The march of time

In the wake of 1947, which marked India’s Independence, new government departments were created in a spurt of nationalism. Father happened to be part of a delegation sent to the Middle East to study trade relations with Iran and Iraq, and so on. It was 1952 and I and my sisters were excited at the prospect of father’s foray into foreign parts. We looked up, Baghdad, Basra, Teheran on the map and awaited father’s return for stories from these exotic cities. He returned after a fortnight rather tanned and a bit like a stranger.

He lost no time in narrating his experiences from the moment he had left Bombay on the four-member delegation. We loved his stories, but we were on pins until he opened his suitcase. Dates and apricots there were in plenty for us to munch on and a karakuli cap which he donned on his head to our admiration.

Next came a beautiful blue prayer carpet which could go as a chair back.

Then father grinned and fished out a white packet which he waved in the air, uttering a magical word which sounded like ‘ferozas’, a word unheard of by us. He told a story. It appears he was in Teheran airport when an American hippie walked along the line asking for rupees. When he came to Father, Father asked, "what do you have to give in return." "These," said the young man laying bare the ferozas in a packet. Just as father displayed the stones to us now, drawing 'ohs' and 'ahs' from us as we fell in love with the turquoise beauties.

Excitedly, my sisters and I decided we would make earrings, pendants out of them.

In good time, we graduated, got married and time the tyrant took us on different paths in life.

It was only when father passed away a couple of years ago that we were back in our parental home. Where were the stones that had mesmerised us so in our youth? We looked for them in the wardrobe where all the valuables were kept. Sure enough, the stones were there but ah, with father gone, they lacked the magic of a bygone day.