Friends Part 2
I stole some precious moments from you while
you were here and made them mine. I created a memory with them.
If Chaucer finds April the
cruelest month, I would say December is the friendliest. It brought in visitors
for me; from near and far. They brought back the precious years of growing up; from
far away Germany to the quaint small town of Chengaroor in Kerala. Friends
across boundaries and language and colour. . .
Friendships that felt its way through the innate innocence and warmth of
being a child.
From the old musty corridors of
Little Flower LP School in Chengaroor, Kerala, was the first and much awaited
visit that was on the cards. The date was just round the corner; December 11th
to be precise. I was meeting my childhood friend from class 2 after 34 years. Thanks
to WhatsApp which brought us back together, we had already been in touch for around
6 months. We made the most of the reconnect established, albeit virtually. From
the 2nd standard classroom, way back in 1980 all the way to 2014,
there was much to talk about and the six months that we had, served its
purpose. Finally when we met, I had expected the meeting to turn dramatic
filled with excitement. But spare the initial wee bit of awkwardness at trying
to read each other while talking of things trivial, there was only an all
pervasive feeling of comfort and warmth; the same that kept this bond on over
the years. We met like those who meet on a daily basis; a smile of warm
acknowledgement, a hug to ensure that we did meet and from then on, it was a
continuation of where we had left off. On the surface, there appeared to be
countless changes but deep within, the stuff that made us what we are, still
remained unchanged.
During the days that followed,
the awkwardness disappeared in the familiar hustle of family and
responsibilities. I gladly joined the loving chaos. You looked out for me,
reached out when you needed me to decide on the colour of the dress for your
kids or a particular design for your wife’s saree. I treasure all those
moments. It only reinforced my belief in you; the little boy who I had adored
still retained all that I loved in him; sensitive, warm and totally genuine.
You came home; we shared a meal,
drank some wine and laughed silly at some old stories. (I will never forget the
look of feigned seriousness in front of your lovely wife when I mentioned
Pretty’s name and giggled). You know what surprised me the most? When I bumped
in to you in my kitchen to find you rinsing a glass to drink some water. . . I
covered up my disbelief by blabbering something inconsequential. How could you
have known where I kept the glasses? You didn’t even bother to disturb me by
being the typical guest and asking me for some water. You felt at home enough
to figure it out yourself. I was amazed at the familiarity with which you moved
about in the house. Surreal but nice, as
Hugh Grant would say in Notting Hill.
Three days breezed past. Along
with you, your family grew on me too. Right from your chirpy women (the
adorable twins and your wonderful wife) to the little guy who took his time to
hold out his hand to me in friendship, they amazed me all. At the end of it, when
I saw you off at the taxi, feeling totally overwhelmed, trying to spread the
smile and push the tear, I realized that no matter how much we have grown and
what we have gone through, the innocent warmth of those old days still remained
with us. It did not require constant contact, we picked up from where we left
it.
The visitor who followed goes back with me
even longer. I grew up with him in Grefrath, one of the lesser known villages
towards the western end of the Rhine. Grefrath was cut off from fast paces and
loud noises of the bustling city of Duesseldorf which housed it.
There, in a
close- to- 200 year old house, with acres of farmland that was home to horses,
pigs, dogs and sheep, I spent the best years of my life with my sister Geetha
and my friend Christian. The Brueckner family of which Christian was the
youngest at that time, taught us all that was German; the language, the food
and even their way of life. The three of us grew up together and there weren’t
any differences to set us apart (the difference in skin colour was something
that upset ChristianJ.He too
wanted to be brown and would spend
summer afternoons sunbathing in the garden). We were carefree children
oblivious of what went before us. I never knew much about Christian or his
family. He was my playmate from dawn to dusk for three years and there wasn’t
any time for exchanging stories in the midst of all that play. For me, it did
not matter and I never hence bothered. After the initial years of growing up in
Grefrath it was time for us to come back to India. I still remember the silent
tears that flowed at the slightest mention of Kerala and India but we survived
the uprooting. The magic of being a child is that of adaptation. Years went by
and so did the airmail letters. There was at least one every month to the
Brueckner family in Grefrath from the boarding house in Chengaroor, Kerala.
After we left Germany, a couple of years later, my parents came back too and
Germany became a beautiful page in my picture book from childhood.
It was in 1993 or so that Christian
made his first visit to India.
From that first visit on, it has
always been a revisit of great memories and creation of fresh ones for all of
us. While we had him in India, we got him to eat, dress, think and almost speak
like an Indian. He fell in love with the country and its people at the very
first visit and he came back after that; not once but four times till date. The
second visit saw Danny along with him who now shares his life and children. We
are not just born in to families; we allow people to grow in to them too. Our circle grew bigger with Danny and
Christian and their adorable little boys along with the rest of the Brueckners
A week back, one post -
dinner evening at home, while my mother quietly cleared the dining table, I
listened to Christian’s story of how the Brueckner family came together. It was
a tale out of a book from the World War times. Images from that story that he
narrated will never leave me.
His grandfather was a soldier
with the German army during WWII and was captured by the Russians when the war
came to an end. He fled the Russian prison house to escape the cold; of food,
of people and of the place. He found his way to Grefrath where he met his wife
Walburga. She is Christian’s grandmother and the woman who brought us up. The flaming
romance between his grandfather who fled the prison and came to Grefrath
looking for a job and his grandmother who already had a child with her out of
wedlock is testimony to love as I believe in it; ensuing, intense,
understanding and perceptive. They were together for over 60 years before
Christian’s grandfather passed away in 2008.
Two visits from down memory lane;
December has been gracious.
Two friends I would keep for
life; time took a break when I was with them.
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