When memories race against time

As decades roll by it is with fond sentiments one remembers the people with whom one was surrounded during childhood, especially those who had touched one's heart in some special manner. Such memories do act as comforting pillows when one feels troubled at any present moment. Here I recall a few of them.

It seems apt to recollect my dear father especially today, when the world celebrates Fathers' Day. This was nearly five decades ago and I remember that my father - who alone has left behind a treasure trove of fond memories for me - had a coterie of people around him, each varied in nature, but the common thread connecting them was their unstinting loyalty to him, come what may. I remember Lakshman Rao fondly who would always have a small chocolate in his pocket for me. He was a sort of PA to my pater who was a businessman owning a chain of hotels.

This person would usually have his supper, and then visit our house by 9 at night to sum up the day's activities and plan for the next with father, who would have dined by then. After awhile father would finish with him, or so it would appear, but Lakshman Rao knew different. He would move like a millipede till he reached the compound gate within which time every day invariably there would be a loud call from the pater and he would rush back, to note down the last forgotten point.

Lakshman Rao doubled up as a driver too when the regular guy, by name Basreddy took a day off. This Basreddy was an old sweetheart, flashing his toothless smile at the drop of a hat. His bald pate matched his toothless mouth, and his favourite dish at the hotel was besan ladoo, which would be served as soon as he entered the service room with his benign smile. He would always address me fondly as "ammanni" and would ferry me to and fro my kindergarten school, listening patiently to my childish jabber as I sat munching the snacks sent by my mother.

The maid, Lakshmi, who seemed like a second mother to me, would serve me warm milk from a stainless steel jug to wash down the snacks. Father had a close friend, a fellow hotelier, whom he called Padnapa and whom we kids referred to as "Patel Nagar maama", by reason he stayed in that area. After a sumptuous dinner on one of our visits to his house it was time to leave. Uncle's bicycle standing near the gate seemed to beckon me and the six- year -old that I was tried to climb the huge vehicle.

My indulgent uncle suggested that I ride pillion with him whilst my parents came in the car. He said it would be a race and we would definitely win. My innocence drove me to believe him and I challenged my father to a race, and he laughingly obliged. It was a veritable hare and tortoise race indeed, the hare was our bicycle and the car donned the mantle of the tortoise, with my father sportingly driving very slow in second gear. "Faster and faster, maama!"

I screamed excitedly, and uncle pedalled even more furiously when suddenly the race came to an end with a screeching shout from me. I had treated the bicycle like a horse, spurring it on and my foot had got caught between the fast revolving spokes. The race continued in the car for me, to the nearest hospital!