I spent the last few days reminiscing and basking in the glorious memories of childhood..
I was very eager not to let any little memory escape my mind so that I can recall them all in my blog.. but now when I actually sit down to type them, all the memories appear to be cluttered in the gray areas of my brain and I'd have to literally tap everyone of them out... and after I'm done with recalling them, I cant seem to decide which ones gain a precedence over the others to fit into my blog.. 
Lets start with the story of my birth..
My mother conceived me with very high hopes of begetting a male child after 3 females in a row.. 
Though she never told me this, my sisters would humorously tease me about how she had even sewn clothes for a baby boy.. and was a bit disappointed when I was born.. 
I refused to believe a word of their story as I knew they were always pulling my leg..
I especially recall this funny story my brother had made up about me being an adopted kid.. He even showed me one particular midwife sitting outside the hospital where I was born with a sullen look on her face and told me she was my real mother..
I remember very well how much I had cried looking at her over and over again.. 
If my parents were the least bit disappointed that I was born a girl, they never ever showed it.. Alhamdulillah I was the youngest and most pampered of all my siblings.. a fact my elder siblings crib about even to this day..
While growing up as a small kid, I was not the brash, naughty types.. On the other hand, I was this 'hypersensitive' kid who would shed gallons of tears every time someone struck me with a ball by mistake or pushed me or shoved me in any game..
and to my dismay this would happen very often.. so I infamously became the crybaby, touch-me-not types among the group of hardcore prankster kids.. 
and soon I learnt that to survive among them I had to masquerade as being a toughie too.. 
There was this huge tamarind tree in our neighborhood and we children would adore the shade of it in summers, pick sweet n sour tamarinds from under it and relish them with great delight..
it was a favorite spot at playtime.. There used to be this 'Icecreamwalah' who used to frequent the neighbourhood almost daily with his hand held cart of icecreams and he would make it a point to stand there endlessly for hours enticing the kids with his colorful icecreams.. 
I would resort to anything to have one lick of the Ice gola.. would run home and beg Ammi to give me a 'chavanni' or at times quietly sneak up to her Almirah and grab a couple from underneath the sheets which was the famous hiding place.. I remember the Icecreams though not very hygienic, were very delectable and I would slurp them with great delight.. 
a small mini milky icecream would be.. 'doodh ka icecream', a huge orange one in the shape of an umbrella would be a 'chatri' and the real famous chocobar called 'chacobar' and the raspberry duet went by the name 'raasberry'.. among various others.. mmm.. nummy.. yummm..!
I had a deadline for playtime.. I could play all I wanted, but it had to be before the 'Azaan' of Maghrib (dusk).. The moment, the call for prayer would be heard, all the children would run towards their homes in a mad frenzy, sometimes without even biding adieu to one another.. At Maghrib, we had an 'Ustadni-Ma' come over to my house to teach us to read the Holy Quran.. however.. after a certain period of time she stopping coming due to her ill health and so I was sent to the masjid to complete the remaining part of the Quran.. I remember being shocked when I went to the masjid for the first time..
There were hoards of children sitting in two rows facing each other and the Moulvi Sahab was making them read the Kalimas brandishing a bamboo stick in one hand..
The Moulvi Sahab was not the typical one clad in a kurta pyjama with a long beard.. infact he was a modern educated middle aged man in his thirties dressed up in shirts and trousers and had a little stubble..
One look at the happenings inside and I knew I wouldn't survive here.. lol!
I knew, all the 'Moulvi Sahab' had to do to scare me away was to use his stick on me once and I had made up mind not to come back to the masjid again.. The first couple of days I was treated kindly.. but to my horror I realized I could not escape the spankings which were an essential part of the curriculum... like all other students, I was hit if I made one little mistake while reading the Quran or performing the Namaz.. We were all made to stand in one row and asked the number of times we missed prayers during the day and were hit on our palms for those number of times.. 
If u think the punishments were harsh.. listen to this one.. the best of all.. if we were absent during the weekend.. we were made to kneel down and rub our noses on the mosque's floor.. LOL.. Those days there would be a hindi movie telecasted on 'doordarshan' on weekends and at those specific times everyone would be glued to the TV, even the streets used to wear a deserted look.. Every time I was spanked, I would weep and weep and weep.. I would run home with tears streaming down my face and resolved never to go back to the Masjid again.. but the Moulvi Sahab was my 'Ustaad'.. lol..The next day and everyday after that, he would send all the children to my house one by one.. and they would come up and bang the door persistently one after the other telling me that I was called by the Moulvi Sahab.. this continued.. until I changed my mind and went back.. needless to say, it worked every time ..
As a child I had the good fortune of playing out in the sun till my legs hurt and coming home all dirty and bruised,
running amuck in the wilderness catching the fireflies, grasshoppers, Birba Botis (Red Velvet Mites) and the kinds and storing them in match boxes, making paper boats with newspapers in the rain and making them sail in the muddy water streams.. splashing the rain water with my school shoes on the way home, playing marbles, cricket etcetera with small kids and winning all their marbles by hook or crook or continuously batting refusing to field or ball.. among hoards of other things.. I had my share of fun and my childhood has been an absolute joyride.. No regrets... Alhamdulillah!
I was very eager not to let any little memory escape my mind so that I can recall them all in my blog.. but now when I actually sit down to type them, all the memories appear to be cluttered in the gray areas of my brain and I'd have to literally tap everyone of them out... and after I'm done with recalling them, I cant seem to decide which ones gain a precedence over the others to fit into my blog.. Lets start with the story of my birth..
My mother conceived me with very high hopes of begetting a male child after 3 females in a row.. Though she never told me this, my sisters would humorously tease me about how she had even sewn clothes for a baby boy.. and was a bit disappointed when I was born.. I refused to believe a word of their story as I knew they were always pulling my leg.. I especially recall this funny story my brother had made up about me being an adopted kid.. He even showed me one particular midwife sitting outside the hospital where I was born with a sullen look on her face and told me she was my real mother..I remember very well how much I had cried looking at her over and over again.. If my parents were the least bit disappointed that I was born a girl, they never ever showed it.. Alhamdulillah I was the youngest and most pampered of all my siblings.. a fact my elder siblings crib about even to this day..While growing up as a small kid, I was not the brash, naughty types.. On the other hand, I was this 'hypersensitive' kid who would shed gallons of tears every time someone struck me with a ball by mistake or pushed me or shoved me in any game..
and to my dismay this would happen very often.. so I infamously became the crybaby, touch-me-not types among the group of hardcore prankster kids.. and soon I learnt that to survive among them I had to masquerade as being a toughie too.. There was this huge tamarind tree in our neighborhood and we children would adore the shade of it in summers, pick sweet n sour tamarinds from under it and relish them with great delight..
it was a favorite spot at playtime.. There used to be this 'Icecreamwalah' who used to frequent the neighbourhood almost daily with his hand held cart of icecreams and he would make it a point to stand there endlessly for hours enticing the kids with his colorful icecreams.. I would resort to anything to have one lick of the Ice gola.. would run home and beg Ammi to give me a 'chavanni' or at times quietly sneak up to her Almirah and grab a couple from underneath the sheets which was the famous hiding place.. I remember the Icecreams though not very hygienic, were very delectable and I would slurp them with great delight.. a small mini milky icecream would be.. 'doodh ka icecream', a huge orange one in the shape of an umbrella would be a 'chatri' and the real famous chocobar called 'chacobar' and the raspberry duet went by the name 'raasberry'.. among various others.. mmm.. nummy.. yummm..!I had a deadline for playtime.. I could play all I wanted, but it had to be before the 'Azaan' of Maghrib (dusk).. The moment, the call for prayer would be heard, all the children would run towards their homes in a mad frenzy, sometimes without even biding adieu to one another.. At Maghrib, we had an 'Ustadni-Ma' come over to my house to teach us to read the Holy Quran.. however.. after a certain period of time she stopping coming due to her ill health and so I was sent to the masjid to complete the remaining part of the Quran.. I remember being shocked when I went to the masjid for the first time..
There were hoards of children sitting in two rows facing each other and the Moulvi Sahab was making them read the Kalimas brandishing a bamboo stick in one hand.. The Moulvi Sahab was not the typical one clad in a kurta pyjama with a long beard.. infact he was a modern educated middle aged man in his thirties dressed up in shirts and trousers and had a little stubble..One look at the happenings inside and I knew I wouldn't survive here.. lol!
I knew, all the 'Moulvi Sahab' had to do to scare me away was to use his stick on me once and I had made up mind not to come back to the masjid again.. The first couple of days I was treated kindly.. but to my horror I realized I could not escape the spankings which were an essential part of the curriculum... like all other students, I was hit if I made one little mistake while reading the Quran or performing the Namaz.. We were all made to stand in one row and asked the number of times we missed prayers during the day and were hit on our palms for those number of times.. If u think the punishments were harsh.. listen to this one.. the best of all.. if we were absent during the weekend.. we were made to kneel down and rub our noses on the mosque's floor.. LOL.. Those days there would be a hindi movie telecasted on 'doordarshan' on weekends and at those specific times everyone would be glued to the TV, even the streets used to wear a deserted look.. Every time I was spanked, I would weep and weep and weep.. I would run home with tears streaming down my face and resolved never to go back to the Masjid again.. but the Moulvi Sahab was my 'Ustaad'.. lol..The next day and everyday after that, he would send all the children to my house one by one.. and they would come up and bang the door persistently one after the other telling me that I was called by the Moulvi Sahab.. this continued.. until I changed my mind and went back.. needless to say, it worked every time ..As a child I had the good fortune of playing out in the sun till my legs hurt and coming home all dirty and bruised,
running amuck in the wilderness catching the fireflies, grasshoppers, Birba Botis (Red Velvet Mites) and the kinds and storing them in match boxes, making paper boats with newspapers in the rain and making them sail in the muddy water streams.. splashing the rain water with my school shoes on the way home, playing marbles, cricket etcetera with small kids and winning all their marbles by hook or crook or continuously batting refusing to field or ball.. among hoards of other things.. I had my share of fun and my childhood has been an absolute joyride.. No regrets... Alhamdulillah!
