Recently I was in Mumbai for a few days to spend some time with my Dad. He is getting on in years and hence time with him has become precious. We normally land up talking about all the people we knew (or had known), quite a few of whom are no longer walking this Earth. He always had some funny or poignant stories to tell and his memory is still extremely sharp.
As I was coming back from Mumbai, I pondered on the fact that almost every time we spoke, I was informed of someone who was either ailing, been hospitalized or had passed away.
To give some perspective, we come from a small community in South Mumbai and grew up in what we called a 'Colony'. The modern term would be a gated community - but being in Mumbai, think apartments rather than houses. It was and still is like a small village and hence one grew up knowing (even if fleetingly or through association i.e. that one's mother, or this one's child /cousin) most of the people. Before the advent of Cable TV and PC's, forget Mobile Phones, life in the colony revolved around friends, sport and gossip. Hours were spent in bonding, talking and just hanging around with other people. At the Colony Gate, the Pavilion (or Clubhouse), Three Stones, or the Fire Temple steps, friends would cluster after the day's activities to meet and catch up. Each group had their own territory and other groups respected that turf. At these spots, happenings of the day or week and experiences were shared. The same (if worth remembering) were then told and retold; and with every iteration got embellished into legend.
As children, many a good hour was spent by my sister and I, listening to our Dad talk about the exploits of various people, when HE was growing up. These served as a link between my generation and the earlier ones. Adventures and altercations of his friends in their youth; the feats and achievements of generations prior to his, all tied us into a common narrative. The stories bred a level of familiarity with the characters and tied us to the common history from which we sprung. Through these tales we got to know those protagonists as well as any close friend. Each story either had us rolling around with laughter or listening wide eyed, depending on the tone of the narrative. We would clamor for more and as we drifted off to sleep, in our dreams we transposed ourselves into those adventures. This was replicated (I am sure) in many households in this little colony.
The Towers of Silence where we dispose of our dead are located in a place called Kemps Corner, about a thirty minute drive from where we live. One of my Dad's friend (who passed away a while ago) used to look at old people hobbling around in the Colony in the 1970's and remark that they already had one leg in Kemps Corner.
Now another entire generation are tottering on their last legs. Every time I go back home, I see more and more people getting slower and more bent, as the ravages of the years take their toll. As I walk around the colony and look around at the various apartments, faces from my childhood memories flash by. There were people whose faces I can still recall but did not know very well, and I wonder what happened to them. Not seeing them around I wonder whether they are still alive - or did they pass away? Since I do not remember their names and quite often even exactly where they lived, I cannot even ask any of my friends, who might know through dint of having lived there all their lives.
Sometimes I feel like the grim reaper walks around in our colony, swiping his scythe and cutting down people like a farmer would wheat. As this generation ages and the frailties that mark their advancing years gains traction, I feel like my living history is being ripped away and all that will remain will be the brief flashes from my own faulty memory to keep those people alive in my mind.
Like ten pins in a bowling alley after each throw of the ball, (or in my case each visit after a period of time) a few pins are left standing. It is only a matter of time before all ten pins are knocked down and the alley resets itself.
