I Almost Drowned in a Bucket Full of White Wash

My mother tells me that I almost drowned in a bucket full of white wash when I was two years old. Only the quick actions of a night watchman prevented a disaster. Of course, I don’t remember any of that.

By the time I turned eight, I had become an expert at dunking in and out of water, muck, and raw sewage. At five or six, I fell into a pond while following an older girl around—nobody told me that bad things tend to happen when you hang out with bigger kids. Another fortunate adult-interference left me no worse for the dowsing.

The next plunge took me back first, into filthy muck. I don’t even want to reveal how I landed in that position. Suffice to say that my father, who dragged me out unceremoniously, probably wanted to give me a good thrashing after that incident.

One would think that I would learn not to fall into anymore messy situations. I did it again. For my seventh birthday, my father bought me a shiny new bike that all the neighbourhood children coveted. One evening, an older girl who was supposed to look after me, took my bike out for a spin with me sitting side saddle on the bar between the handle bar and the seat. When we landed in raw sewage, I never lived down the consequences of that disaster to this day.

Needless to say, when I look back to those childhood days, I find many episodes and events that inspire my stories, like my recently published non-fiction piece, Alfie. Another chapter of my life gave me the setting for A Midnight Feast to Remember. Check them out and be transported to a world of innocence in a way of life that has ceased to exist. If you enjoy listening to Alfie or reading A Midnight Feast to Remember, do send me a note.

Eight Years Old, and All Grown Up

When I was eight years old, I went away to study at a boarding school for the first time--at my own insistence--I might add. My English education began because I pestered my mother to let me study English. The local Chinese school in Tangra, a suburb of Calcutta (now called Kolkata), was the primary school for most of us back then.

My mother relented, and I went away to another city. I had to take an overnight train to get to my school where I stayed for nine months a year with two breaks, summer and winter. Too late...as I tried to get some sleep, half lying on my bedding roll in a crowded train compartment, I was confronted with the reality of what I'd committed myself to. I wouldn't see my mom for the next four and half months. That was enough to bring some huge tears, and I mean torrential downpours, that lasted for a couple of weeks.

During those early days at school, struggling to learn English, I regretted bitterly being a spoiled kid and getting my way. The truth was my mother probably wanted an English education for me, and when I bugged her to let me go, she didn't need a lot of coaxing.

Later, when English became more of a first language to me than my own Hakka dialect, I patted myself for being so forceful with my mother...I actually had the audacity to think that my eight-year old self was responsible for my own educational direction.

My mother's birthday is coming up this week. I dedicate this blog to her for giving me the gift of language.