For all those years, when the kids were growing up in Himachal, the transitory nature of their life didn’t allow them to stay at any one place for longer than two or at the most three years. Their father, Principal Ram Murti Sharma would get transferred after every couple of years, so, their connection with any of the towns in Himachal, didn’t develop.

One place, however, remained a constant feature in their lives, Chandigarh. It was not in Himachal, but was the only stable place in their otherwise nomadic life in Himachal. Due to their grandparents being there, they visited Chandigarh, quite regularly, every year, and sometimes a few times, as every holiday, every family occasion, every event, they had to be there.

Yes, Chandigarh had been a witness to it all. Whatever, the family went through, good times, not so good times, no matter, where ever their father was posted in Himachal, they had a constant connection with this town, like an ancestral city.

And not only their family, Chandigarh had played that part for so many Indians. As when after the partition of India, people had to move away from where they had lived for generations in undivided India, no place in the divided country was going to be enough, ticking all the boxes for them.

Many Indians who had lived in West Punjab which was now in Pakistan, had moved to Delhi, or other places in East Punjab, or many of them, just like the girl’s father, Murti, had taken this move as an opportunity to try out other parts of India, such as Himachal.

Then, for most of these people, who had chosen Himachal for work, Himachal couldn’t become a home. It was a place where they went to work while, home was somewhere else. Moreover, not being originally from Himachal, they would never become a Bilaspuriya, or Mandayal, they couldn’t belong there, as they were always going to be Punjabies, or ‘Punajabiyas’, having a different culture, different language, different history, a different past.

Chandigarh was different.

Created to be the capital of Punjab, it was a completely new place, a town or a city, which had no history, no past. It was neither in Punjab, nor in Himachal, a much more cosmopolitan place where everyone could belong, as no one actually did.

Hence it was going to be their preferred place, where they could again start their stories on a blank slate.

Yes, Chandigarh was one city in India, with no bloody past.

It was one of the newly created, modern cities, of independent India. After the partition, and the independence of the country, many such cities were being created in India, which were modern, well planned, and well equipped to hold the influx of Indians on the move, as well as to accommodate the increasing population of India.

Hence, Chandigarh turned out to be that place where people could build a house to settle down. Mostly people who worked in Himachal ended up, building a house, or buying a flat in Chandigarh after retirement. There had been some issue of its water being contaminated, and that it gave people a disease of increased goitre, but that turned out to be a hoax.

Chandigarh was well situated between Himachal and Punjab, and it was also not far from New Delhi. And later, in 1966, when another new state, Haryana was created, Chandigarh became a perfect centre for these two North Indian states, Punjab and Haryana. It was then to become the capital of both these states, while retaining its independent status of being a union Territory.

With many government offices, and businesses moving there, Chandigarh was to soon become a centre of activity. It became an education hub too, with the Indian Punjab University, an Engineering college, and an advanced medical institute , an arts centre, radio station, and soon, major newspapers started their offices there. People, attracted by its well planned sectors, wide streets and roads and roundabouts, gardens and parks, and a beautiful Sukhna lake, rushed to take jobs, buy houses, there, or when that got exhausted, to its two wings, Panchkoola, or Mohali,

In early 1950s, when the foundation for this new, most modern and planned city, was being laid, the little girls’s maternal great grandparents, who had not found a place to their liking in new India, had decided to move there.

Just like so many Indians, who had left their homeland, after the partition, and were looking for such a place to call home, Chandigarh was to become that place for them. After the partition, Mataji and Pitaji, the girl’s grandparents, had gone to Meerut, after leaving Kashmir, and then they had moved to Muktsir for a few years, but they still had not chosen a place to call home in the new India.

Mataji’s father, Dr Talvar made that decision for them. After leaving Lahore, he had not found any place to his taste, so when Chandigarh was being planned to be constructed, he invested some money in buying a few plots there, and then he invited some of his relatives, and his daughters to come and build houses in Chandigarh.

Mataji and Pitaji decided to do so, and they built a house very close to Mataji’s parents’ house in sector 22. one of the first sectors to be built, Bhabhoji’s sister had already built a house next door to them. Then, in the same street, when a corner plot came on sale, Ram Murti was advised to buy it. He ended up building a house there, which was completed in 1957, and his parents moved to Chandigarh, from the village. Murti had always wanted his parents to leave their village in Punjab, and be closer to Himachal.

Hence, Chandigarh was like an ancestral city, as their both sets of grandparents lived there. It was therefore, also to remain a holiday destination for years to come. Every holiday, the kids had come to spend a few days, or sometimes a few weeks, in Chandigarh staying at their grandparents’ houses.

There were some other relatives too, other than their grandparents, from both sides of their family, who lived there. Mainly, from Biji’s uncles and aunties, cousins from maternal or paternal families. Their two uncles, Biji’s younger brothers, Jitender and Virender Soni had both joined Indian Air Force, Mataji could never forget what IAF had done to save her daughters at the time of Kashmir riots in 1947. Her own younger brother, Chenni, had also been in IAF, and presumably, he had encouraged and helped the young Soni men to join Air Force.

Later, Dutt, and Nanaji, Biji’s older sister and family, moved to Chandigarh. Sector 14, Punjab University. Since the sisters were so close, they used to meet quite often, the kids also became quite close.

Especially for the little girl, not having a sister, always drew her to cousins. Actually all the cousins from all the sisters, they formed a great bond of kinship and sisterhood.

And chandigaeh was a great meeting point.

So, when ever, the kids had a holiday, or a family wedding, or just when there was a chance to go with their father if he had a meeting there, they would end up in Chandigarh. Their cousins, Biji’s sisters’ children would be there too, visiting Mataji and Pitaji, hence, adding more attraction to spending holidays in Chandigarh, 22 sector!

Sometimes, Papaji was in Chandigarh with them, he would take the kids to the Quality’s Restaurant or to Ahroma hotel, for afternoon or, evening tea, which was such a great experience.

Papaji couldn’t spend all this time away from his college, so it would be the kids mainly, the little girl, and her brothers, and for a few days their Biji, who would spend their entire holiday there, dividing their days and nights, in between the two households.

Both houses, in the same sector, 22, were very near to each other, almost on two corners of the same street, with a small open area in between, where each morning the green grocer would set up his make shift shop, just for the morning, selling fresh produce, straight from the mandi, the whole sale market, and where both grandmothers would come to buy what they needed for the day, the usual routine, as there were no fridges at that time. And it would be decided there and then, where the kids would eat lunch, or dinner.

They were allowed to stay where ever they wanted, but they had to eat dinner and the breakfast at the house where they were going to stay the night, and mostly, it was at their Bibbee’s house. They enjoyed having lunch at their Mataji, their maternal grandmother’s house, where their cousins would also congregate.

Biji’s sisters would come each holidays with their children and while the mothers would sit and talk or play cards, all the cousins would get together and play for the whole summer afternoons, and when the sun would be going down and it was not so hot, they would all get out on the streets, and the little park adjacent to their house.

That was the time when all the street vendors would come for their daily business, on carts, rairhies and cycles. selling household goods, toys and mainly street food, such as golgappe and tikki walla, or kulfi wallah, the homemade icecream on sticks, and the buddhi mai ka jhatta, the old woman’s tangled hair, a funny and such an apt name for candy floss, and gutta, the rubbery edible gum twisted into different shapes.

One of the cousins, the little girl’s massi’s daughter, who used to come from Delhi for the vacation, still remembers those days, ….

“It used to be a blast! Those memories are so fresh in my mind… I distinctly remember kulfi walla and gutte wala who used to make peacocks and telephones out of sweet gutta.,, hand churned mango ice cream near Kiran Cinema…wish those days would come back.”

But yes, those days will not come back. Though they are engaraved in their memory for ever!

At nights, mostly the girl and her brother stayed at Bibbee’s house, their paternal grandparents’ house. Bibbee told them many stories, and they also got to spend time with their Babbaji, their grandfather, who was the softest man, they had come across ever. When they would come, he would cry, and when they would be leaving after spending a few days with them, he would cry!

He didn’t ever scold them, about anything. There was nothing he didn’t approve, even reading stories when they were supposed to be asleep, and he was so proud of them, when they would be reading their books, even story books, it didn’t matter, what they read, as long as they were reading, he was happy. He wanted them to study, and become someone, like he always said, “These kids, they just study like Ram Murti, so clever, so intelligent, they will go for much higher study than anyone in the family”!

And he was right.

All the three kids would finish higher studies, and the little girl, and her younger brother would end up coming to Chandigarh itself to attend their respective higher education institutes to do further studies, but unfortunately Babbaji was no more by then.

The house in sector 22, in Chandigarh, would continue to be their favourite place and Bibbee would keep holding her court there, as relatives travelling from the village, or from other parts of Punjab would drop by, to do some official business, or for some other personal reasons. Encouraged by the fact, that they had a place to stay, to sleep, and to have meals, they would choose to come to Chandigarh for spending a day or two, there.

After her graduation, the girl, when she was not little anymore, would come to Chandigarh to do her Masters in English at the Punjab University, staying at the university hostel with her friend, for ever, Sweetie, and tasting the city life. They would also meet Komal, a friend, the besty, a friend for life, making Chandigarh such a special place for one more of the many reasons.

And then she would even get married in Chandigarh, and the ceremony would take place in the same sector 22 park, where she had spent many winter afternoons and summer evenings, playing with her cousins and other kids.

However, that would happen a few years later!

A time was coming when her childhood dreams would come true!

But before that the upheavals in their lives, which would shake them up for ever, the accident, the fire, the loss of everything that a family works for, and a loss of life, would leave a lifelong impact on everyone!

And Chandigarh would be witness to it all!!

It was Solan, another small hilly town in Himachal, where the family had moved after the little girl’s father got transferred from Bilaspur. They lived in a big house, a bit longish, with two verandas, one at the front and the second at the back, running the length of the whole house, and there were almost fifty windows in these two verandas.

Solan, situated halfway between Chandigarh and Simla, was surrounded by thousands of pine trees growing on lower Simla hills. Its pure and healthy, pine infused air attracted many visitors, some looking for a place to recuperate after an illness, others looking to spend their month-long summer holidays away from the summer heat of Punjab or Delhi at a hill station, that was not as expensive as Simla.

And as she remembers it, there were usually new people, each week, walking on the road, doing their small purchases in Solan’s main bazaar, that was right in front of the house, and was visible from its front windows.

The house was on the first floor of a building adjacent to the town’s newly established library, with a common forked staircase separating the two, and perhaps she borrowed her first story book from this library. With a library next door, all the three kids were bound to read a lot, especially her love affair with books must have started there only!

The whole building was (most probably) owned by someone called Lalaji who always sat in his shop on the ground floor. Wearing a big round turban on his head, he was always counting money, mainly coins, while a young boy would be putting them in small piles. The coins fascinated the children who would stand there, mesmerised by the shiny silver, brass and nickel pieces of different shapes and sizes, being sorted in homogenised piles.  

Once, the girl found a shining coin outside the shop that must have rolled out of one of the piles. She wanted to quickly grab it and run, but suddenly Lalaji saw her, and called her to say, “How was school?” or some such thing, and she quickly ran away, her cheeks turning red and her breathing fast, as if someone had caught her doing something wrong. She felt so hot that once she got home, she must have drunk two three glasses of cold tap water.

The tap water was cool and delicious, still! They did not have a fridge, as it was not needed, and not many people even knew about it being a thing. Summers were quite pleasant in Solan, and there were no fans in the houses as the air used to be quite cool.

And in winters, though it was quite cold, there were no heaters, or electric blankets either. People kept themselves warm by wrapping themselves in Himachali pashmina shawls, and blankets, and everyone would wear colourful knitted sweaters and beanies to go out, and use their blankets and quilts in the evenings.

Most families used to eat their meals in the kitchen, sitting around the fire. Some houses also used Angheethies, the small iron framed square pots, in which soft coal was burned, and which could be moved around to warm other rooms.

In their house, the Angheethi was usually taken to the living room, where the family spent a lot of time. This room was actually a part of the front veranda, which had been converted to make a dining area, and there were some armed chairs to entertain visitors.

Papaji used to put a smaller Angheethi on the dining table too as at dinner time in winter, he would heat some ghee on it to spread on the hot roties being delivered fresh from the kitchen. The ghee used to be in a brass bowl, called batti, a bigger version of a katori, or a side bowl, but smaller than a donga, or a serving bowl. The batti was as if, just made to heat ghee, in which sometimes, Papaji would put some jaggery, and then crumble the last roti in this concoction, to make a ball of wheat, jaggery and the ghee, a special dish that was his invention, he called it gadoda. It would be gooey, soft and sweet, and was distributed among the kids, at the end of the meal, as a sweet dish.

Jaggery, or gur and ghee, were supposed to be good to eat in winter, along with the dry fruits and nuts, which were also considered good to eat in winter, sultanas, dates, almond and especially walnuts, that grew around Solan, as they created warmth in the body.

And there was yet another way of keeping warm in the little girl’s house, it was brandy, yes it was used every second day. After giving them a bath on alternative evenings, Biji would give all the kids glasses of warm milk with honey, and to that she would add a few drops of brandy, after which, the kids would sleep snuggled in cotton filled quilts.

This brandy, most probably came from Solan’s famous Mohan Meakins Brewery, where (other than the alcoholic drinks such as brandy, beer, and whisky), apple cider or the Himachali apple juice was also brewed/produced, aptly named “Gold Coin”, that was also a regular drink in their house.

Once, Papaji brought a full crate of these bottles home, and insisted that the kids have a glass daily. The little girl still remembers its sweet and stale taste, that she did not enjoy, but her oldest brother loved it.

Being the youngest, she used to be a bit gullible, and was an easy prey for her brothers’ tricks, who were both older than her. She was also quite timid. One day, her brother told her if she drank the whole glass of this juice, she would get dizzy.

The girl, since she did not like the taste of the cider any way, requested him to finish her share of the amber juice too, and he, obligingly helped himself to the whole bottle. She waited to see him get dizzy, but he didn’t. “I am very strong”, he had told her many times, and she believed him. After all he was already 12, while she was just going to be 6.

She later realised, that actually he might have loved the idea of drinking directly from the cider bottle. It used to have a golden twist top, and looked just like a beer bottle, so he might have felt a bit risqué, or brave, drinking directly from the brown bottle. May be he had seen this in a movie as there used to be a cinema in Solan. But the girl had not seen any movies as yet.

For her, the most entertaining thing was at the back of the house as there was the railway line, going through the wilderness. From the back windows, they could see the railway line running between Kalka and Simla, and at a particular time during each day, one train used to pass through Solan. The kids used to run to the back veranda to wait for it and would then wave at the train.

Once, the little girl, after spending a long time prising out the walnut kernels out of their stone hard shells, had collected a small stash of walnuts to eat later on. Something that kids used to do, in winter, besides pealing roasted peanuts in shells!

But then the train had come and the kids had run to wave at the train. The little girl forgot the nuts in her fist, and opened her hand to wave at the train, and, she threw all the walnut kernels out of the window. The fruit of her hard labour was thus lost in a second, she cried for more than an hour, while her brother kept eating his share of kernels, taking one by one out of his pocket, and not sharing even one with her.

Poor girl could not be consoled, till her Papaji came home, and gave her some almonds, or cashew nuts, that he used to keep in his pocket. He also brought a smile on her face by saying that Solan walnuts were useless as these walnuts had, ‘more walls and less nuts’ in them!

Through such casual use of English language, to explain, comment on routine things, her father would create context for her to learn English and that she really enjoyed. And slowly, along with Punjabi and Hindi, English had been becoming a part of her language from an early age.

Well, that day, she really begged her mother to knit a jumper with pockets for her so she could put the nuts in them. And most probably, her mother did knit her an over sized jumper as, at some stage, she remembers having a jumper with pockets and carrying nuts in her pockets, it also had a matching beanie with a pom pom, that remained her signature attire in winter for many years.

The kids had to walk to school, and cross the big wide road, the Mall road. Yes, there was a Mall road in Solan, which was actually the ‘Solan to Simla’ road. As compared to these days, it was hardly a busy road. Only a few trucks and a couple of buses used to pass through Solan daily. Still, as she remembers, it was a very wide road, and quite dangerous to walk on, and crossing it used to be quite a feat for the young children, who had to cross the road twice a day as their schools were on the other side of the road.

Once a couple of small puppies trying to cross the road were almost run over by a truck. The kids who were seeing it from their front veranda, the girl and her younger brother, both shrieked in unison, “Ohhhh poor puppy, ohhhhh!” and shut their eyes tightly.

But as luck had intervened, one of the puppies was saved, because clinging to his life with his four little paws, it had flattened himself on the ground and the truck had just passed over its flattened body without even scratching it. Its sibling however, was not as lucky.

The girl had run over to the middle of the road to pick up the trembling doggy, ‘rescuing’ her first dog to bring home.

Without her parents knowing, the girl hid the puppy in her room, under her bed at night. She had fed it some cold milk, and biscuits and had already put a ribbon around its neck, and named it, as she wanted to keep it with her for ever, but the puppy was discovered in the middle of the night, when it started yelping for its mother.

The next day, early morning, the puppy was duly returned to its brood, and this routine kept being repeated a few times for the next few years, as the girl kept bringing stray dogs home, and her mother kept making her return them from wherever they would have been ‘rescued’.

After many years, finally, when the girl would be much older, almost 14, and studying in year 8 in another town, Nahan, she would be allowed to keep one of her rescued dogs, whom she would name Lucy. They would become great friends, and Lucy will travel with the family to yet another new town. The girl and the family would leave for yet another town after a year or so, but Lucy would stay in that town, Una, forever. She would be known as the famous ‘Lucy the principal’s dog’ .

Lucy, who was, the most beautiful Alsatian dog, with the most expressive loving golden eyes and a golden shiny coat and the thickest tail, one had ever seen on a dog, would become the darling pet of three different house-holds in Una, and at whose death, some other family whom, the girl did not even know, would cry bitterly, but that is another story.

In Solan, the girl was only 5 year and a few months old. She had just started in year one at the local primary school. It was a new school, in a new town, where she was yet to make friends. She had been feeling a bit unsure of herself. Being new in the town did not help either, as she was constantly made aware of the fact that she did not belong. Though she wore the same school uniform, like other children did, but somehow, she stood out.

Coming from a Punjabi speaking family, she could not speak like her classmates, who all spoke in Hindi, with a Pahari tinge. Moreover, still not used to being called by her school name Neera, the very first week, she had missed her roll call a couple of times and had thus become the laughing stock of students in her class. She was a bit chubby too, and quite clumsy in her mannerism, hence was an easy target for pranks for her classmates, especially, as most of the girls in her class, were a bit older than her, or were just more mature.

One day, in her short break, when she opened her lunch box to eat her snack, she could not find her jam sandwich in it, perhaps her mother had forgotten to put it in her box, or perhaps, someone from her class had taken it, but that meant she did not eat anything in her short break.

She was quite confused and hungry, as her mother had always packed a jam sandwich for her short break, and one paronthi, Indian flat bread, for lunch in her small satchel.

After the break, when the class had resumed, she couldn’t wait for her lunch break, and started to eat her lunch in her class. One of the girls sitting next to her, perhaps who had actually taken the sandwich, threatened to dob her and tell the teacher, or something on these lines.

The little girl begged her not to tell the teacher. The other girl spared her on the promise that she would give the jam sandwich to her every day. And for many weeks to come, she kept giving her jam sandwich to that girl, and never said anything to the teacher, or to Biji, her mother.

Those days, Biji was very busy, as she had joined the college in Solan, she was doing her degree and was studying hard preparing for her B.A. exams. The girl remembers, how much her mother had to study, sometimes quite reluctantly.

Biji wanted to take care of her children and wanted to cook fresh paronthies for them every morning, and jam sandwiches for her little daughter, who loved jam sandwiches.

But Papaji was quite strict with Biji when it came to her studies, so when she had her exams, he would not let her enter the kitchen or do any cooking. She also had to go to the college every day or sit in a closed room to prepare for her exams.

Her subjects were hard too, and because she was doing classic music, she needed to practise a lot. She would sit and practise her notes every morning, and practise singing the ragas. Her sweet singing accompanied by the “tun tun” of her tanpura, the four-string instrument made of shiny red wood, a bit funny, its long stem sitting on a big fat bottom, always woke up the children, caressing them, with a nice feeling.

Biji’s younger sister, Teeshi had been living with them at that moment, as she was also studying at the college. Papaji, who wanted everyone in the family to study, had always encouraged the members of their extended families to get higher education. Teeshi was doing her F.A. at that time, on her way to following her older sisters’ footsteps, as all of them had at least done a degree.

In Solan, the two sisters had created a bit of sensation, as both sang very well, Panjabi songs, gazals, filmi songs. Their Punjabi duet, that the kids still remember, became quite famous in Solan, as at the college function that year, they had sung the song “Nikka Mota Bajra“, a beautiful Panjabi song about two lovers’ tiffs and declarations of undying love for each other, taking the small cultural/social scene of Solan by storm.

Well, both the sisters were also busy in studying hard, at times they couldn’t be home, so when the kids came back from school, there was no one to look after them, other than their servant, Ganesh, who would give them some milk and biscuits. But a woman’s motherly care and attention, which was crucial, especially for the little girl, was missing.

So perhaps because of this reason, when Papaji went on a work tour to Chandigarh, as he used toevery couple of months, he brought his mother, Bibbeeji who had moved from their village to Chandigarh, to stay with them in Solan for a while, so the children had someone at home when they came back from school.

The kids loved their grandma, Bibbee! She was quite a magnificent lady, quite forceful, a bit formidable, but she made delicious paronthies, and told them many stories in the evenings, that they just loved, but still the girl missed her mother the most. The time they used to spend together, doing little mother daughter things, had been so precious, and she missed that, more than her cooking. More than anything, she missed being able to run to her mother after school and tell her everything.

She did not like Solan, she was not enjoying school, and she wanted to tell her mother that. She was feeling lonely, she wanted to tell her that. And she did not like her classmates, she wanted to tell her that. But then the month of January came, and things changed.

Her birthday came. The little girl had not invited any one from her class, as she felt she did not have any friends there.

But without her knowledge, Biji had organised to have a party, which remained a lifelong tradition for the whole family, a party on the little girl’s birthday, even when she would not be that little!

Almost all of her class mates came for the party, and enjoyed the sweet and savoury snacks served with Bournvita milk. Biji had also made some jam sandwiches which were really popular, and more sought after than Barfi, so Biji had to make a second lot.

From that day on, things started to change. The girl had a few friends, who were always waiting for her, and a few wanted to sit with her in class. In all these pleasant changes, there was one more thing happening, which bound her to the students in her class more and, through which, finally, she became one of them.

All the students were preparing for their annual school function and the little girl was participating in a group dance, a Pahari folk dance. “Chal mele nun jana meri jindiye“, Let us go to the mela, the folk festival, my love’; She could sing, and was not bad in dancing, and all the girls loved to dance. So working in a group, going through rehearsals, learning steps together, making mistakes, getting scolded by their teacher together, all the girls became a team!

The function was taking place during the local mela, the town fair, Shoolini Mela, which is now a three day event celebrated in Solan every year, and the whole town was abuzz with excitement and activities.

And that year, the fair was going to be even more special, as there was going to be a surprise visitor, people knew someone important was coming, but no one knew “who was coming?”, only the organisers knew.

But then the fair came to an end, and people kept waiting. No one came, and then the sweets were distributed, and finally the program for the day finished, and people started to leave.

Around 3 o’clock, walking home with Biji, the girl was hot, tired and sleepy, and was crying. Suddenly, a car crossed them, then another car and after that a caravan of cars was on the road. She stood there, holding her Biji’s hand, her mouth open, tears in her eyes, hair disheveled, as she had lost one ribbon, when a white car slowed down near her, almost stopping, and a hand came out of an opened window of the car, showering on her flowers, red roses, some real, and some made of paper, and a beautiful sound, “Le Bitiya, here you go little girl!!” which was music to her heart, because as the flowers dropped next to where she was standing, and the car swept the person away, she recognised the person, who was waving at her.

It was Chacha Nehru, the first Prime Minister of India, Pt Jawahar Lal Nehru, who must have been the special person stopping in Solan on his way to Simla. All children loved him, and knew him from his pictures, always wearing a rose bud on his coat, he was known as uncle Nehru, and was revered by children’s families too.

Suddenly, the girl, as if she came out of a trance, started to wave, and clap, as the cars sped away!! She was trembling with excitement, and was happy, so happy, she bent down to pick up the roses.

Most of the paper roses had already been picked up by others, but a small rose bud was still there, and she gracefully picked it up and offered it to her mother, Biji, who hugged her, both had wet eyes, and wide smiles on their faces. It was a unique moment that she was never going to forget, ever, though the friends, she would make in Solan, their names, along with so many things that happened there, she would forget once she left the town.

And there was so much that she would always remember about Solan.

Solan was the town where she grew up, with her life taking shape, her likes and dislikes forming, and this place also gave her a taste of a nomadic existence, travelling from town to town, which would be the life style for her family, though she could never get prepared for it.

It was always heart breaking leaving a known place, leaving behind familiarity, a group of friends, to go to a new place, face new classmates at each new school, who would first resent her strangeness, and then would accept her. Something she would get used to though, as it would keep happening to her, and her brothers for many years to come, as her father would get transferred every two years.

So, that year too, just as she had started to feel at home in Solan, it was time to leave. And the next town, the one after Solan, was going to be Bilaspur again, but the new Bilaspur, where she would learn about life-long friendships, among other things.

The girl was 4 years old, and perhaps it was her first week at kindergarten, where she had come with her older brother, whose school was next door. The brother was supposed to have taken her inside the building and leave her there, but he had been too much in a hurry to go and play with his class mates, that he had left her behind, still walking slowly on the main street, looking around for some distractions.

And the little girl had actually, stopped, as she didn’t want to go inside the school building, while there was so much to learn and see outside. She was fascinated by the mound of dirt growing rapidly, right in front of her eyes. Her eyes and her mouth wide open, she whispered to the little rat who was busy in this excavation on the road side, “What are you digging”, “What are you hiding”, remembering the story her father had told her about the 40 thieves and the slow wit villager who had caught them by chance, and won a big award from the king in her father’s village to marry his beautiful sweetheart.

In the story, the villager had been talking to his house mouse at night, “Kyun bhai kya khudanti” meaning “What are you digging”, “what are you hiding”, when the thieves, who had stolen the king’s jewels and were hiding them behind his house, had thought that the villager knew what they were up to. Scared, they made a deal with him and left all the jewels in exchange for an escape from the king’s wrath.

The memory of what had happened in the story tickled her and she stood there smiling and repeating, “What are you digging”, What are you digging?” and enjoying her game, as she had secretly decided to marry the king to get all the jewels. But then the teacher had come out looking for her, and had taken her inside.

It was Bilaspur, where the girl’s father, Ram Murti was the principal of the college. His initials with his family name had become his identity now. Full name was R. M. Sharma. And as per the social etiquette of addressing men by their family or surname, he was mostly known as Sharma Sahib or Mr Sharma, and Usha, the girl’s mother was known as Mrs Sharma, or Mem Sahib for those who worked at their house.

The girl, one of their three children, was the youngest child, and she had two older brothers, and they all lived in a big sprawling banglow with a fence all around. Beside the house was an old and deserted temple, where in spring, their hen would start to lay her eggs, without anyone knowing, and then after completely disappearing for a few days, she would come back as a victorious general, inflated with pride, with a small army of little yellow chickens marching behind her.

All the children would fall in love with the chickens, especially the girl’s younger brother who would almost start to live in the chicken house, and would come home with a cheeky smile, and a few little chickens stuffed in his coat pocket. The chickens however, would grow up quickly, and would start to disappear, one by one, a mystery which would not be solved, but the chowkidaar, the watch man, who lived just outside the banglow, would start singing joyful songs every evening, while a strange aroma would keep whiffing from his kitchen, for the next few weeks.

There was no electricity in the town, so evenings came quite quickly and everyone had to sit in one room, as there would be only one gas light burning in the house. The children always stayed in that room, where the light was, as anywhere else it was a bit scary. In the kitchen, especially, where the cook and the servant would be busy preparing dinner, if the girl or her younger brother were sent to get something, they would start crying. The hall way to the kitchen was quite dark. Anything could be lurking there. May be a ghost, a scorpion or a spider, they dreaded them all, as once when their mother’s two brothers, Beeru and Jay were visiting them, a spider had gone in Jay’s shirt. So scary!

But in the kitchen, it was even more scary, as the shadows in the flames from choolha, the wooden stove, would fall on the walls like dancing ghosts. Their older brother, however, was not scared and would be laughing and adding his own shadows on the walls, just to scare the little ones a bit more.

He could also whistle, and play a mouth organ, but that was not scary, it was beautiful. They could all sing along his tunes. He was their hero, and the little ones followed him around.

Bed time was after the 9.00 o’clock news, or even earlier for the children, so they would usually sleep for 12 to 14 hours. The mornings came late in that town, as the morning fog, drifting from the Satluj river, remained hovering like a pall between the town and the sun, not lifting till after 11 am.

The little girl slept with her mother in her parent’s room, but every morning she woke up in her own bed in children’s room. Her two brothers would be sleeping in their separate beds and she would smile and go back to sleep, knowing that the big bhabhoo, the kind genie, who only came at night to pick up lost children, had picked her up from her mother’s bed and dropped her in this room.

And this genie was not to be revealed till many years later, when the girl, at a friend’s tenth birthday party and a sleepover at her house, had woken up to realise that she was being carried home in her father’s arms. Her father would always bring her home, if she stayed at someone’s place, and she would grow up to this habit, always coming home after a party so she could wake up in her own bed.

Well, in Bilaspur the routine was quite simple, as everyone stayed outside, as much as they could during the day light, as there was not much to do inside the rooms. So after the school finished, and the lunch was over, the children would play outside. Their father would be at work, and mother would also be studying for her exams, in the mornings, but in the afternoon, she always had women visiting her, and they would all be sitting and knitting or peeling peas, in the sun. Mother loved these afternoons, but her study was important, and she would keep on it for many years to come, finishing her B.A. and then B.Ed, and finally an M.Ed, though much later in her life, thus starting a family tradition of keeping learning and, studying, with no age or time restrictions!

The kids would usually play at the front of the house in their own garden, especially when they had the chickens, or go to the Saandu maidan with their peon, to play with other children. Sometimes, in the evenings, they would go with their parents when they went for a walk. But the little girl would get tired, so on the way back, her father would be carrying her.

The town, surrounded by hills on three sides and facing the river on the fourth, was shaped like a bowl and in the middle was the Saandu maidan, the huge ground that was the focal point for the whole town. This is where each year, Bilaspur’s famous annual fair, Nalwadi used to be held. Nalwadi is an ancient fair, in which the trade of agricultural cattle, such as bulls, used to be the focus, with other things being secondary. With time, people started to associate entertainment, riding the famous rides, eating the local and novel delicacies, and singing, dancing and shopping with the fair.

Since their house was close to the Saandu ground, and her father enjoyed such things, the family must have gone to the mela, the fair, and the kids must have taken rides on the ferris wheel, and eaten jalebi, bought some trinkets, like plastic cars, aeroplanes, bows and arrows, and the little girl must have bought colourful glass bangles, as that is what you did in such fairs.

In Himachal, every town used to have an annual fair, usually related to religious reasons, or agricultural seasons, providing both business and pleasure opportunities to locals, as traders and entertainers from around the area, would come and sell their ware, whatever it might be.

The girl’s father loved to go to these places, and while her mother was a bit reluctant to go to crowded places, she would end up enjoying the day, as her husband, along with the children enjoyed such hustle and bustle a lot.

The kids will remember these occasions with fond memories of their father’s unexpected, and impromptu actions and feats, for example, ordering one kilo of jalebi to eat at the fair, participating in the eating competitions, or jumping into the wrestling competition, and once when the kids were a bit older, and in another city, the girl remembers when her father had suddenly jumped in a lake at the Riwalsar fair, in a jest, accepting the challenge to cross the lake in 20 minutes or something, giving the girl who was with him that day, almost an heart attack!

And just on the farthest point of the Saandu ground, at the bank of the river, there was the palace of the king of Bilaspur. It was a big white building with a shiny exterior that looked as if it was made of some silver lace. The king was a very modern and advanced person, with English tastes, as he had been to England for higher studies in his youth. Hence, in a very English style, he had built an entertainment complex including, a small cinema, and a club with badminton courts and a bar, just next to the palace. It was a place, where the girl might have gone with her parents, and her brothers, as her parents played badminton.

They must have also gone to the palace sometimes for sure, as the girl’s father being the principal of the only college in town, must have been invited by the king of the town, and Mr Sharma and Mrs Sharma along with other officers of the town, must have attended some of his famous parties. And a few times, the children must have also been invited at the palace, because, the girl remembers a room in the palace, a high ceiling room, with a huge golden framed painting on the wall, graceful horses standing in a herd, and a ceiling fan, not an electric fan, but of a different kind, made of some shiny white cloth, with frills and ropes, being pulled by an invisible person, and mesmerised, the girl might have fallen asleep on the sofa, as everything about that room remains dreamlike, and she sometimes thinks whether, she actually went there or was it just her imagination!

But one particular time, when she went to the king’s palace, that time something happened there, that she remembers that visit clearly, a sharp and a painful memory, as that day she discovered that those who lived in a palace were not always that good and shiny.

It was Holi, the festival of colours, which is celebrated just before the mild Spring gives way to its ferocious older sister, Summer in India. Holi must have been a Royal annual function celebrated at the palace. The queen of Bilaspur, known to invite her friends, women and girls of the town a few times of the year, used to invite some of these females to play Holi with her. And that year, her mother had received the invitation to play Holi at the palace. They all must have been quite excited, but what the little girl remembered of that day, is not that good.

She remembers, the queen, wearing a white sari with a tiara and a wide ear to ear smile on her face standing next to a big pond, filled with pink water.

The girl was wearing a white frock and a white ribbon in her hair. And she remembers that her mother, in her white sari and a white flower in her hair, looked more beautiful than the queen. They walked in holding hands, when suddenly her mother was dragged away and thrown into the water. The little girl stood crying for her mother while everyone around was clapping and laughing.

Later, after people had finished playing holi, there was more clapping, singing, some dancing, and a lot of laughter, as the guests and hosts stood around enjoying themselves, and talking loudly. They were served silver platters of attractive looking finger food, and frosty glasses of pink rooh afjah, the rose flavoured syrupy drink, her favourite, but she didn’t like anything that day, and she didn’t like their hosts. And that was the day she had decided not to marry a king, ever

Soon, it must have been summer, as she vaguely remembers her uncle, Braham Chacha, and his wife coming to visit them, and picnics they all went to. She especially remembers sitting near the river, on a really hot August day, enjoying an icy cold sweet mango taken from a basket, that had been kept dipped in the river for a few hours that morning.

The Satluj river, with its icy cold water, but its warm and generous nature, was just like a mother, and the town was indebted to it, for everything, as it gave livelihood to those who lived on this agricultural land. The little girl didn’t know it then, but one day the river’s water was going to rise really high to then fall on the town, taking the town in its bosom. Yes, that was going to happen one day, as the famous Hydroelectric dam, Bhakhra Dam, being built on the river, was going to divert its flow, capturing its waters to produce electricity, and create a majestic lake which would engulf the whole town one day!

Their Braham chacha, her uncle, who always carried a camera around his neck, loved taking pictures, something, for which when he used to study in Mandi, and was living with her parents, before the girl was even born, he used to get in trouble. But now, people asked him, actually requested him to take their photos. And he took beautiful pictures.

He captured the town in his pictures, its old temples, the white palace, the Saandu ground, and the mud brick houses with thatched roofs, and the rows of corns and pumpkins drying out in the sun, and the people of this ancient town, who would be looking for a new home, in another place, as their town was going to disappear soon. An old folk song from Bilaspur in which people of the town mourn their loss, paints their pain so vividly:

“Dubbi gaye ghar baar, ayi gaya paani, Chal meriye jinde nawin duniya basani”.

“Our houses have drowned, the water is everywhere, oh my love, lets go and find another world”!

A Bilaspuri folk song which tells the story of the loss when the town was submerged in water due to Bhakhra Dam.

The whole town would cease to exist, like the town of the sleeping beauty, not frozen in time, but submerged in water, and the memories of the time that the little girl had spent in that town, like the dormant childhood dreams, would wake up at strange moments.

Surfacing at the whiff of a familiar smell, a note of some music, a hint of some unspoken word, these memories, sometimes real, sometimes in her imagination would become the material for her stories. And, through these memories, Bilaspur would always remain in her imagination, alive, vibrant and beautiful, along with the stories of kings and thieves, and marching chickens, the dancing shadows, and the golden long winter afternoons.

With time and age, so much would be lost, and forgotten, just like that picture of the whole family which had been taken in the front veranda of their banglow in Bilaspur, and which had always stayed on their wall, displayed in all the houses that they would live in, but which would be lost in a house fire 13 years later, along with many such treasures of the family.

But Bilaspur would always remain engraved in her, and her brothers’ minds, like the picture of those bygone times, as this was the very first town in her memory, where life had begun for her, and this was also the town that she could never visit again!

After the independence, and the partition of India, the ensuing circumstances forced many Indians to leave their homes. However, the idea of going to a completely unknown place to live, in a way also encouraged them to take themselves away from the known, but now lost homes, to new places in free India. Places where they could start building their lives, from a new beginning!

One of these places was Himachal, Known as Dev Bhoomi, or the land of gods. Located in the foothills of Himalaya, in the north of India, Himachal has lured many Indians to its beautiful cool weather offering a comfortable and a simple life style as a bonus. Its blue green mountains, and its green lush valleys crisscrossed by majestic, calm, deep ancient rivers, as well as its seasonal restless rivulets, create a wonderful picturesque scenery all around. And this was the place where Murti and Usha would finally move to make their home.

Destiny played its part in making this decision for them too, though they were both almost ready to make this move after their link with Kashmir had been broken and the Punjab, that Murti had known was no more.

The newly minted Himachal was an amalgamation of a few small princely states in the hilly area which had acceded to India. Situated in north India, the state had only come into existence on 15th April 1948. Before independence, this part of India had been neglected by governments, in terms of public services and education, as a result, Himachal was lagging behind its neighbouring states. But once it came to existence, as a state, or a union territory at that time, it was ready to catch up with the rest of India. Since, education is most important for any progress to be made, having a higher education institute in the state was crucial to provide higher education locally. The aim was to provide an opportunity to students to study further in Himachal only, so they didn’t need to travel interstate after finishing school, as had been the case.

So the very first degree college in Himachal was opened in 1948, in the Mandi district. The King of Mandi, it is said, had been the force behind it, and he even gave his personal land for its building. Over the years, many other districts followed suit, where degree colleges as well as teacher training colleges were to be opened, creating teaching and learning opportunities for those who were keen to move from one place to another for their calling.

As it so happened, in 1950, Murti had gone to Simla, which though situated in Himachal was still a part of Punjab at that time. Simla known as Shimla is now the present day capital of Himachal Pradesh. In summer, as a legacy of the British Raj, when it used to be the summer capital of India, many conferences, meetings, and seminars for Punjab offices, and Punjab university affiliated colleges were held there.

With a severe winter and a heavy monsoon season, its mild summer has always been a festive time for Simla. The mall road, littered with small boutique shops, restaurants, and clubs, and a coffee house, is the most essential promenade for all Simlavies, both the tourists and the locals. Every afternoon, people pour out of their homes, and offices, making a bee line towards the scandal point. After paying their homage to the great freedom fighter, Lala Lajpat Rai’s statue at the meeting point of the mall and the ridge, they go on their regular stroll and restaurant crawl for the evening, meeting friends, and eyeing strangers, amidst wanted, unwanted, expected and unexpected encounters.

Well, in late summer of that year, Murti had gone to attend a week long conference to Simla, with some of his colleagues, while Usha was visiting her parents, Mataji and Pitai in Muktser. On the very first day, after the conference, they all went to the mall road for a customary walk and talk over a cup of coffee at the coffee house. One of his colleagues had found out that recruitment for lecturers to teach in the recently opened government degree college in Mandi, was going on, and the interviews would be conducted in Simla that very week.

Every youngster in their group became excited by this news as it was a great opportunity to get a government job, something coveted by all Indians at that time. Most Indians wanted to work in a government institute, rather than in the private sector, a choice, that has gone 180 degrees in the opposite direction now!

Finding the idea of going to live in Himachal very attractive, on top of getting a government job, which was getting a lot more competitive in Punjab, Murti didn’t waste any time. That very night, he wrote an application for the position of a lecturer in English, and delivered it to the UPSC office in the morning. On the third day of the conference, he received a call to come for an interview, in which he was offered the job, to teach English at the college in Mandi.

Sending a telegram to Usha to come back immediately, Murti went back to Khanna, where he would need to give his notice to resign from his job, and pack up for the big move. And that is how, Murti and Usha, along with their son, moved to Himachal by the end of that year, and that is where they would live all their working lives. This is where they would grow and flourish, raise their three children, and reach many milestones. Their second son was born after their move to Himachal, though, Usha had gone to her parent’s place in Muktsar for the birth, but their third child, their daughter, was actually born in Himachal, in Mandi itself.

In his long and lustrous career in Himachal education, Murti would move around Himachal, teaching in many colleges, and in 1957, just seven years since he had come to Himachal, and when he was not even 40, he would become the principal of one of these colleges. Moving from one place to another, from one college to another, staying for one, two or at the most three years in different towns, in Auhar (Aur), Old Bilaspur, New Bilaspur, Solan, Nahan, Una, Shimla, Murti was sometimes involved in the opening of a college, and then becoming the first principal of that college. He would finally be involved in the opening of the Himachal Pradesh University in 1970, and would become its first registrar.

Thus, Murti, along with a few others, had become a pioneer in this move to teach and live in Himachal. Many young men, especially from Punjab and UP, would follow his lead to take this opportunity to build their career in Himachal education. One particular young man, Handa, who had actually filled in Murti’s vacant position in Khanna college in Punjab after Murti had left Khanna, ‘followed’ Murti to Mandi. They became colleagues and then friends, and a long trail of such incidents for more than three decades, in which, one would follow the other all over Himachal, would finally connect them into a complex relationship through their careers, families, and their children. Another story for a later time!