Some of my memories are of things that can never be seen or experienced now. A ride in a bullock cart with the sun beating down on my head, the green trees swaying in the breeze and the red soil providing a great contrast. That said, I must add that the ride was most uncomfortable!

Jackfruit trees laden with the heavy fruit, thick shiny leaves and the huge jackfruits hanging by just a tiny stem and the tell-tale leaf, waiting to fall when the fruit ripened to perfection.

Cashew trees with their colourful fruit- yellow, orange, red- and the sweet yet acidic fragrance. The cashewnut  itself looking rather brown and ridiculous, like an over-sized ear-ring, stuck to the bottom of the soft fruit , an afterthought; not at all like the plump, white nut found in packets.

Mornings in the village, stepping out of the house into the garden redolent with the fragrance of green champa, the bathroom with its huge hot water ‘ bhaan’ and the smoky smell of wood burning under it. The tiny green coconuts with their little brown caps and cool raw smell, fallen to their end before they could grow. They looked so smooth and perfect, I could never resist picking them up and gloated over my hoard until some adult scoffed at me and threw them all out.

The feel of picking up a small calf-“ yes, yes, hold him just so, or he will kick”, ‘helping’ to milk the cows or draw water from the well; the afternoon siesta(compulsory!) on the cool granite platforms in the mutth, falling asleep in the cool breeze of the woven coconut leaf fans, the evening walk to the bazaar with grandfather, the grittiness of sand between our toes as we walked back from the sea-shore…..

It surprises me that I have so many memories of my visits to our village, Gokarn. And it saddens me that I do not have stronger ties there, that I will now be a stranger.

There are other memories, too, of a by-gone age, of things and happenings that the future generations will only read about(as e-books, no doubt!)…..climbing guava trees with my father to snack on the freshest guavas ever; of a mango-laden tree in our garden, with mangoes touching our knees as we walked around the tree admiringly;of riding home from the market majestically in a tonga, enjoying the clip clop clip clop of the horse, the red and yellow plumes on its head moving in time to its gait; of an entire room reserved for mangoes of different sizes, hues and fragrance. And the same room being filled with crackers and our joy, at Diwali; of contented evenings sprawled in yellow cane chairs on the lawn; of the happy days when we had strange pets- baby squirrels, a hedgehog- and the not so strange ones- an Alsatian pup, and later on, our dear Silky who, while chasing his own tail and going round and round, swirled his way into our memories forever.

Much later we had two tortoises, Speedy and Sweeney. Calmly chomping their way through cucumbers and tomatoes most of the year, their sleep filled motionless winters made it possible for us to go off on holidays without worrying about them.

Late afternoons with mother and grandmothers rolling and frying and storing goodies in tall steel dabbas; leisurely after-dinner read aloud sessions with parents, chuckling over humourous Marathi and English stories, the characters of which I still remember; listening to the AIR news by Lotika Ratnam, itching to talk but quiet as mice with father engrossed in the state of the world; the Vividh Bharati radio programmes- listening avidly, trying to decide which movie to see; finally going for the movie with chips and candies and water bottles…….

These are some of the memories I have, growing up in a middle-class home in Bombay, with vacations in townships, in large old fashioned houses and sometimes a month in our seaside village. Middle class but very, very rich!