There comes a time in life when looking back is as much of a joy as looking forward
The older I grow the more I find that nostalgia is the governing emotion of my life. This was brought home to me even more strongly last week when I went back to Jaipur’s Rambagh Palace for a brief visit. The moment I walked through the sofa-lined verandah that runs in front of what used to be the Jaipur royal state room (and is now rather prosaicly, a restaurant), I was transported back to my first visit to this iconic property.
I was a young rookie reporter, barely out of college, and had been assigned to cover the General Elections by following the erstwhile royals on the campaign trail. We (I was accompanied by the magazine’s photographer) were in Jaipur to cover the former Maharaja, Captain Bhawani Singh’s, campaign and stopped by at the Rambagh for a quick coffee.
Imagine our excitement when we saw, in the verandah where I now stood some three decades later, Rajmata Gayatri Devi, resplendent in chiffon and pearls, talking to a friend. We immediately sidled up to her, waited respectfully for her conversation to end, and then asked if we could speak to her.
Much to our surprise, she ignored us completely, refusing to even acknowledge the question. Both of us were crestfallen but couldn’t quite understand why we had been snubbed so comprehensively. It was only later when we shared the story with the hotel manager did we realize what we, in our naivete, had done wrong. Instead of addressing her as ‘Rajmata Saheb’ as was customary, we had referred to her as ‘Mrs Singh’ (on the grounds that she was stepmother to ‘Captain Singh’; what can I say, we were young and callow). Of course, such lese-majeste had to be punished.
Later, as I gazed at a beautiful portrait of Gayatri Devi in her younger days that was hung in pride of place in my room, I was transported back to my youth as well. Suddenly, all those memories of driving through dry, dusty Rajasthan in a clapped-out Ambassador with no air-conditioning as we tried to keep up with the likes of the Maharaja of Jaipur and Maharana of Udaipur came flooding back. I remembered going days without drinking water because I knew that there would be no decent loos on our route. I remembered the dodgy hotel rooms we stayed in, a far cry from my salubrious surroundings of today. But mostly, I remembered the energy and enthusiasm of my younger self, and the self-belief that I would give anything to possess today in my advancing years.
I had much the same experience when I visited Kolkata a few years ago – though, I have to confess that it will always be Calcutta to me. This is the city where I was born and raised, where I went to school and college, and got my first job. No surprises then that every street sparked a memory, every building evoked emotions, and even a walk in a park triggered a strong dose of nostalgia.
But it was a visit to my old college that really transported me back in time. I was walking through Park Street with my husband, marveling at how many things had changed while others remained just the same, when I came to the turn that led to my old alma mater, Loreto House. On a sudden impulse I walked to that familiar green gate and asked the doorman if, as an old student, I could have a little walkthrough. He agreed, and we walked into that driveway that I had traversed every day to go to class.
We walked into reception and then into the hall in which we had held assembly on special occasions, where I sat for so many exams. I walked on to the stage on which I had participated in innumerable debates and plays – one of them written and performed by my English Honours class. It was on this stage where, at the end of my college career, I had been awarded the gold medal for most outstanding student of the year. And – pardon the boastfulness – did I mention that my name was immortalized in shiny gold paint on a board outside, along with all the other winners?
But while places have their own role in jogging my memory, it is meeting people that brings on the strongest bouts of nostalgia. Meeting my childhood best friend in Cal, and remembering the first day we went to school, clutching nervously on to each other, as we navigated this new, mysterious world. Running into an old teacher, who didn’t just remember my name and face, but also an essay I wrote for her, which I have long forgotten. Going to the restaurant that was the haunt of us newspaper types as we worked late into the night and being greeted by the same waiter.
The memories come rushing back thick and fast no matter where I am or what I am doing. A visit to my sister results in us taking out old photo albums and reminiscing about our younger years. Meeting old colleagues means another trip down memory lane. And stumbling upon an old article of mine among the few clippings I have preserved transports me to an entirely different time and place.
My conversations these days are peppered with “Do you remember when” or “Remember that time”. I guess that is a good indication that I am finally at a place in my life when looking back is as pleasurable – sometimes even more so – than looking forward. Or, more bluntly, I am just getting old!
The older I grow the more I find that nostalgia is the governing emotion of my life. This was brought home to me even more strongly last week when I went back to Jaipur’s Rambagh Palace for a brief visit. The moment I walked through the sofa-lined verandah that runs in front of what used to be the Jaipur royal state room (and is now rather prosaicly, a restaurant), I was transported back to my first visit to this iconic property.
I was a young rookie reporter, barely out of college, and had been assigned to cover the General Elections by following the erstwhile royals on the campaign trail. We (I was accompanied by the magazine’s photographer) were in Jaipur to cover the former Maharaja, Captain Bhawani Singh’s, campaign and stopped by at the Rambagh for a quick coffee.
Imagine our excitement when we saw, in the verandah where I now stood some three decades later, Rajmata Gayatri Devi, resplendent in chiffon and pearls, talking to a friend. We immediately sidled up to her, waited respectfully for her conversation to end, and then asked if we could speak to her.
Much to our surprise, she ignored us completely, refusing to even acknowledge the question. Both of us were crestfallen but couldn’t quite understand why we had been snubbed so comprehensively. It was only later when we shared the story with the hotel manager did we realize what we, in our naivete, had done wrong. Instead of addressing her as ‘Rajmata Saheb’ as was customary, we had referred to her as ‘Mrs Singh’ (on the grounds that she was stepmother to ‘Captain Singh’; what can I say, we were young and callow). Of course, such lese-majeste had to be punished.
Later, as I gazed at a beautiful portrait of Gayatri Devi in her younger days that was hung in pride of place in my room, I was transported back to my youth as well. Suddenly, all those memories of driving through dry, dusty Rajasthan in a clapped-out Ambassador with no air-conditioning as we tried to keep up with the likes of the Maharaja of Jaipur and Maharana of Udaipur came flooding back. I remembered going days without drinking water because I knew that there would be no decent loos on our route. I remembered the dodgy hotel rooms we stayed in, a far cry from my salubrious surroundings of today. But mostly, I remembered the energy and enthusiasm of my younger self, and the self-belief that I would give anything to possess today in my advancing years.
I had much the same experience when I visited Kolkata a few years ago – though, I have to confess that it will always be Calcutta to me. This is the city where I was born and raised, where I went to school and college, and got my first job. No surprises then that every street sparked a memory, every building evoked emotions, and even a walk in a park triggered a strong dose of nostalgia.
But it was a visit to my old college that really transported me back in time. I was walking through Park Street with my husband, marveling at how many things had changed while others remained just the same, when I came to the turn that led to my old alma mater, Loreto House. On a sudden impulse I walked to that familiar green gate and asked the doorman if, as an old student, I could have a little walkthrough. He agreed, and we walked into that driveway that I had traversed every day to go to class.
We walked into reception and then into the hall in which we had held assembly on special occasions, where I sat for so many exams. I walked on to the stage on which I had participated in innumerable debates and plays – one of them written and performed by my English Honours class. It was on this stage where, at the end of my college career, I had been awarded the gold medal for most outstanding student of the year. And – pardon the boastfulness – did I mention that my name was immortalized in shiny gold paint on a board outside, along with all the other winners?
But while places have their own role in jogging my memory, it is meeting people that brings on the strongest bouts of nostalgia. Meeting my childhood best friend in Cal, and remembering the first day we went to school, clutching nervously on to each other, as we navigated this new, mysterious world. Running into an old teacher, who didn’t just remember my name and face, but also an essay I wrote for her, which I have long forgotten. Going to the restaurant that was the haunt of us newspaper types as we worked late into the night and being greeted by the same waiter.
The memories come rushing back thick and fast no matter where I am or what I am doing. A visit to my sister results in us taking out old photo albums and reminiscing about our younger years. Meeting old colleagues means another trip down memory lane. And stumbling upon an old article of mine among the few clippings I have preserved transports me to an entirely different time and place.
My conversations these days are peppered with “Do you remember when” or “Remember that time”. I guess that is a good indication that I am finally at a place in my life when looking back is as pleasurable – sometimes even more so – than looking forward. Or, more bluntly, I am just getting old!
