Bitter Sweet......

Greetings!

I asked several people, both tweeters and “real life” friends what their best and worst memories of childhood were. I found that while the men’s were invariably of “winning”, the women’s were of “bonding”.

Amongst the men, the most touching was Aditya's.http://blog.aditto.info/2008/06/22/192-the-million-colours-in-my-mind/ )  His best childhood memory was the time he won at an interschool competition and was desolate at finding none of his schoolmates around to cheer for him; until he saw his father- standing in the crowd, clapping heartily for his little boy.

Kamlesh, now CTO for Global Colleague an LPO here in Pune, tells me his worst memory is climbing up a mango tree in his village while on vacation and not being able to get down.  He was stuck there the whole night; was discovered the next morning by the villagers and had to be brought down with the help of a rope. I was very concerned about what he did the whole night as regards bodily functions, but he tells me they went straight down the tree. I hope it lived.

Kenney’s ( http://www.kenneyjacob.com/) worst memory is being beaten up by his math teacher. It might interest you to know Kenney that Ratan Tata, our leading industrialist, also had a math teacher who apparently did his best to “get him thrown out of school.” (The great man himself in TOI).

Leo’s(http://www.startonomics.blogspot.com/) worst is almost drowning in a nearby lake while his best memory is getting selected in the national basketball team. Interestingly Leo is now a startup entrepreneur in a very competitive field.

Neeta a friend, says her best memory is of winning a “healthy competition" at age 11.  Healthy baby at age 11? But I can understand why that memory should stand out.  Neeta is the scrawniest thing that has come out of India in a long while. (She is going to kill me for this.)

That everyone is not blessed with a happy childhood was brought home to me very strongly.  So strongly, that I almost did not do this post.  A Twitter friend tells me her worst childhood memory was of being sexually abused by her neighbor and stepfather and of having to stay away from home.  Fortunately for her, the experience has left her strong and far from embittering her, it has made her able to not only forgive, but also help others. She is a happy and well-adjusted woman today. (I am honored and humbled by your confidence, friend.) 

What I found wonderful was that she did not have to think long before coming up with a “good”memory.  It was of long swims in the nearby swimming pool with her darling kid brother, even though they had to dodge the “neighbor” while on their way to and back from the pool.

Tweeter @hedgemint from faraway Wales says her best is, “My mother polishing furniture while Doris Day was on the radio. I must have been two and I felt such sunshine.  My worst - school. Each flipping day. Ruined mypeace!”

I have no idea what the little butterfly is doing with her life at present but Iam sure it is something very happy and bright.Kay adds further that I must share my memories too.

Well, I was Papa’s girl; and my best memory is of him waking me up at night to eat caramels, because if he left them for morning, they would be eaten by the rest of the kid gang.

My worst is of peeing in a coconut shell and getting my little brother to do so too, (we were on holiday in Goa), and throwing the pee on my younger sister just to tease her.  I still can’t believe I could be so horrid.

And despite what they say about sibling rivalry not lasting, this sibling and I still bristle when we come together,although I don’t think I would ever do that again. Or would I?

Thank you all for cooperating. I’m sorry I could not fit in all the responses.  I hope you enjoyed this post and if I have offended anybody, I apologize in advance.

 

I Learn the Facts of Life.

Greetings!

Up until 12 years of age, I was a complete nerd. I had a head totally buried in books and that coupled with being in a very strict convent school made me a very goody-good girl. The type who when I see some now, make me want to pull their pigtails and pinch their fat cheeks black and blue. Believe me, until age 12, the poor nuns actually had me labeled as a candidate for a future nun. (Dear God, look what you missed! )

Being a bookworm, bright spark, and all that, the girls believed me implicitly when I declared in class that babies came out of the navel. How they got in there I hadn’t stopped to think, and no one thought to ask. The older ones scoffed, “of course they don’t,” but I was so convincing, (and had so often been proved right,) that they eventually began doubting their sources.

It was my mom’s red hen who finally taught me the facts of life. A real hen. The feathers and cackles type. (Google Rosemary Amle you’ll find an article in Indian Express, describing how I came to live with that same hen. Not too well written so don’t judge me by that one.)

The red hen was in the habit of coming into the verandah of the house and getting under the couch there. This couch was my hangout where I sprawled all hours, reading. Cleaning up under the couch which was a mess of school shoes and satchels, one day my mother discovered a clutch of eggs. So that was what the hen was doing there. The next time the red hen came cackling in to the verandah, I was ready for her. There was a convenient gap in the slats of the bottom of the couch from where I could look down without the hen seeing me; and lying there absolutely still, peering through the gap, I had a wonderful view of the red hen as she did her job.

Has anyone seen a hen laying an egg? Fascinating! In hindsight, it was just like having a baby except there was no blood and gore. And yes, I think it hurts the hen too. She was straining so much I could have wept for her if I had not been so engrossed in what was happening. The eggshell is soft as it comes out of the hen's butt and hardens when exposed to air. So that makes it somewhat easier, I think. (and hope.) The long and the short of the matter is that, I made the connection. (If eggs come out of a hen’s bottom, then babies….oh god, NO!)

The scales fell from my eyes. Watching the cocks chasing the hens I finally woke up to what was happening. Mom was wrong. The cocks weren't fighting the hens. Did Mom know that? Surely not. My friends said she did of course, how else were you born? Maybe immaculate conception, thought this devout Catholic girl. But the mind boggled at visualizing my mother as the Immaculate Virgin, so I concluded that perhaps Mom did know all about it. Then of course, finding the condom in Papa's jacket pocket when I was hunting for odd change, clinched the matter. Actually, I didn't know what it was. It looked like a chewing gum packet. Sonya, a classmate who never read a book if she could help it, explained that in detail and with diagrams, and also how it was to be used. (Like that? Oh, gross!!) So that's how I came to the end of innocence. A fat red hen started it and Mario Puzo's Godfather did the rest.

THE LAST WORD:

Don't forget the 25th of November. Professionals, do join the Professional Party of India and let's try to do something for the country. It is a party comprising of professionals only who want to work for the country. You can join online or write in at ppipune@gmail.com. If anyone knows of any organization set up to control terrorism or manage our politicians, do post.

The Wicked