Mira Kulkarni - Essentially Mira: The Extraordinary Journey Behind Forest Essentials

For Papa
Knowing you are still there
as always

Contents

I t was the same familiar spot at the far end of the playing field.

I stared at the valley view ahead of mea pine forest, with the same white mountains rising in the distance against the same vast billowing sky. Nothing had changed since we came here four years ago. But at this moment my thoughts were pinning themselves to a future they couldnt see.

What will my life be like? Who will I be? Where will I be?

There were no answers. The wind was sharp through the pine air.

My mind was cold and filled with questions. It stared at the forests as if looking there for answers.

My long unruly hair rose heavily in the cold wind, restrained in a rubber band. Out of the cream flannel collar came a face with eyes the shade of burnt hazel.

I was fourteen. There was no answer.

Tara Hall was the same as it had been when I was first brought there. Each year going by begging Papa not to be sent back to boarding school. And it was the same now.

My favourite place was here, where I was standing, at the end of the playing field.

An iron mesh was in front of me, protecting the school from the valley tumbling down below.

I liked its desolation.

It would take time before the teachers would find me there and force me to come back to the games that were of no interest to mebadminton, basketball, tennis. They were wonderful games; I had no problem with them. But I just wasnt the type that played sports.

I liked reading, curled up quietly, away from the crowd.

I was best left alone. Had somebody asked me what my hobbies were, I would have given it some thought and come out with the same two: reading and imagining vivid, clear, sharp pictures in technicolour.

And now I was imagining.

Struggling to come up with a future. What would I be doing, say, ten years from today? It was a very real question. It was worrying to me because there was no image this time. There was not even a clue. Would I be a wife? Would I find myself in a job? Would I have children? Or would I be a nun? The Irish nuns who ran Tara Hall possibly led safe and comfortable lives.

I shuddered without knowing why. And then I thought of film stars. There was a girl in school who was related to a film star, who was always asked questions on how film stars live. Would I be a film star? Or a model?

There were no answers at all as I stood therein my grey woollen skirt and knee-length socks, huddled in my flannel blazer, always freezing, always wanting home-made food, resisting the endless games, in that elite Shimla boarding school that I could find no complaint against, except that it was not home.

I think we were in class five or six when my friend Sonu, who was with me in class, used to come down to Delhi just before school reopened, and we used to drive up to Shimla together in the car. Her name was Anita Malkani and she lived with her parents in one of the nicer buildings in South Bombay, with lovely views. The countdown would start with Sonus arrival. She would always bring boxes of Bhel Puri packed by her mother, which we all looked forward to devouring.

Nights were invariably spent with Biji, my grandmother, with Sonu and me on either side, listening with rapt attention to her beautifully embellished stories about the Sikh Gurus. When Guru Gobind Singh came in riding on a white horse; When the Gurus children were buried alive within a brick walleverything seemed larger than life when we were with her, and we would fall asleep thinking of brave knights in shining armour.

W e lived in a house, which was like many old homes in Delhi at the timesomewhat colonial. Spacious verandas interspersed with pillars. The rooms were large, with high ceilings and huge expanses of garden. It was in a wide lane with enormous gulmohar trees on either side, which were a stunning riot of flames when they flowered. There was a large swing hung between two trees in the centre of the lawns, masses of flowers in neat terracotta pots that bloomed seasonally and rows of impossibly perfect vegetables in a garden on the side.

There was a beautiful grapefruit tree with glossy leaves. The fruit had a bright pink centre when it was cut, which we often had for breakfast with brown sugar and a shaving of ginger. There were also two mango trees in one corner, which were my favourites. Slices of raw mango with chilli-flecked salt were slices of heaven.

My younger sister, Anuradha or Choti as she was called, was very fond of animals, so my father had made a menagerie for her, which was on the right, behind the house. It had wire-netted partitions with various animals at different phases of our childhood, ranging from deer to rabbits to white mice. I particularly hated the white mice. It used to be Chotis favourite pastime when she was annoyed to bring one out and slip it into my dress. She would invariably find me screaming with horror and running off, and she would squeal in delight!

One of the many vivid memories about my childhood was that my mother used to dress us both in matching outfits, which was fine when I was younger, but I found it increasingly irritating when growing up. Mummy, please, I cant wear the same clothes as her all the time! Its too babyish!

Oh, come on, beta, it looks so cute.

It wasnt, of course, but Choti wanted to do exactly what her sister did. She wanted to wear the same clothes as me, eat only what I ate and play only what I played. Once, I remember at a birthday party, I put something on my plate which I really disliked and pretended to eat it and, true to form, she did the same. She looked up after she bit into it, realized that I actually hadnt eaten it and came to pummel me with her small, clenched fists. Remember the mouse? I said in triumph.

We used to walk down from Southend Lane to Khan Market to a lending library, which had loads and loads of dog-eared books on everything. You could borrow three books at a time, which never lasted me for too long, so the visits were frequent. I used to devour books. They could have been anything. Enid Blyton, then Georgette Heyer, Agatha Christie and later the delights of P.G. Wodehouse and the suspense of Edgar Allan Poe. We had to have the lights out at eight p.m., but I would often be caught reading under my quilt with a flashlight, leading to serious consequences, including stopping my ration of Coca-Cola!

Home was not home without the mention of Prem Singh, who was our Major-domo. He ran our household with perfect rhythm, whether it was our parents dinner parties, or our lunches with shepherds pie when the potato crust was made to look like a bird in flight (that was when he thought we deserved a treat!). He was such an integral part of my childhood, listening patiently to our growing-up concerns and saving us from our mothers wrath, while showering us with unconditional love. He could not come with us to Madras when we had to relocate, as his entire family was in Tehri Garhwal, and going to the South was like crossing the seven seas for him. It was a painful and tearful separation on both sides, and the first instance of many that would come later.

S chool holidays! Biji, friends, my cousins Nisha and Vikram, Prem Singhs food, books, the garden and precious privacy.

The bathroom oh, I loved my bathroomlarge, clean, fragrant and without a stopwatch keeping the time. And I loved the drawing room toowith sofas along the wall, curved ones that created so much space to sit in a party.