It was the summer of 1968. As the sun rose over the horizon, casting its warm glow
upon the earth, a new day dawned with infinite possibilities and endless potential for
me. I was anxiously waiting for the results of my eighth standard Board exams. This
was a watershed moment for me. I put on a white half-sleeve shirt and my khaki shorts,
the government school uniform, and hung the busta (homemade school bag) on my
shoulder As I walked to my school less than ten minutes away, my mother was
watching from the open veranda, making sure that I reached the school gate which was
visible from our council flat.
All the boys were gathered around the school principal’s office where the envelopes
with our results were being distributed. It was chaotic. The principal’s assistant was
shouting out names. Students were clambering over each other to hear their names
and grab the envelope. I was standing at the back. Couldn’t look over the shoulders of
any of my classmates as I was the shortest in my class. Suddenly I felt two strong arms
under my shoulders, lifting me. It was Devinder, my fellow Sikh student in our Punjabi
language class. He was tall and burly, his facial hair already growing in the intended
place of a future beard. He was made the class monitor mainly due to his size.
“You should be up there in front Dinesh” he blurted “You must have topped the class”.
He had taken my envelope and opened it. As it turned out, I had secured top marks
not only in my class but the whole school. I was ecstatic. I ran back home and told my
mother the good news. She was in tears. She asked me to put the envelope in front of
the Shiva Linga in an improvised cupboard, our small home temple and give my
gratitude to Lord Shiva!
After the prayer, I went to the corner of the room and looked for my crafts material to
make a model sports car. I spent the next six hours doing that. The hot sweltering day
had just begun to cool down. I was sitting on the terrace of our home, a two-room firstfloor council flat which was given to my father on rent by the Ministry of Defence where
he was working as a lower division clerk earning Rs 250 ($ 3 at current exchange rate)
per month. Since the income was so meagre, my father sublet one room to his close
friend and colleague Sharma Ji who moved in with his two boys and shared the same
room. Sharma ji’s younger brother also joined him later from Jammu who was looking
for a job. Just the year before, my uncle who was a diplomat in foreign service also
came to stay with us with his family of six for a couple of months in between his
postings abroad. And the year before that another uncle of mine who had gone to the
US on a Ford Foundation fellowship to pursue his PhD at Cornell University, Ithaca,
New York also came to stay with us with his family of four. Yes, all in that one room.
It was an ongoing, fabulous party for us children though not so much fun for my poor
mother who had to cater for all of us.
I waited for my father to come back from his second evening job of tutoring the
children of his rich senior defence officers. They all attended English medium private
schools, unlike us lot who were studying in Government schools. Ironically while we
could not speak a word of English, most of these privileged class children had no clue
about the national language, Hindi. My father had done his Master’s degree in Hindi
Literature as a part-time student while doing a very busy clerical job in the
Government of India, so my father was teaching them outside of school hours. Sun
was setting behind the concrete jungle of flats that were built to house the growing
bureaucratic, aspiring workforce of post-independence India. I could feel a gentle
breeze tickling my face like the little rabbits we used to have as pets when I was three
years old. The fragrance of roses that my father had tended to on the terrace was filling
the air. My mother was cooking dinner on a kerosene oil, pump-driven stove
downstairs while my elder sister Rani was helping with cutting vegetables. My elder
brother Deepak had gone to play marbles with his friends from the Moti Bagh
neighbourhood, a sprawling colony of Government servants in the capital Delhi.
But today, I felt that for me the symphony of life had begun to play its grandiose
melody, and I was invited to dance to its rhythm. The world seemed like a playground
of wonders, filled with secrets waiting to be uncovered, and adventures waiting to be
embarked upon. During my summer break from school, I pursued my passion for art,
sketching portraits of my family from photographs, and even colouring old black &
white ones. I also completed a full-scale model of the two-storied block of eight flats
in front of us, using thrown-away cardboard from cartons and used waste paper glued
with a paste made by my mother from wheat flour. It looked just like the flats. I was so
thrilled, wondering if I could design homes myself in the future! Just as I was
daydreaming, I heard someone coming up the steps of the terrace. These were surely
my father’s tired, heavy footsteps after an extremely busy day, almost dragging his
bicycle for miles covering his two jobs. I was holding my result card tightly in my hand,
still a bit apprehensive if I came up to his expectations.
My father wiped off the sweat from his forehead as he sat next to me on the wall of the
terrace. He looked at the report card and smiled. I was so relieved. He was pleased
with my results.
“So, what next?” he asked in a stern voice. He was a man of few words and did not like
to give many compliments.
“I have to choose the subjects for High school now Daddyji,” I said in a timid voice and
added apprehensively “I was thinking of taking mechanical drawing like Deepak Baji”
I used to love doing homework for my elder brother, which involved 3D drawings,
having a knack of creating spaces out of flat lines. Choosing that stream would have
cleared my path of becoming an Architect, my dream.
“NO” came a substantial and decisive response from my father “You are going to be a
doctor. So, you will choose Biology as a subject”.
I was numb, my dream of being an architect, and artist was shattered in an instant.
But I dared not challenge his authority. No sir, that was not how things were done in
my family or for that matter in most middle-class families in India at that time. Parents
chose the professions that children would pursue, even if they had skills or an
inclination towards something entirely different. That’s how things are done.
“Yes, Daddy Ji” came a meek voice from somewhere inside me. “I will take up Biology
and become a doctor”.
To be continued……..
About the author
Dr. Dinesh Verma is FRCS fron Edinburgh. He spent long tenures in UK and US.
Now, after retirement, he had set up his abode at Goa. He now works on alternative wellness. He is also actively associated with social activities through an NGO.
Enjoyed it. Looking forward to the next chapter.