I knew him

Penny (Australian) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Old Harry lived in a house near the end of the car park of the doctor’s surgery two doors up from our house. I don’t remember anymore what his surname was. But he was old. We moved to the suburb when I was 7, and Old Harry was already a shuffling old man, perpetually in his chequered house coat and slippers, suffused with the smell of old age. You know that smell. Dead skin cells and unwashed hair. It defines old age. As a child, my nose seemed particularly attuned to it. Like a bloodhound, I could smell when Old Harry was near. My nostrils would prickle and I would curl my nose and top lip with the pungency of it. Recently, I noticed my own hair has begun to emit the same odour. But I digress.

Harry was a friendly and lonely man. His only son had attained some prominence as a minor politician and was busy making a life for himself with his own family. I know so little about Harry. Children are rarely privy to the mysteries of old age, and it had never occurred to me to ask him what had happened to his wife. The egocentric world of childhood doesn't encourage that kind of curiosity about people. Those questions are for the socially aware and curious middle-aged. They are the questions I would ask him now.

Back then, I was content to know that Old Harry was the friendly old man who would periodically shuffle across the blistering heat of the bitumen car park to our back door. That was enough for me. That and the fact that he called the neighbour who lived behind us “Girl Gallagher”, despite the fact that she must have been well into her 50s or 60s by that stage. Mrs Gallagher was also on her own and had spent most of her life in that suburb. She may well have spent most of it in that house. I don’t remember any more. Old Harry remembered her as the child she must once have been and insisted on referring to her as a girl. I recall hearing him talk for the first time of “Girl Gallagher” and the sense of shock as I realised who he was talking about. For a 7 year old, a woman in her 50s or 60s is as far removed from girlhood as the Earth from the Sun.

Harry would wrap his dirty chenille housecoat around him, slip his house slippers on his feet and amble painfully over to our back door step. He would wait at the bottom of the steps that led to our back door till he could see someone moving around inside. Our back door would invariably be open. This was in the days before home invasions and burglaries. It was a more innocent time when doors were rarely closed, let alone locked, cars were never locked and you knew everyone in the street. It was a time when children played in the dirt lane way till they were tired and hungry, then landed at any one of the houses in the neighbourhood for a glass of milk and some afternoon tea. It was a time when the two old ladies who shared a house at the end of the lane way, whose children were married to each other, would take in playing children to feed them cake, teach them a little piano and send them home with armfuls of silver beet.

Old Harry would wait patiently at the bottom step, regardless of the weather, until he saw or sensed movement from the dark, cool recesses of our home. Then shyly, quietly he would call out till one of us came to the door to chat with him. He would keep us talking until politeness kicked in and we invited him in for tea. He would drink his tea with relish, but it was never the tea he came for. Harry was seeking company. I imagine now, though I couldn't then, that he had reached the age when partners die, children move on with their own lives, friends of the same age have moved away or shuffled off this mortal coil and the neighbourhood he knew had changed so radically that it was no longer recognisable.

Looking back on that time, I see how remarkable Harry was. A man who had lived his life in the same suburb, who had seen the deprivations and loss of war, who had known only a white, middle-class society would seek out our company. How strange we must have seemed to him. The smells of unfamiliar spices emanating from our house, the flavours of foreign sweetmeats and savoury treats served with tea, the sounds of ghazals and hindi movie music pouring from the record player, the sight of my mother swathed in her sari or my father pottering around in a lungi. All so removed from anything he could previously have experienced. Yet Harry would settle himself into a seat at our kitchen table, nurse his tea and seem content with simply being surrounded by the noise and bustle of our family. I am grateful to have known him. I am grateful to have had the opportunity to reflect on Old Harry and his quirkiness.

Walking through the Park and Reminiscing

B1's drawing and my sewn interpretation of it

In the spirit of recent posts, I've been reminiscing again. This time on happier thoughts. It was my sister's birthday a few days ago and while thinking of what to get her (yes, the usual gift card for the bookshop was also obtained), I remembered a drawing that B1 had done of the two of us, when he was only four.

In the drawing, we're skateboarding. This in itself is remarkable given that both of us have severely injured our ankles merely walking along pavement. The very idea of either of us getting on something less stable than a motorised, four-wheeled vehicle is hilarious, to say the least. So the fact that my then 4 year old thought it was a real possibility that we would a) get on a skateboard and b) perform tricks while on said skateboard was nearing hysterically funny.

This drawing, for ever so many reasons, is a favourite of both mine and my sister's. It shows us both scooting along on our boards, (limited) hair flying, manic look on our faces, arms flailing and clearly completely carefree. It is such a lovely insight into how he saw us when he was that age - daring, risk-taking, fun, brave. So much to live up to.

The completed cushion.
I don't think I conveyed quite enough "manic"!

Since we both love this picture, and I'm in the mood for reminiscing, I thought I'd use the excuse of her birthday to make the drawing into a cushion. Of course, since I'm never one to plan too far ahead, all this occurred to me late yesterday evening. I duly dug up the picture from its safe place (it really was stored in a safe place), photocopied it and began copying and sewing it. Thankfully, B1 wasn't a master artist at four, and there weren't too many strokes to copy. I finished it off this morning, filled it and sewed it up. I hope she's as excited to receive it as I was making it.

"The time has come", the Walrus said...

My recent trip to India invoked a flurry of reminiscences. Memories of childhood days, passed idly in my own company, wandering through the ample gardens of my grandmother's home, talking to myself and creating games, visiting the cows or finding abandoned kittens and puppies come flooding easily to my mind. Delightful memories. Though at the time, I didn't see it in quite the same light. I remember the intense sense of loneliness and boredom. Being the youngest in that family was no fun. I listen now to the tales of childhood holidays that my siblings tell. Stories of times spent in the joyous company of cousins, uncles and aunts. Times when gangs of cousins would gather together and get up to no good. Times when the house was filled to bursting with family, laughter and noise...and the many arguments that ensued.

My cousin remembers a time when they all played cricket in the upstairs hall at the ancestral home. Inside. The hall was huge and when the families gathered, this was where the children would congregate to sleep, reacquaint themselves with each other, tell stories, gossip and play. I imagine the excitement. I can see the hall filled with them all, their younger selves. I hear their voices raised in argument, jokes and storytelling in a variety of languages. I hear the giggles and squeals as they delight in each others' company. But they are not my memories. Simply my imaginings of their memories.

My memories are quieter, lonelier. Perhaps even tinged with a little sadness. My memories are of wandering that very same hall on my own. Of the stillness and silence that surrounded me. Of feeling the presence of ghosts and spectres, but not fearing them. My memories are of dusty rooms filled with decaying mounted deer's heads, of oppressive heat in the middle of the day and a silent house as the adults all slept off their lunch. My memories are of sitting in the windowsill of the upstairs room, staring through the ornate wood-barred window and imaging a tale of a princess trapped in her tower. The silence broken only by the call of the postman, the dog barking or the cows lowing. In my memory, there was a permanent heaviness in the pit of my stomach. Nervousness? Loneliness? I don't know. But discomfort certainly. I remember every inch of that garden, of the house, because for me, that was my company. The garden became my magical forest. The place where a thousand adventures befell me. The house was my plaything. Immense and elusive, keeping her secrets well hidden, but tantalising me with the hint of a hidden secret if only I cared to look.

Tamarinds, Alor, Indonesia (Photo credit: GlobalCitizen01)

I remember the exquisite tang of tamarind plucked from the tree, tingling my tastebuds into life. Followed quickly by the sharp slap of fresh green peppercorns, snatched from the vines that entwined the tamarind trees. Saliva fills my mouth as I recall the sourness of the bilimby pulli stolen from the trees on my way to the outside bathroom. Even that bathroom evokes a great sense of joy in me. The time spent waiting in the kitchen with the servant as she boiled the water for my bath. Her remonstrations that I shouldn't touch the pot because I was just a child and I would burn myself. Watching her heft that heavy pot past the well to the bathroom, and then return to the well for cold water for me to mix with the hot to achieve the perfect temperature for my bath. I remember those bucket baths with great affection.

മലയാളം: (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I remember also the servants who, with extraordinary patience and kindness, would incorporate me into their daily tasks. Each of them assigning me a job that they would oversee with great gentleness. I remember laying tamarind, chilli and pepper on great white sheets, weighed down in the corners by large stones, out in the bright hot sun to dry. I remember having to shoo the crows who would try their cunning best to steal the drying goods, and claiming a stalk of tamarind or pepper as my reward. I remember learning to light a fire with nothing more than the husk of a coconut and a long metal tube, of nursing those early flickering flames into a healthy fire. Of the smoke that would fill my eyes, nose and lungs. The ring of the servant's laughter as she guided my feeble efforts at fire-lighting.

I spent a long time in my life feeling sad that I had missed the joy of the company of my cousins. I felt somehow cheated of that companionship, that consolidation of our relationships. Now, I choose to see the great gifts I was given by those wonderful people who worked for my family. Their patience, their kindness, their love are what sustained me through many lonely days spent over many years of Christmas holidays. There was so much that I learnt from them. So much about the simple things in life. So much about hard work. And most importantly, so much about generosity of spirit and pure love. For that and for the many joyous days of my childhood, I hold them deeply in my heart with gratitude and thanks.