Curious One: My Adventures As a Little Boy in India

By Bhupendra Patel

"Curious One" is Bhupendra Patel's engaging and heart-warming memoir, documenting his early childhood memories growing up in India. During his childhood from the ages of 5 to 8, Patel moved to three different locations, and four different houses that deeply impacted his memory which explains how he coul

• Language: English
• Publisher: My OM Foundation
• Release date: Dec 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737815525

Bhupendra Patel

Bhupendra Patel finds a balance to expertly take readers along his journey of day-to-day activities and leaves it to them to figure out why he has become who he is today at seventy years of age. He retired from his distinguished career as a nuclear submarine engineer and an information technology expert. Bhupendra currently lives in the scenic town of Mystic, Connecticut. His writing of real-life events is descriptive, crisp, and full of life as he examines how to find wisdom and joy from elders. Through it all, Patel's deep love for women; his mother, grandmother, and uncle's wife shines through. This book explores how being curious at a young age nurtures a child's mind that can mold an individual as an adult.

Book preview

Preface

You tell interesting stories. I have been told since a young age. So, over the years, I became a storyteller uncle, a storyteller dad, and most recently a storyteller grandfather. I began storytelling by emulating one of the most beloved persons in my life, my grandfather whom I called lovingly Dada who told nightly stories to me.

Bapuji, my father, died short time after I graduated from high school. He left behind his beautifully handwritten, unfinished memoir. Thus, the seed of memoir writing was planted within me, and there it remained, dormant, for years. Much later I received three anthologies written by my brother, Dinubhai, an orthopedic surgeon–one written in English and two in Gujarati. What an accomplishment! I thought. That dormant writing seed received just enough sustenance to continue surviving for more years within me...

In the 1990s, my writing seed germinated on my daughter’s birthday, when she asked me for the gift of my memoir. From there, the seed started sprouting shoots: where to begin, when to make time, what to write, and, of course, how to write.

And then many years later, I had a divine stroke of luck. I received the chance to spend many amazing hours bonding again with my brother, Dinubhai. We talked about the memoir he was working on, and I suggested, in my usual Curious One mode, several What if? scenarios. For the next few years, he alluded to his attempts and struggles with his writing. Sadly, he left this world only a few years later, his memoir unfinished.

Soon after my wife, Rita, and I became empty nesters, my father-in-law, Manubhai, spent the last two years of his life with us in Mystic. I suggested that he write his memoir, and he simply said, I’m no writer—what do I write? However, a few days of attempting the project got him hooked, and he announced, I’m reliving my life, and the last two years have been my best days.

When I began seeing the horizon, visualizing my potential retirement, the question loomed: What would I do next? That was when my tough and stubborn writing seed grew deeper roots and started sending up sprouts. Having lived through many possible What if’s, life experiences, successes, and failures, I watched my seed grow further, though haphazardly and in several directions at once. It was time for me to trim all but the best branches, leaving the ones that had the best chance of survival. That’s how the outline of my memoir was firmly planted.

The unexpected lockdown of the Covid-19 pandemic gave me an excuse to stay in one place for long periods of time and to nurture this writing bud, and I believe it has blossomed in this book.

Prologue

At age 70, my memory goes back only 65 years, to when I was in kindergarten. My older siblings, over the years, have filled in on the missing stories of my childhood from birth to age 5 with their memories.

In telling my stories, I took the liberty to play with words, to enhance some experiences with my imagination. For example, I wrote one purely fictitious story, a proclamation of my birth as celebrated by my sisters. I called this story Forever Young Kapila, and I wrote it for my oldest sister, Kapilaben, in 2014, when she turned 80. Her children had organized a surprise birthday party in London, and we four brothers in America decided to take part in the celebration in person.

My beloved wife nudged me to write something special for the occasion, something that no-one in our family knew, or perhaps that only my sister knew. So, I designed a greeting card with an imaginary story. After reading the story, my sister decided on the spot, to my surprise, to share it with all the family and friends in the audience. She said, How wonderful it feels that I danced on the street in India for the birth of my brother who’s 65 now, who came here from America to celebrate my birthday!

Her emotional sharing heightened my confidence in writing emotional stories of my life, which my darling daughters had been telling me for years to write. Being in the profession of engineering and information technology all my life, I couldn’t imagine being a professional author. It felt like switching my left brain to my right brain. I asked myself whether it was even possible. To put my thoughts onto computer pages was a whole new endeavor. I should thank the three most beloved people in my life—Rita, Anita, and Sarita—for pushing me over the edge and plunging me into these new waters!

Finally, I thought to myself, I will write my memoir... when I retire! So, within a couple of weeks of my retirement, Rita delicately nudged me with a subtle hint: Do you recall something that you promised? When she saw no hint of recollection on my face and saw no change in my daily activities, she changed her tactics. No more hints. She went on an offensive with the approach of shame.

You’ll disappoint your darlings, so act now.

That time is long overdue.

So, start writing stories now.

It was almost a command.

Early the next morning, I furiously banged on computer keys to crank out a sample five-page story. Reading this story, my daughters reacted with pleasant surprise that finally I might fulfill their dream of seeing my childhood stories on paper!

Note to Family Members:

My memoir is an honest effort to stay true to facts and figures for events of my distant past, taking you, the reader, as far back as sixty-five years.

Family members, I sincerely hope that my snapshots evoke happiness and sheer joy for you. You surely may have your own snapshots which I hope match mine. In case our memories conflict, please remember that my snapshots are a conglomeration of environments, circumstances, and feelings, from my early and limited childhood perspective. There is no deliberate intention on my part to change history, and I sincerely apologize in advance if my careless words inadvertently ignore your role in our family or evoke any feeling of ill will.

I hope that instead these memory snapshots will become a part of your family legacy too, and I also hope that you will willingly share them and many more with the next generations, starting with, Once upon a time...

Introduction

My early childhood was spent in a farming family that moved to Vadodara, the second biggest city of Gujarat in India. I’ll bring you into my life in three distinctly different environments of my formative years, from age five through age eight. The three environments played a significant role in my life. I leave it up to you, my readers, to judge why that is so.

My memory of those early years still amazingly flashes back in snapshots like the frozen images in films spinning out at the slightest trigger during activities of my daily life. My awareness during these four early years enabled me to collect memorable snapshots filled with emotions and lessons learned from different locales, cultures, and customs, and the differences nurtured my mind, filling me with questions and some answers.

These playbacks sometimes play an amazing game with my inner voice. Perhaps these snapshots firmly stayed in focus to remind me of my roots or to inspire me to explore and adapt—I really do not know.

***

So there.

I’ll try to recount my life with loose connections of particular people and their interactions with me. I do not claim my snapshots are historically accurate. Perhaps they are just figments of my childhood perception and re-imagination. Who knows?

There are no printed photographs of me experiencing my life from 1954 through 1957, but I clicked thousands of snapshots of those neighborhoods almost 65 years later. A challenge emerged. How could I select the most appropriate events, the right people, the right photographs? Being the Curious One, as I was called as a child, I embarked on telling my stories of childhood from the vantage point of my memory snapshots. I am augmenting my stories with recent black-and-white photographs, modified to portray more truly what is stored in my memories. I hope that I have succeeded with this lofty goal.

So here I present to you a delicate fruit from my original writing seed. My hope is that you dance, revel with delight, and enjoy!

PART 1—My House

in 1954 at Age 5

Kindergarten

Alas, my memory goes back only this far!

Shanta Kutir

Khadia Pole #1

Rajmahal Road

Baroda (Vadodara), 390001

Gujarat

India

Every morning I wake up

To find a new world.

I believe, tomorrow, too,

Even more exciting

For the soul of a Curious One!

Live life, for life is to love

Fly like a bird,

With a gift of wings.

Observation

Inspection

Concentration

Imagination

Visualization

Contemplation

Revelation

Meditation

So, I fly

Like a bird

All over the world,

Gather a world of knowledge.

Let wisdom be your lesson!

At the age of 69, how wonderful it felt to see my birthplace

in its original condition!

Many fell from our infamous stairs. According to the current residents,

they still do, even today!

Kitchen is on the left, but monkeys still enter from the central window!

Current residents with their father’s photo on the wall.

His name is the same as that of my father, Ambalal!

Hanuman Monkeys rest on the wall, eyeing for a chance to get into people’s homes and steal food!

Looking from our balcony. Reva Masi’s house is amazingly

still standing, circa 2020!

Mom’s three friends—Dhanlaxmi Masi, Santok Masi,

and Kala Masi—lived across the street.

Deserted street? Normally tame and meek, a crazy cow just ran after

the first person she saw!

We saw beautiful birds like doves and kites, even in our heavily populated city.

Khanderao Market and its gardens were our playgrounds.

Khadia Pole’s zigzag entrance is cleverly hidden from Rajmahal Road.

The only obvious giveaway is the beautifully painted sign by the road.

1—Why Did I Do It?

Today, my teacher proclaimed a new rule: Everyone must finish the whole bowl in front of you.

Horror struck me. No. No way.

Then my teacher added, ...or else!

Are you kidding me, I thought? Yet another rule! I rebelled without speaking a word. I stared at my bowl for a long time. My curious mind raced to invent ways to make the bowl disappear. No dice. I thought further that I might hide the contents. No dice. What if I just didn’t eat it, then what?"

...or else!

Our teacher was outside on the verandah chatting with someone.

I looked around. Everybody was munching. To my big surprise, Radha, who was sitting next to me, had an empty bowl. How did she do it? How could she love mung beans so much that she had finished already? I thought about asking her, but the No Talking rule was still in full force. There was silence in the classroom, except for the chewing and the sounds of clanking empty metal bowls.

My ingenuity came up with a plan, and I took a bold action.

***

During my kindergarten time, in Vadodara, my street spilled into Rajmahal Road, which began at the Palace and ended at the courthouse called Nyay Mandir. My school was near the Nyay Mandir, and was also right off the road, High Street, called Unchi Pole. We walked in one line, all seven of us next to each other, because the Rajmahal Road sidewalk on that side was indeed that wide! The road was about a mile long and was the pride of the city. Walking to school was always an exciting affair, even though it was only about a dozen or so city blocks from our home. Of course, we were not allowed to walk unchaperoned.

We were accompanied by the wonderfully soft-spoken Marathi Bai, who was about 25 years old and perhaps a mother of a couple children herself. She had been hired as our chaperone. Bai would hold our fingers, forming a kid chain, linked with two or three kids on each side holding each other’s fingers. Each of us carried a cotton shoulder bag which contained a precious cargo of a wood-framed black slate and a stick of white clay. I loved to sharpen that pen with my teeth, though it was not allowed. I did it anyway, perhaps because of its earthiness and ever-so-crunchy calcium. It was a no-no, but it tasted so good!

The trip to school began with kids gathering in front of my house. Forming the chain was always a racket among us because everyone wanted to be at the end of the chain. The dispute would be settled by Bai. She created a rotational rule to keep track of who would be at what location on the chain each day.

Being at the end allowed my one hand free for whatever I wanted to do with it, and I could not resist playing with my free hand. I had to. My inner voice compelled me. I touched, felt, pushed, or pulled at something whenever opportunity was afforded. Over time other kids willingly traded their spot with me, and that suited me very well. The privilege came with a responsibility—I had to be creative in entertaining my peers as well as in pushing the boundary of Bai’s adult rules. So, I engaged in innocent little pranks many of which I got away with or were overlooked. Not much escaped her sharp eye, though. I wondered how she did it.

Bai was soft-spoken but stern, and any consequent punishment was swift. I would be immediately forced right next to her in the chain. Oh, a total loss of freedom! But for me, acting with a free hand and deceiving Bai was a game worth playing. Such fun earned extra cheers and admiration in the eyes of the other kids, while Bai kept asking, What’s happening? Her voice was unfailingly soothing even when she was instructing or punishing a rule violation. But because I was extremely careful, punishment was rare. Luckily, I didn’t do anything to invoke her wrath enough for news to ever reach any adults in my house.

Everybody, turn left, Bai began, as always.

Hold fingers, instructed Bai, without failing to look in both directions.

Stay together, she softly continued, nodding at each of us as we swiftly crossed the road.

Bai usually wore a lovely green sari with a large colorful border always of a different color. Interestingly, from day to day, only the borders changed colors. I guessed green was her favorite color. Also, I surmised that she might have had a way to change only the border, keeping the same sari. Hmm, magical, I thought. She also wrapped the sari around her body in a different style from that of my mom. Her wrapped sari went through her legs and hence never tangled, so Bai never tripped while walking and safeguarding us. I wondered why all the other Gujarati women were not wearing their saree in the same way. I guessed that maybe it was just a Marathi thing. For me, Gujarati people spoke Gujarati language and Marathi people spoke Marathi language. Still, the confusing part was both sides could speak each other’s languages. She never revealed her secret about her green sari borders though. The border of her sari rested over her head bun, perfectly, and swung around as she moved her head. I loved the movement and the ruffling sound her saree made.

There was not a single day that Bai did not wear a chandlo on her forehead, the perfect round red mark between her eyes conferring her dignity and piety. Her wavy hair was kept well oiled, so no hair strand dared stay out of place, even in a breeze. How nice! Her big curvy nose ring, on her little nose, moved as she spoke, literally bouncing on her lips, which were pink and plump without any lipstick. Whenever she reached down, a long golden chain with black wooden beads came dangling out from her neck, swinging back and forth, while her smile got bigger as her face came closer to mine, and that enhanced her beauty even more as she was shrouded with her saree border. Her ever-so-sweet smile, with sparkling eyes, for me, was a most beautiful sight to behold. Oh, how lovely my Bai was!

Our procession had to cross major roads, twice, before reaching my school, the Vir Bal Mandir. After lining us up at the edge of the road, Bai alone stepped on the road, looking both ways and extending her hands to stop any traffic that might be on the way. Promptly she reached backwards and held two children’s fingers tightly, asking us to proceed without running or breaking the chain. We crossed roads at a quickened pace—I recall almost running. I became a pro in such daily crossings, for I went across big roads four times a day.

Walking to school was lots of fun. The hustle and bustle around me and the many sounds always amazed me. There was the slow paddling of a human cart or the fut-tut-tut sounds of auto rickshaws, or the tut-tut sounds from a bullock cart driver’s mouth with a steady, slow pace of bullocks, their long horns rhythmically swinging. Horse buggies passed quite fast with the tap-tap of hooves, while feathers attached to the horse’s head jumped in harmony with its swinging mane. Throngs of pigeons on the ground rose into the sky with thundering, flapping wings when spooked by some imaginary threat. It was enchanting for me.

Someone along the road always threw seeds at the pigeons, and on rare occasions, Bai borrowed seeds for us, though only on our return trip. We would jump up and down, crying Hooray! and raising our hands, but never releasing our interlocked fingers. Pigeons circled us in the sky as if clapping their wings, then returned softly to the ground. How I wished I could fly up, circle, and land like that!

There were many distractions on the sidewalk along the way to school: an occasional cow quietly sitting, chewing something imaginary, or a vendor spreading something in front of him to sell or to provide a unique service, like cleaning ear wax or reading a client’s future. I was often tempted if it were candy, berries, or one of my other favorite fruits he was selling. In Bai’s book, they were just little obstacles to be maneuvered around, of little or no consequence. But for me, her strict rule applied. No buying was allowed on school trips, going or coming. It was a prohibition I could never violate, even if I had money in my pocket. Of course, money in my pocket? Even my buddies would laugh at the idea, if I pulled a coin out. None of us ever had one!

My temptation, even just to ogle, was dealt with sternly. No stopping here—move along! I could hear the vendor mutter behind us, as my free hand wiggled and my thumb signaled, Ne Ne-ne Ne Ne! I could not see, but I’m sure Bai was smirking.

In our kindergarten school, Vir Bal Mandir, we sat cross-legged in rows of four on a thin cotton rug spread on the floor. For me, it was not fun sitting on the ground for long hours. My feelings of edginess or boredom heightened as time passed, and even the teacher’s novel activities could not overcome my uneasiness and that of my classmates. Furthermore, we were bound by rules galore:

Keep your hands to yourself.

No talking or shouting.

Do what you are told.

Sit with your legs crossed.

No exchange of things.

Raise your hand, if you need something.

No pulling or hitting.

Of course, no pranking,

Etcetera, etcetera...

Too many rules, I thought. I constantly wondered who came up with these long lists of rules.

***

Still, learning was fun for me. My curiosity never needed any batteries. Any teacher with creative ideas was enough for me. Games and rhymes filled with alphabet letters and words were fascinating, especially as they were very new concepts for me then. However, my teacher used those words in her speech, I didn’t know what a sentence was or what it would look like in writing. How intriguing and magical a concept this language thing was! What I spoke all along, now I could visualize in words on a page or on my slate. Learning happened, and I looked forward to learning every day.

My attention was drawn to new things and new concepts. Repetitions quickly distracted me, and I was forced into what the teacher called Monkey Business. So, I learned to evade her attention when I got into such business.

Drawing was fun but writing the first letter of the alphabet on my slate with a pen was challenging, right from the start. The first letter of the Gujarati alphabet, started with a letter that sounded like Ka. Oh, what a combination of curves and straight lines!

Why, oh why, oh why? I mourned as I tried again and again. The teacher told us to practice drawing circles clockwise and counterclockwise. She taught us to draw slanted lines, starting from the top left corner to the bottom right corner and then from bottom left corner to top right corner. She assured us that making circles and lines would make the letters form more easily. Still, forming a complex curved letter Ka was not easy. I practiced repeatedly on top of the letter written by the teacher until it was ingrained into my muscle memory.

After hours of practice, when I formed a perfect letter, I jumped up and down, telling everyone around me that I wrote the letter Ka. My first letter of the alphabet, in Gujarati called Bara khadi, begins the word Kabootar—pigeon. And I knew lots of those grey birds on the ground and flying in the air. Yes, I thought, I knew a lot about pigeons. Now I could identify them with a letter!

Getting a Shabashi—a praise from an elder—was a feather in my cap. (But only older people wore caps, and—hmm, would that be a grey pigeon feather or a black crow feather?) I was the first in the class to accomplish a perfect letter Ka not only in my slate but also in giant form on the blackboard.

I got a great boost from that. Now there was no stopping me for the rest of the alphabet, nor my imagination with the words that were associated with the letters. Learning was fun! I felt the sensation of happiness inside my mind and my curious soul wanted more.

During our snack time each day we sat shoulder-to-shoulder in two long rows facing each other. Hooray for munching fun. But suddenly, what a dreadful day it was, Oh no! Boiled mung bean for a snack!

I hated boiled mung beans. I had no idea why. I just did. Perhaps the aroma? No sooner had I gotten a whiff, my brain visualized myself in bed, not yet recovered from stomach sickness. Yes, at that time, doctors recommended all sick patients have a watery soup of boiled mung bean with just a hint of salt. Could this be the reason? I suppose, but I do not know. I always preferred chana or tuver bean because I associated them with the boiled or roasted fistfuls of snacks I had in my pocket whenever they were on the menu of the day in my house.

There was no choice at school to skip a meal. Especially these snacks. What was I supposed to do? Next to me was a distracted Radha. The plan had quickly formed into my head: Monkey Swap—switch my full bowl with Radha’s empty one!

No one knew.

The switch happened just in the nick of time, before the teacher entered the room. The teacher’s eyes picked out the sight of the untouched mung beans. She saw her rule had been blatantly ignored, and she erupted in anger. She screamed, Radha! Why didn’t you finish your snack? Why, why, why?

Radha turned pale. First, her lips drooped, and then her bottom lip protruded. After that, her big eyes lowered and began to fill with tears that slowly streamed in lines down her cheeks. As her nostrils swelled, her lips slowly opened, and when she had breathed in a big breath, a shrill cry erupted. With every word that our teacher directed at her, she shuddered, as if every word were the lash of a whip.

I went into a dazed shock; my body froze and was utterly paralyzed. My mind stopped thinking. When Radha responded with her pitiful cry, my thoughts just shattered completely into utter silence.

I hurt so badly. I had let poor Radha down.

Because of me, Radha was the target! Normally, I would have revolted against the verbal assailant or at the least reached out in sympathy to Radha. But not this time. I guess the teacher’s sudden outburst shocked me into immobility. My eyes just looked on in disbelief. My lips froze to speak out against our kindergarten teacher.

Why do teachers yell? I questioned myself. Why, oh why, oh why?

Why did I do it? Why did I switch my bowl with Radha’s?

Why didn’t I just eat it? Everyone else ate theirs.

Why didn’t I offer it to Radha sooner? She could have eaten mine too.

Why did the teacher have to yell at her?

Why didn’t Radha point her fingers at me, instead of crying out loud?

I hated myself for doing this vicious act to her. I hated the teacher for yelling at Radha. Most of all, I hated listening to Radha cry.

My pathetic, sad walk home that day was a long, slow drudgery. Oh, how I regretted my action of switching bowls! I wished I could take it back. But I could not vocalize my sorrow. I wished I could have told the teacher. But, at the time, I just could not. Oh, God, why? I thought. Please do not let that happen to me ever again and please don’t let Radha suffer like that again.

***

For years, I did not tell anybody, but I knew what I did in kindergarten class was wrong. This terrible event impregnated my mind forever with an imprint of a little girl’s crying face. When my own daughter went to kindergarten for the first time, I revealed my terrible act to my wife and later to my daughters, to explain why I melted like a burning candle every time I saw any little girl crying in front me.

I learned to tell the truth, for I felt that though there are no rewards or punishments for some actions, there are consequences.

All my life, I always wondered if Radha ever had such a vivid memory of the injustice that was dealt to her on account of the stupid boy who set next to her on that day. And, if she ever did, what would she think of me? Oh, I’ll never know!

2—Crazy Cow Matador

All eight siblings living together on the second floor made our house feel overcrowded, yet somehow no one ever tripped over the others. We were not allowed to go to the third floor. It was not that the stairs were very steep, but rather that the space above was reserved only for my eldest brother and my uncle Nagjibhai. Because he was a brother to my mother, Chanchalba, by tradition we referred to him as Mama.

My Mama and Chanchalba were the only two children in their family. My mother, Chanchalba to me, was about