Childhood memories often last long enough for us to be enriched by them in moments of tranquility. I was lucky to have a Bengali tutor, who was an incurable idealist. He used to recite a poem by Jatindra Mohan Bagchi which was impregnated with pathos.

?Bansh baganer mathar opor chand utheche oi,

Ma-go amar sholok bola Kajladidi koi?.

These two lines had a deep impact on me. Kajladidi stood for the sort of warmth and reassurance that every child craves for. I suppose we all look for our own Kajladidis who would have protected us from the ravages of galloping time. When I look at our arid society today, I realise that Kajladidi?s absence has created a vacuum that can?t be filled easily. There is nobody near us to exorcise the devils.

Mastermashai often talked about forest retreats and hermitages where one could live amongst the falling leaves, the twittering birds and the damp, mossy smells of dense vegetation. To him, urban life made one brutal and uncaring and we needed to plan our escape routes judiciously to avoid the infection. Mastermashai died years ago, disenchanted with the extinction of idealism.

In those days some of our elders were easily approachable and they loved amusing children with stories and games. On some afternoons when my grandfather and I both entered our air-conditioned room for a siesta, he would play the game ?I spy with my little eye.? My peregrinations in the garden with him were sheer fun. He was determined to introduce me to the flowers, burgeoning in their beds, nurtured lovingly by Raghu mali who loved greenery as much as we did. This relationship had a very tender appeal and gave my days a wonderful momentum.

After lunch I used to play carrom with my grandmother on the second floor landing and it used to last for an hour. When I was indisposed and had fever, she used to come and administer an eau de cologne-drenched hanky to my feverish brow. She would also make pomegranate and orange juice for my liquid nourishment. She often sang snatches of a crazy song which she had heard as a child from some Panchudada at the fag end of the nineteenth century. When I heard her humming, ?Ekhono nebheni homeri aaguru, aashiche phuleri gondho?, a bygone world was summoned ? distant, inviolable.

Every evening my brother and I used to go up to my grandmother?s dressing room for a very special purpose. She used to take out pictures of gods and goddesses from the drawers of her ornate dressing table, touch our foreheads with them and bless us. Before retiring at night, she always came to our bedroom, placed her hand on my head and uttered a little prayer. These were the emollients which were necessary to smooth out creases and spirit the phantoms away. These touching practices were redolent of an age when leisure was not in short supply. When family bonds were immeasureably strong and grandmothers were empresses in their own right, they used to take the entire family in their fold. Can such a scenario be envisaged now when we lead such fractured lives and revel in our self-centredness?

Before I got to grips with my mother tongue, I was more familiar with English nursery rhymes. They had a lilt and were catchy, easy to remember and act out. Rhymes like Little Tommy Tucker sings for his supper, Hickory Dickory Dock, Little Miss. Muffet and Jack and Jill were constantly on our lips. A hot favourite at birthday parties was ?A ring, a ring of roses, a pocket full of posies?. Children?s magazines and books used to fill our shelves, like Child Life, Tiger Timm?s Annual, Hardy Boys, Grimm?s Fairy Tales, School Boys? Annual, Robin Hood and Tales From King Arthur. These were enough to nourish our minds and make us feel we had a special world to belong to and refer to. Nora Allen and Nellie Elder were the two governesses appointed by my father to give me a thorough grounding in English and prepare me for my school career which began in 1939. These two ladies ushered me into a world which was no longer alien and intimidating. With their help, my conversational English received a shot in the arm and there was no looking back after that.

We had a motley assortment of bamundidis who supervised the Indian kitchen, kept my grandmother?s thakurghar spotlessly clean and perfumed, and produced delectable Bengali sweets for our evening teas. One remembers with a smacking of lips the soft, toffee-like chandrapuli, gokul pithe, ranga alur puli, taaler bora, patishapta and malpoa. On very special occasions, we were treated to atar payesh, dudh kamala, rosogollar payesh, bhater payesh with a density that took our breath away. They were always in tune with the seasons when their special skills and aesthetic sensibilities couldn?t have been more in evidence. Poush sankranti became an excuse for patishapta, narkoler takti and chushir payesh. On Kali puja day, ?choddo saag? was served for lunch ritualistically. These gastronomic delights were products of a spacious and gracious culture which was our legacy. This tenacious attachment to their tradition gave the bamundidis a distinctiveness not seen elsewhere. We were proud of the authenticity of this way of life which slowly withered once a mechanical and homogenised society dug its heels in and we became denuded of our inner resources.

The bamundidis kept a tab on the other servants so that any aberrations could be reported at once. While Binapani bamundidi was small and slightly eccentric, Rani Bagchi was the epitome of good manners and quiet reserve apart from having an attractive face. Shehalata Moitra was delightfully old world and anxious to talk about her Natore days in East Bengal. All of them exuded a kind of gentleness which permeated our home like a benediction. They were like joss sticks burning away in a corner, aromatic and purifying. Without them our lives would have been less complete and it?s a pity this breed has vanished into oblivion in a crassly materialistic age.

I grew up in a joint family with true instruction, saws and homilies, customs and ideosyncracies that, for children, constitute a philosophy. The infrastructure was strong and enduring. There were infinite diversions to add to the pleasure of everyday living. A child?s autonomy was in place.