Piyo Chai Suno Kahani

The war that made me read more

A month ago, till the ceasefire was declared, people of varying vintage shared recollections of the 1971 Indo-Pak war. Then, city lights switched off the instant that sirens wailed. The windows of my Bandra home were hastily made opaque, shrouded in brown paper sheets we taped together to cover the expanse of wide glass panes.

I was 8 winters old. Closeted in the dark, we all gathered around a small bookcase in the middle of the long passageway of our apartment. Chatting only a little about where escalating tension between the countries might lead, we would lighten up, playing word games and discussing books.

Every aunt in our joint family was an avid reader. While my Mum talked about the Agatha Christie thriller she had finished and Dad about a biography of Beethoven that he began going through that week, each of his sisters chimed in with their choices. Adding to that assortment of voices and views, my elder brother raved about the adventures of Biggles serialised by Captain WE Johns and Richmal Crompton’s naughty boy William – titles he devoured before discovering Nevil Shute and Alistair Maclean.

My personal favourites at the time were anthropomorphic delights: immortal animal characters imbued with human qualities. AA Milne’s Winnie the Pooh series, Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows, Rudyard Kipling’s Jungle book and Just So Stories. I reassured myself I’d soon be able to read what the adults enjoyed.

In those blackout hours, a pair of pendulous-branched, swaying Ashoka trees outside whispered what sounded like “Hush shush-whoosh woo” in the December winds hitting our walls. Lulled by their softly swishing delicate leaves, we were quickly jolted by shouts of “Batti bandh karo!” when patrolling cops spotted the barest bulb flicker anywhere on Hill Road.

Without a doubt, some nights were spent tossing in nervousness, thinking what might happen next politically. But kissed goodnight, I usually drifted into easy sleep. Even as the rest stayed glued to the giant Bush radio on top of the bookcase announcing AIR’s news-on-the-hour extensions, mine were sweet dreams. Of Kipling’s “butterfly that stamped”, Biggles’ “cruise of the Condor”, William’s audacious escapades… and which Christie whodunit might prove less scary to start on some day.  

Yes, those blackout hours pushed me to read so much more.