Pathankot Air Force base.
Credit: PTI File Photo
I remember the summer vacations we spent with our father at the Pathankot Air Force Unit. My mother and we three kids stayed back in Delhi because my sister and I were in board-bound classes, and my parents did not want any interruptions in those crucial years. My father was the commanding officer, and we would receive regal treatment. My mother would be the Queen Bee and would get respite from cooking and other household chores.
The Air Force Unit was near a small hamlet where the fields would be full of ripe musk melon. When the monsoon would strike, small boys would sit in their fields with four or five melons to sell because the melons, supposedly, lose all sweetness after a rain shower. There was a small library in the unit that was a reader’s delight. There were funds allocated for the library. I would give my father a long list of books which were on my bucket list. There was a table tennis table in the mess, and my brother honed his sporting skills, as it required physical and mental agility. There was a lot of bush area where snakes abounded. None ventured out after seven without a torch. Every Sunday, a Hindi movie was screened in the unit’s amphitheatre. More than the movies, we would look forward to gorging on the kulfi faludas.
The highlight of our stay was the Sports Day celebrations. What was really endearing was when my mother presented the trophy to my father, who was the captain of the volleyball team that defeated the opposing team led by the second senior-most officer. The lawns in front of the Officer’s Mess were replete with sunflowers. Whenever there was a party, my sister and I would decorate the hall with sunflowers. My mother would appreciate the flower arrangements and could not refrain from telling the other ladies how the profusion of flowers made the room look especially elegant.
There was a small temple in the unit. Every Tuesday we would offer prayers and distribute prasad to all. Near the unit library was a grapevine whose fruit was so sweet that my father got it transplanted to our house in Delhi. Its fruit was so abundant and the vine so resilient that we would gift baskets full of grapes to all our relatives who visited us for many years. Our relatives were highly appreciative.
Those days, I had entered my rebellious teenage years and was quite a handful. I wrote a letter to my father complaining that my mother, the tigress, was clipping my wings. My father gave a thoughtful reply: “Your mother has the same maternal instincts that a tigress has for her cubs.”
What a profound answer, I now realise!