MEMORIES: Grew up in 1990s, recalling the era, reflecting on changes

Priyadarshini Banerjee

NewsBits.in

I grew up in Sahibabad, a North Indian town in the nineties. Sundays would be special for us. They were reserved for TV serials like Mowgli, Chanakya, sometimes 'chhole-bhature'and unannounced social visits.

Those were spontaneous, fun, and the best thing? Always a surprise. Not unanimously good ones. But unexpected nevertheless.

Because while some visitors were aam janta, some were guests of honour. For the former, pretty but regular cups and mugs were used for chai and coffee. For the latter, the fine bone china tea set would be brought out.

The eggshell white ceramic beauties with delicate florals in pink, blue, and green painted on them. The chonky kettle would be filled with steaming fragrant tea, flanked by trusted aides of sugar and milk pots, and then the tea would be poured in those pretty-like-picture cups and saucers.

Served along with freshly fried samosas, kachoris, and namkeen from Shiv dairy brought in at lightening speed(if you know you know). And the part of the world I grew up in Sahibabad, Ghaziabad, a snack place that served tasty food, that too a stone’s throw away was a long-time-dream fulfilled.

Strict instructions were issued to keep the living room prim and proper at all times. Adherence to that order was also checked on. Because people could drop in at any time! Some would come in the evenings. Some preferred nights.

I remember this kaka, a personal favourite, would call our family, birds. Because at our place, lights went out on school nights by 10:30. Right around the time, he wanted to drop in to chat up. He would, anyway and we stayed up late on those nights. Fun times!

The conversations at these social meetings were a spectrum. Some were banal, sleep-inducing mundane talks. Some always fell short of engaging. But a few were delightful, humour filled, and sparkling.

In fact, I made one of my earliest friends with a man I called Dadu, (maternal grandpa in Bangla) because he talked so well. Listening to him talk taught me the art of it.

How conversations are built. Sincerely constructed with the unique mix of slightly exaggerated facts for fiction, humour, and wit combined with solid bricks of truth. Then there were instances of not-so-pleasant conversations where people bullied one another. I witnessed and remember how certain people would openly trample on diverse views and took disagreements in conversations as a personal insult.

They would take advantage of their age, experience and place in social hierarchy to impose their opinions as facts. But this
is something everybody did to everybody. Everyone was a perpetrator and a victim. Rarely there was an innocent.

Over the years, things changed. People would still drop in but they would call first to check our availability and inform us of their interest to visit. Earlier, on landline phones and then on mobile phones. Spontaneity made way for convenience. Surprises were replaced by caution. 

“I was in the vicinity, thought to drop by” or just plain “it’s a Sunday, wassup?” I also remember special Sunday meals. Meat and fish delicacies were cooked by the matriarch while patriarch lounged around leisurely, read the newspaper 645 times, and watched black and white footage of classic boxing matches for entertainment.

No. He didn’t do any housework. That was all for the womenfolk or as he called it, meyeli byapar. Roughly translated to effeminate business. I digress. Perils of reminiscing. Or, plain realisation as always about how men have had their days off. Women didn’t. Still don’t.

But coming back to the point, the spontaneity of Sunday socialising had an aesthetic side to it. Technology could be blamed, the next generation’s perceived preoccupation with work, education, need for privacy could be ‘called out’ too. For when I started working, I preferred to read, listen to music, or just be by myself, instead of random socialising on my Sundays. And that’s how it is.

Time changes. And what was, isn’t anymore. In fact, when I moved to other parts of the country, conversations with acquaintances or friends would sometimes bring up the good old ‘wo bhi kya din they!!’ The first quarter of this century is over. Now, people, neighbours and friends no longer drop in, all of a sudden.

But my observation has been, what was - may seem beautiful from the nostalgia lens and sometimes some things truly were. Yet scratch the surface a bit and the pleasure of past would make way for practicality of present which necessitates a meaningful space for individuality and solitude, with not much space for ideal socialising.

Whether at the small town I grew up in or global metropolises like Bangalore or Mumbai. And that’s how the human passage of time is. Every generation has its own ways of doing anything to everything. Some work, some don’t. Which are ‘rectified’ by the next generation(s). But time keeps moving ahead and teaches us by example to do the same.

[Priyadarshini Banerjee is a writer who grew up in Ghaziabad and now lives in Mumbai]