I am not into reading autobiographies and biographies. But somehow I knew instinctually that Deepti Naval’s memoire "A Country Called Childhood" will be an excellent read.
The book covers the growing up years of the veteran actress in Amritsar, Punjab until the family shifts to America. It also chronicles some of the landmark historical events of that time period intricately twined with her genealogical trajectory. The exodus from Burma to Calcutta, the Indo-Sine war of 1962, the India-Pakistan war of 1970.
Giving a very honest commentary, the writer refrains from sketching a larger than life persona of herself. Rather, it’s extremely down to earth narration whips up the fragrances of the 60’s and the 70’s so vigorously that one gets transported in time.
Those who are brought up in the Northern part of the country will enjoy more the sights, sounds, colours and thoughts conjugating and amalgamating into familiar visuals. The simplicity of life, the
little joys nurtured forever, the interception of unhappiness now and then which are humbling and leading to some bigger moments of truths and the conflicting emotions evolving into maturity.
The authoress lovingly sketches her childhood in a middle class family, her father’s struggling days, her mother’s talents and quiet sacrifices - a source of constant inspiration and creative growth. Her dream of becoming a Bollywood actress - an unabashed digression from her familial background deeply entrenched into academics. Her foray into stage performances, dance recitals and choir singing snipped short! Her love for poetry, literature and the canvas - an artist in the making.
Inarguably, the entire narrative is through the eyes of a painter poet. The walled city of Amritsar comes alive - its lanes, bilanes, gullies, mohallas, the maseet(mosque), it’s white dome in the shape of a budding lotus, the sound of the azaan breaking into dawn, the playing of the dholak late unto the night in mochistaan adjacent to Amravalli - her residence, the big phaatak of the house - a lakshmanrekha for the mochi boys playing danda gulli outside, the cinema halls and tailor’s shop in Bhandari Bazaar - words become pictures of throbbing, vibrant living!
I love her new found revelry of cycling days playing with the wind at the same time keeping the rising helm line of the frock in check or the chiffon dupatta within manageable spree. Those were the days of keeping your eyes down and walking past any embarrassment. Those were the days of’eve teasing’ and avenging the slight in one’s own way without drawing attention - the elbow crusade!
Her occasional truants from school and’the great escape’ from home comes in sharp contrast to her life full of warmth and care in Amritsar. Taking a night train to see Kashmir on her own and getting miraculously saved from the darker experiences of life are an interesting voyage of hidden desires intersected by divine intervention. It’s apparent she is not the one to be bound by routine. She is the one who wishes to soak life in all its shades - glitters and gloom.
I also love her adventures of jumping off the school wall, sitting next to the unknown deity and watching the sun shining and gradually suffusing the school building with varied shades of ochre. I love her thirst for journeying unto the unseen, the unbefriended terrains on a bullock cart lying on a haystack, the breeze on her face, the old sardar driving the cart has a knowing smile allowing her to trespass and dropping her off at the Punjab Roadways bus stop while waiting quietly for her to make a safe journey back home.
"A Country Called Childhood" triggers nostalgia. It makes you relive your past, revisit your roots and pine for those days which are now history. Written with a lot of heart it’s a book to be savoured. There are pages where the past gets infused with the present. To captivate memories Deepti lets passages of essays and anecdotes imaginatively intrude into the narrative perhaps deliberately intermingling facts with fancies.
A lingual treat the narrative is a novel intermix of Hindi, Urdu, Punjabi and Indian English - the language of the soil. It is never too colloquial nor too prosaic.
After a long time here is a book which satiates literary thirst and tickles reveries into something which is not given to banishment by time.
A classic for the keeps.