5 on a Scooter And Other Tales

5 on a Scooter

Before the likes of Ford and Outlander, AWD and Cruise control, swanky silver gear and touchscreen consoles, it was the age of Bajaj – Hamara Bajaj.

The ultimate common man’s mode of transportation, that carried the 5 of us through the quiet cantonment of Ambala, and busy streets of Guwahati and Jorhat, skillfully maneuvered by my military Dad. It was the mid 90s, when my brother and sister hadn’t yet gone through a growth spurt. They would sit right in the front, while I would squeeze in between mom and dad. Later, as they grew taller, my sister would reluctantly sit with me (her straight hair flying in and out of my nostrils). While bro would regale in the front – remaining low and trying not to block dad’s view.

We sang ridiculous songs of the 90s, caressed cows when the traffic would halt at the signal, ignoring numerous warnings of my mom who had enough of the three playful monkeys.

I remember the time when I had moved to a new school and was supposed to board an Army school bus. The bus driver probably wasn’t aware of this change and didn’t stop at my location, twice in a row. On the third day, my dad accompanied me, with the scooter parked right beside us. When the bus didn’t stop, even after showing hand signals, my Dad jumped on the scooter. He asked me sit tight as we chased the bus down. All the way to the school.

It felt like a scene from a movie – the massive frame of Shaktiman (the school bus that every Indian Army kid is familiar with), and behind it – a timid scooter. My pigtail flying in the wind, breezing past rickshaws, autos and the usual morning traffic. That’s probably the fastest my ever-so-careful Dad had driven. And believe me, it was awesome. Pretty adventurous for a student who was bound by time tables and strict rules. And let’s just say that the driver never forgot to halt at my location 😅

The scooter still rests in our Garage, too bulky for anyone in the family to use.

It aged, along with us.

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The Milk-powder Thief

In the 90s when Milkmaid milk-powder made its first entry into our household, the three of us turned into the thieves of the night. Overnight, it turned into the most delicious and desirable item in my house, the cocaine of our existence. Each of us would separately sneak into the kitchen. We would then take out heaps of powder in a bowl, mix it with few drops of water to make a thick paste, and savour the sweet flavour. Often from the dark corners of the house, hiding, lest mom caught us in the deed.

A packet would barely last a week, slowly causing a dent in the monthly budget of a middle class family like ours. This went on for few months, until my Mom opened an Assamese newspaper and pointed at some random news, informing us that consuming more than two spoons of milk-powder caused cancer. That did scare us for good. And we probably ended up scaring half of our classmates too, by sharing this piece of shocking information.

I didn’t realize until I was in College that my Mom and her sisters had tricked us. 😛

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Meet the Boyfriend

The year was 2011, when the winter was slowly paving way for spring. My husband, then boyfriend, along with his Dad had for the first time stepped on the land of Assam, to meet my parents. After months of convincing and cajoling, my Dad had half heartedly agreed to meet the boy from Nagpur. I didn’t miss the opportunity and even before my Dad finished saying ‘Okay’, the tickets were booked for the next week.

My parents didn’t expect this sudden turn of events. My sister was summoned from Bhopal to clean the house and get the menu ready, my mom’s sisters were called in, along with more reinforcements from the village of Bonai. The whole household was buzzing with activities, even though they weren’t sure of the outcome. My mom spent nights painting the gate and the iron grills around the house. While, all this time, I was working in Chennai after exhausting all my leaves, staring at Java null pointer exceptions that my code was throwing.

As the fate may be, Assam Bandh was declared on the day of their arrival. Early in the morning, my husband got to see a mob blocking the main road, police and CRPF jawans positioned at various intersections. Not the kind of impression I had hoped for.

My Dad picked them up from the hotel and escorted them to our home. My mother’s sister, lovingly called Tun Mahi – the best cook in the family, had made her intentions pretty clear. She would cook only if she liked the boy, else it was up to my sister to take care of lunch.

As the car pulled into our front yard, the whole assembly of my sister, cousins and Mahi rushed towards the living room, stealthily peeping out of the window to catch a glimpse of the boy. Dressed in Blackberry suit and a fresh haircut, they saw him step out of the car. Mahi, took one look and walked away. ‘Let’s start cooking’, was all she said.

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