tense moments subsided, everyone was back to enjoying themselves and did what any self respecting older cousins would do, which is make me a butt of their jokes. To date the nickname “Limca” has stuck on! It is a term of endearment now, but every landmark moment in my life has been, “Oh our Limca is getting married” or “Oh our Limca is going to pursue her graduate studies. Please don’t get lost in the US.” The cousin who helped me set up my apartment as blogged in the previous post, was part of that group then. True to the spirit of the Limca tradition, he made fun of me when I decided to drive to Chicago from Ann Arbor to spend my first Christmas with him! I am not certain about this but knowing my mother, I can safely say that my father must have been in the doghouse for a pretty longtime after this incident.
My paternal side of the family is extremely close knit. We would go on vacations together and invariably do a lot of activities together. My father is very close to his cousins so our trips included our extended family as well. We would go on vacations and short weekend trips. My parents are polar opposites; my mother was and still is extremely protective while my father always let his kids be independent. I was a daddy’s girl and always used to follow my father like a shadow.
When I was around eight, my family went on a weekend trip to Lonavla, a popular destination in the mountains. While returning home, my father’s car broke down and we decided to leave it there and take a train back home. My entire extended family, including uncles, aunts and cousins decided to take a train from Lonavla back to Bombay (it was not called Mumbai then). I remember that we had to get off at Karjat, a major rail terminus and take a connecting local train to our respective destinations. Our group consisted of 20-25 people and we were thoroughly enjoying ourselves singing songs, laughing and joking.
Karjat is famous for its vada pav, which is a fast food dish native to my state. My parents were strict and did not like us to eat street food especially food that had zero nutrition. My uncle, however, decided that there were no rules on a Sunday, which is a fun day, and treated all of us to that. After we were done eating, all but my father and I, walked away. The reason was that yours truly wanted another Limca. While my father was paying for it, I smartly suggested that I would walk by myself to where the group was waiting. My father asked me if I knew where they were and I rather confidently said yes. It was on the same platform but in the opposite direction of the cafeteria and I thought I was smart enough to go there by myself.
Unbeknown to me, the station announced the platform from where the train would depart and the group left to go to the correct platform. So I walk out of the cafeteria and along the length of the platform, to find that my group had already left in the interim. I ran back to the cafeteria to find my father gone as well. Before you think my father is irresponsible, he thought that I had reached the group while my mother thought that I was with him. They were in for a rude shock when they didn’t find their second born in the group. Within minutes the platform was deserted and there was not a soul in sight!
Despite my bravado, I was still an eight year old child. I did what any eight-year old would do, which was burst into tears. Suddenly a crowd gathered around me asking me questions as to who I was, where I lived and if I were lost. In that crowd was a group of tribal people, the Bhils, who insisted on taking me to my parent’s home. I had not seen Bhils in my life before and to see strange people speaking a strange form of Hindi was scary. I barely understood Hindi then so started crying even louder. I have to say that a child’s instincts are rather good and I had paid attention when my mother used to teach us to not speak to strangers or take anything from them or go with them. Therefore I stayed glued to the ground bawling on top of my lungs. In all probability the whole town of Karjat might have heard me.
Suddenly in the commotion, which I had caused, I hear a gentle voice ask me in Marathi, “Do you know where you live child?” I look up to see a beautiful Maharashtrian woman with peaches and cream complexion and deep green eyes. She had no make up on and was dressed in a pretty cotton saree, mangalsutra and bindi (I must say the Wikipedia entry has another fellow Maharashtrian of course with a lot of make-up). She was with a boy, probably her son, who was around my age. I was shaking and between my sobs, I tell her that I know my parents address and my home phone number. She asked me if I knew how to get home from the train station, and I nodded my head in agreement. Then she gently asked me if I wanted to first come with her to the station's office as she was confident that my parents must be worried sick and must be looking for me. I calmed down and agreed to go with her, when I heard another gentle voice calling my name. It was none other than my mother! I leapt across the crowd into her arms. She hugged and kissed me and we ran towards our waiting group. In her excitement she forgot to thank the lady. When she realized that, she turned around but the kind lady had already left. My mother for a long time after that used to feel bad that she had not thanked her. You know this incident is etched in my memory, however I don't remember if I even drank the second limca or what happened to it after I got lost.
The course of events of my being lost and found probably occurred in less than five minutes; however it seemed like an eternity in my and my parent’s mind. When I got back to the group everyone was relived that I was safe and sound. When the tense moments subsided, everyone was back to enjoying themselves and did what any self respecting older cousins would do, which is make me a butt of their jokes. To date the nickname “Limca” has stuck on! It is a term of endearment now, but every landmark moment in my life has been, “Oh our Limca is getting married” or “Oh our Limca is going to pursue her graduate studies. Please don’t get lost in the US.” The cousin who helped me set up my apartment as blogged in the previous post, was part of that group then. True to the spirit of the Limca tradition, he made fun of me when I decided to drive to Chicago from Ann Arbor to spend my first Christmas with him! I am not certain about this but knowing my mother, I can safely say that my father must have been in the doghouse for a pretty longtime after this incident.
1 comment:
Wow, how scary for you and your folks Sai! I'm glad the story had a happy ending, Limca! ;-)
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