My
childhood in Dunlop was quite uneventful.
There was nothing haunting, or defining about it. A linear predictable narrative lacking much
twists and turns. The confined universe
of Dunlop, in fact, roused the burning quest for what’s outside - how was life in
the other side of the “fence”. This
mystery drove my focus of youthful romanticism and defined my exploration in
the world. In fact, when I moved out of
Dunlop, it was like a vast open space on my boyish dreams, filling me with
wonder and amazement. This “involuntary
memory” (as Proust would say) rouses the same feeling over and over again - with
every move, every relocation, and every new place I visit. Dunlop has faded in my memory - under layers
of later experiences. It is only recently
as a father of a three and half year old, I find myself dwelling on my
formative years in Dunlop, as I try to recollect my own and match against his
developing life. And specifically, indulging
in my all-consuming sense of anxiety – that converges on one question - what
course will he choose?
Remembering
and cherry-picking from the past is a risky business to apply to present life. Where I find refuge, though, is in the idea
that it is hard to think forward, and much easier to look backward. It was impossible to imagine my present placing
myself in Dunlop and thinking forward. Not
even close! On the contrary looking back
it seems so easy to connect the dots, even why I chose the road I chose whenever
it came to a fork, presenting multiple choices. Today, as I look back, I see three simple but
connected forces charted me through the course of my life. A longing for beauty, a consistent desire to
feed my curiosity, and finding joy through work. And all three were shaped by my childhood
years in Dunlop.
Dunlop was far away from the usual sources of
beauty that draw one’s natural awe and admiration. It was not close to museums, zoos,
Disneylands, art galleries or any grandiose architecture. But what it provided was a setting to
appreciate beauty in simple things. Not
just through the visually immediacy of manicured shrubbery that partitioned the
open green patches, the neatly painted signs, or the pothole free roads - but
also in a broader sense. Spending close
to nature was a big part of growing up.
Most houses had a backyard that was big enough to grow vegetables. There was a sense of rhythm that started with
the morning sirens, that like a call to prayer almost bestowed a divine chime
to daily work. Children going to school,
men going and coming back to work (yes most of factory workers were men!) and
then the din of evening fading into the croaking of frogs and empty streets lit
with white mercury street lights that automatically switched on at dusk,
something that was magical to my childhood eyes. There was a busy calendar of festivals that
were celebrated. There was splendor and
color - in dresses, music, dances, dramas, food, fetes and soirees. The
creative process was as important and engaging as the final outcome. The after-party
conversations went for long to keep the fun and frolic alive. So were the
sports. Whether it was cricket in the
winters or soccer in the summers the thrill of our boyish excursions mattered
more than winning at least for most of us.
The annual sports day was an extravaganza. We would imagine ourselves as Gavaskar for a
moment, then next as Maradona, and then Tom Sawyer. Little things occupied our mindshare for
long. The gradual buildup of a wasp hive
in our window sill, until one day two men from the factory showed up to take it
out. The mango tree that mysteriously
produced only two mangoes after a bountiful previous year, or crafting an
entire ghost story around a set of skeletons that one of my neighbors was using
for medical school.
We lived a
life that kept feeding our sense of wonder that both evoked our sense of reason
as well as pampered our whims and superstitions. Neighbors fed into my curiosity rather than
stifling or snubbing my constant barrage of the what, how, why, where, and
when. There was no Google back then but
there was always someone who knew something about something you asked. Veracity
and accuracy was of course not always guaranteed (but then is it much different
in our world of fake news today?). This
helped in sowing interests of all kinds - from Tagore to Alexander Pope, Tintin
to Sandesh, Sherlock to Feluda. Then
there was music, chess, kite-flying, trading marbles - anything that we could
imagine was within our limits. We
welcomed the world of color TV, Walkman, and VCRs. If someone had a talent - that was amplified
and exaggerated to the extreme - and if there was some material for a juicy
story - facts put aside, everyone caught on to it quickly. In all, the privileges in Dunlop were outrageous:
vast quantities of sunshine, space, nature, food, swimming pools and tennis
courts, non-stop water and electricity. In
the end, we all knew that life did revolve around my father’s work. That was
the keystone around which our own lives were all intertwined. It served as the common bedrock that kept all
of us afloat and do things we all enjoyed.
Thinking, reminiscing and
resurfacing this past in one thing - but then what is its relevance to my
present and future? After-all dwelling
on nostalgia is not my thing. I am
raising my child growing up in a different land, in surroundings overloaded
with advice, opinions, and options - that recite the
merits and de-merits of all sorts of parenting - from free-ranging, positive
reinforcement, helicoptering, to “scream-free”, and so many other ways. I can’t but wonder the contrast against my
homogenous childhood, the blessed quietism, an idyll certainty - with even
hints of irresponsibility – a place where time seemed to be in some poetic
suspension of blissful stasis.
Overlooking the occasional small-mindedness and cliquishness, we who
grew up in our times, will have our own individual Dunlop stories, and
naturally a shared longing for that time. I often wish I can collect the important pieces
that I can and weave into a tapestry to pay homage to the life I lived
there. For the Dunlop lifestyle was for
a different time and has run its course. But it will always act a marker on driving
home to the more important things. That
a simple life can be a happy life for the child. And even go far as to trust that I don’t need
to be so anxious about the future, for focusing on a handful of things that
matter goes a long way. Appreciating
beauty in simple things, developing a curious mind, value lifelong friendships
and the basic art of give and take to live in a community.
There is an ancient African saying
that it takes a village to raise a child, which more recently Hillary Clinton
used for the title of her book and made it a bit of a hackneyed political sound-bite.
At my own peril, I bring it up for its
aptness and its timeless relevance, in rendering and characterizing my growing
up in Dunlop as being raised by a village.
Defined by community, with impressive degrees of inclusion and
friendliness there is no question that it is the people of Dunlop that made who
we are, who by the coincidence of time and place happened to be there. People who were not bonded by blood but
through shared experiences, values, and consciousness. And hence, while on one side we lament that
the demise of the physical attributes of Dunlop, that it has spiraled into a
ghost town, wiping out the objects and surroundings, burying our memories with
it -- on the other side the idea of Dunlop lives on, quite resiliently. While the tires have disappeared from the
shelves of dealers, we still wear the name as a badge of honor.
In its heydays, Dunlop was known for its distinctive advertisement
campaigns. One of the last ones I
remember was the “Citizen Dunlop” campaign.
Back then I found it quite disappointing - it was too esoteric and
abstract - something that lacked the usual punch worthy of a Dunlop ad. Now 30 years later, maybe in an irony of fate
- it is citizen Dunlop that bears witness to how we come together to rekindle
old bonds, keep turning the pages in our lives, and keep the Dunlop spirit alive
in our hearts.
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