Carefree days in Sargodha

MY mind often drifts back to the carefree days of childhood when playtime stretched from morning till dusk. We returned home only when called by mother. We lived in Sargodha, a vibrant town; now, it is an Army cantonment in Pakistan. One fine morning, my father whispered in my ears, “Your grandfather has sent his tonga for us to visit Dera Jara, and here you are still asleep!” I rubbed my eyes and got ready in a flash.

Packing sweets, kites and other things, my father said, “Your uncle Rishi has been blessed with a son. Today, Panditji will name the child. Your grandfather wants us to be there.” Sweets were meant for the occasion and kites for my cousins. I handed one kite to Ramu chacha, the tonga driver, who gave me a warm hug. My sister Radhika, who was sitting with our mother in the back seat, jumped up onto the seat beside me.

Riding in our grandfather’s tonga was a privilege. In those days, it was common for wealthy families to own tongas. Ours had a beautifully decorated canopy that was adorned with flowers made from red and black threads. The tinkling of the bell around the horse’s neck created an enchanting melody and transported me to another world.

The driver often patted the horse. I requested him if I could do the same. Radhika asked sternly, “Why not me too?” Ramu chacha smiled and let us sit on his lap, one by one, to pat the horse. A strange sensation passed through my body. The horse picked up speed with every gentle tug of the reins. The driver’s words, “Chal, beta, chal”, amused me. Upon arriving at our destination, he lifted me once more, allowing me to again pat the horse, which seemed to relish the gesture.

Our uncle met us as we entered the house. My sister eagerly asked, “Where is the baby?” He pointed to the infant in his wife’s lap. Radhika went over to kiss the little one. Our grandfather, whom we lovingly called Bapuji, invited us to sit with him as the havan was about to begin. Panditji named the baby Satender. The name got the thumbs up from everyone.

Now it was time for sweets and hot tea. I quietly slipped into the kitchen to get sweets for Ramu chacha. Bapuji smiled and said, “Well done, my child.”

My father, a master kite-flyer, led the children upstairs. The sky was filled with multi-coloured kites. The air was abuzz with excitement whenever a kite string was severed. Cries of “Bo kata, bo kata” resounded all around.

When we came back downstairs, a heartwarming sight greeted us. The women, all draped in pink dupattas, were dancing to the beat of a dholak. The ‘bachcha party’ joined them, bowled over by the lively and festive atmosphere. The heartfelt celebrations in Dera Jara remain a timeless treasure for me.

Musings