Tryst with Nehru

In my growing years, Nehru was regarded as a prime minister par excellence, a man for all seasons and a person who had his heart in the right place.

Unlike today, when his policies and politics are under criticism, Nehru then was revered and loved by the nation.

Little wonder then, that when I won the first prize in an international writing competition, my parents decided I must go to Delhi to receive the prize from the grand man himself.

Such was Nehru’s charisma and my parents’ captivation with him, that plans were quickly set in place for a six-year-old to journey to Delhi in the midst of a chilly winter, with her parents and aunt.

The fact that I had written a prize winning essay seemed to escape everyone’s mind. In my young mind, I resented this Chacha Nehru, as children back then were wont to call him.

He seemed to be hogging the limelight a tad too much and it was more about him and less about me and my award-winning writing skills.

Even the new tafetta frock that was bought for ‘prize day’ turned out to be a pristine white one.

My aunt felt it fitted beautifully with Nehru’s sartorial sense of white coat and churidhars.

My protestations were not heeded even as I displayed an affinity for a bright purple dress with yellow satin hedgings.

It was a sharp wintry afternoon in Delhi on the day of the awards.

My aunt oiled and combed my hair in a tight bunch and tied a huge bow with a white nylon ribbon. To go with the white dress, remember?

Frock in place, the highly polished shoes and white Bata socks did the trick.

But then to round it off, my aunt proceeded to lather the better part of a talcum powder tin, on my face.

Catching a glimpse in the mirror, I noticed I looked like the clown from Gemini Circus but no one seemed to notice.

At the venue, I was whisked away to a high tea for the prize winning children.

My aunt gave me the sternest of looks and warned me not to eat or drink anything as my face and frock would get messed up.

For as long and as hard as I could, I resisted all the gooey eats on the table. Then something inside me snapped.

My aunt’s stern visage receded into the background as I devoured cakes and ice cream with all the gusto of a six-year-old.

My white dress was a mess with chocolate streaks on it and my powdered face was sticky with jamun syrup.

I had hardly recovered from this catastrophe that had befallen me when I was herded away to the auditorium and my name was called.

Nehru looked down at me and beamed indulgently as he handed me my prize.

Heady with excitement and all that sugar in me, I looked into Nehru’s smiling eyes and asked, “Do you know Children’s Little Theatre?”

He seemed taken aback at the suddenness of the question but continued to play the genial ‘Uncle’ as I continued regardless, “Well, I belong to it!”

That, must by far be the most nonsensical, spur-of-the-moment conversation of my life.

But many papers picked up that moment as the time a little girl stopped to talk to Nehru.

My aunt, of course, was the happiest.