Monsoon, Memories & Mumbai - Independence Day of my 90s childhood

I'm reminiscing about my Independence Day memories from the '90s, and a wave of nostalgia washes over me.

As I wake up in the heart of Mumbai, the familiar pitter-patter of the monsoon rain greets my ears. Every inch of the city is drenched, yet there's an electric buzz in the air. I can still feel the palpable excitement of getting ready for the school assembly.

Walking into our modest two-storied school, the monsoon often forces us inside the indoor hall, its shutters drawn, causing the space to feel even smaller. Humidity clings to every surface, making the air thick and heavy, so much so that a couple of classmates inevitably succumb, fainting from the stuffiness. The loudspeakers, set in each corner, resonate with fervent patriotism within these four walls, their sound echoing and bouncing. And yet, amidst this overwhelming ambiance, the kindness of our trustees shines through, as they, noticing our discomfort, keep their speeches mercifully short.

I vividly recall standing alongside a classmate. We're chosen as the ‘mallu pair’, tasked with reciting the pledge in Malayalam. My heart races more from the teasing glances and playful nudges from friends than from the nervousness of addressing the assembly. After the ceremony, our reward, irrespective of the years gone by, remains consistent – a pack of sugar-coated ‘Nice’ biscuits. The taste is a comforting constant, even if the paper packaging slowly morphs into plastic over time.

Exiting the school gates, the vibrant world of our colony streets awaits. A balloon seller, taking advantage of this special day, flaunts tricolor flags and those mischievous 'Apti' bombs (snap pops that explode on impact, often used as harmless pranks). The thrill of setting them off near unsuspecting friends' feet, followed by their shrieks of surprise and our shared laughter, makes the walk back home eventful. Every bite of the Nice biscuit, now slightly softened from the humidity, tastes like a piece of the sky.

Reaching my building, the sight is heartwarming. Residents, draped in starched white kurtas, are busy preparing for the flag hoisting. The building's watchman is precariously perched at the top of the pole, securing the flag. Without wasting a moment, I rush upstairs, change into festive attire (mostly last year’s Diwali clothes), and then dash back down, ready to join in the celebrations. Miraculously, the monsoon clouds part, allowing streaks of sunshine to bless our ceremony. The eldermost member of our society, with hands trembling slightly, hoists the flag. It unfurls gracefully, causing the resting pigeons to take off in formations reminiscent of air force planes executing their perfect sorties, only to see them return to their cozy nooks moments later. The collective resonance of "Jana Gana Mana" fills the air, voices of young and old rising in harmonious unity.

As the anthem ends, a hushed silence descends. One by one, society members step forward, sharing their thoughts. Some speeches seem practiced, others spontaneous. But my young mind wanders. The society's compound, encircled by the towering presence of two buildings on either side, feels like a modern colosseum. From the balconies of these sentinel-like structures, the synchronised hum of the Independence Day parade from Doordarshan spills out, each television set contributing to this ambient soundtrack of national pride, merging with the echoes of the national anthem from neighbouring buildings. In the midst of this, the rhythmic swish of a broom stands out. The cleaner, keen to impress the assembled society members, dons his khakhi uniform, a smoldering bidi clenched between his lips, deftly wielding a broom with a long wooden handle.

Soon, it’s time for sweets. Our beloved, stout watchman, adorned with a traditional Nepali cap and a vibrant red tikka on his forehead, hands them out with warmth and pride. And as the adults disperse, we children waste no time. Cricket stumps are pitched, teams hastily formed, and a spirited match begins. But, as with all good things, it comes to an abrupt end, as the unpredictable Mumbai monsoon resumes, washing out our game.

At home, the rich aroma of coconut milk fills the air, a sure sign of mom's culinary magic underway. She stands in the kitchen, her saree neatly tucked up, stirring a pot with a love and dedication that promises a special feast. Dad, sitting cross-legged on the floor, cleverly uses the spread-out newspaper as a shield, sneaking in a quick nap. Yet, every so often, he toggles between Sholay and Gandhi on the TV, his subtle way of showing he's still with us. My sister, having recently stepped into the vibrant world of college, revels in her newfound independence. This era marks her first adventures on Mumbai's iconic BEST buses and local trains, journeying with her friends, through the hustle and bustle of the city. In our modest one-room-kitchen flat, ingeniously converted to accommodate an extra room, I carve out a tiny corner for myself in the living room. There, I immerse myself in my most cherished ‘Lego’ set, a thoughtful gift from my globe-trotting uncle. Brick by brick, I strive to recreate the helicopter I'd glimpsed during the parade on television.

The doorbell's chime slices through the air, causing a brief lull in the atmosphere. A hurried hand reaches for the TV remote, silencing the background chatter of a film scene. In the kitchen, the gentle bubbling of the kadai is muffled as a gleaming steel lid is placed atop, trapping the aroma inside. Footsteps are heard resonating in the narrow corridor outside. The muted whispers of our eagerly awaited guests filter through the closed door, stirring a palpable excitement within the room. I know that the celebrations are far from over.

Jai Hind!