<p>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. <br /><br />Unlike today, when his policies and politics are under criticism, Nehru then was revered and loved by the nation. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />Even the new tafetta frock that was bought for ‘prize day’ turned out to be a pristine white one. <br /><br />My aunt felt it fitted beautifully with Nehru’s sartorial sense of white coat and churidhars. <br /><br />My protestations were not heeded even as I displayed an affinity for a bright purple dress with yellow satin hedgings. <br /><br />It was a sharp wintry afternoon in Delhi on the day of the awards. <br /><br />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?<br /><br /> Frock in place, the highly polished shoes and white Bata socks did the trick. <br /><br />But then to round it off, my aunt proceeded to lather the better part of a talcum powder tin, on my face.</p>.<p>Catching a glimpse in the mirror, I noticed I looked like the clown from Gemini Circus but no one seemed to notice.<br /><br />At the venue, I was whisked away to a high tea for the prize winning children.<br /><br /> 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. <br /><br />For as long and as hard as I could, I resisted all the gooey eats on the table. Then something inside me snapped. <br /><br />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.<br /><br /> My white dress was a mess with chocolate streaks on it and my powdered face was sticky with jamun syrup. <br /><br />I had hardly recovered from this catastrophe that had befallen me when I was herded away to the auditorium and my name was called. <br /><br />Nehru looked down at me and beamed indulgently as he handed me my prize.<br /><br />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?” <br /><br />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!” <br /><br />That, must by far be the most nonsensical, spur-of-the-moment conversation of my life. <br /><br />But many papers picked up that moment as the time a little girl stopped to talk to Nehru. <br /><br />My aunt, of course, was the happiest. </p>
<p>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. <br /><br />Unlike today, when his policies and politics are under criticism, Nehru then was revered and loved by the nation. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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. <br /><br />Even the new tafetta frock that was bought for ‘prize day’ turned out to be a pristine white one. <br /><br />My aunt felt it fitted beautifully with Nehru’s sartorial sense of white coat and churidhars. <br /><br />My protestations were not heeded even as I displayed an affinity for a bright purple dress with yellow satin hedgings. <br /><br />It was a sharp wintry afternoon in Delhi on the day of the awards. <br /><br />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?<br /><br /> Frock in place, the highly polished shoes and white Bata socks did the trick. <br /><br />But then to round it off, my aunt proceeded to lather the better part of a talcum powder tin, on my face.</p>.<p>Catching a glimpse in the mirror, I noticed I looked like the clown from Gemini Circus but no one seemed to notice.<br /><br />At the venue, I was whisked away to a high tea for the prize winning children.<br /><br /> 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. <br /><br />For as long and as hard as I could, I resisted all the gooey eats on the table. Then something inside me snapped. <br /><br />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.<br /><br /> My white dress was a mess with chocolate streaks on it and my powdered face was sticky with jamun syrup. <br /><br />I had hardly recovered from this catastrophe that had befallen me when I was herded away to the auditorium and my name was called. <br /><br />Nehru looked down at me and beamed indulgently as he handed me my prize.<br /><br />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?” <br /><br />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!” <br /><br />That, must by far be the most nonsensical, spur-of-the-moment conversation of my life. <br /><br />But many papers picked up that moment as the time a little girl stopped to talk to Nehru. <br /><br />My aunt, of course, was the happiest. </p>