Being nostalgic can be sweet, and can also make a sensitive person brood over things that are not in his control anymore
THE cry of the eagle, this morning, reminded me of the time when as a child I used to accompany my father to his office.
The courtyard and backyard of the main office building sported very tall trees, coupled with huge peepal and oak trees. In the centre of the courtyard was a fountain, that normally was not functional. There were weeds and creepers with moss all around it. The pathway to the portico was filled with gravel and pebbles. It was always fun to walk and run because of the sound the thumping feet produced.
There were about 20 steps that led from the portico to the reception area of the office. There were two major flanks of the building, the eastern flank and the western flank. The western flank of the office was exclusive for the office of the director, while the eastern flank had the offices of the deputy/assistant director’s and the general administration office.
Immediately after the reception area on the eastern side, sat a herd of typists, all clustered together within a nest of tables. I remember them jumping to their feet in reverence as soon as father made an entry into the office. My father with his head bent towards the floor and without catching a glimpse of them, would raise his hand in acknowledgement and speedily walk into his room, the door to which was held open most devoutly, by his most faithful office assistant, Jehangir. I believe my father avoided eye contact, more out of shyness and humility as against arrogance or haughtiness.
Father’s office had large windows overlooking the courtyard and the sidewalk. Sometimes, he would rush off to meetings, leaving me behind in the room, with an assignment for writing an essay, on any topic that came to his mind. While completing the assignment, I normally would intermittently go up to the window and gaze at the birds, hopping from one tree to another. It was during this quietude that I would hear the shrill cry of the eagle. There used to be so many of them hovering around the trees and buildings.
The office had few female staff. One such member was Abida (aunty). She was a young, stout lady, who always offered me a candy or chocolate, whenever I went up to her. Abida was fair in complexion, had high jaw bones and was usually dressed up elegantly in a sari, with her long hair, neatly tied in plaids. She always wore a strong perfume. I later learnt that she was made to believe that she resembled the famous superstar Meena Kumari. Her male colleague, a spoilt nawab, who saw her as Kumari, ended taking her up, as his second wife, having ditched a dutiful young wife and seven loving children.
Then there was this young typist, I cannot recall his name, who mostly was quite well-dressed, but had the despicable habit of chewing the betel leaf. I do not remember seeing him without a betel leaf in his mouth and the attendant redness on his lips.
The lunch hour at the office was most exciting. It allowed me to taste a wide variety of dishes. My father always took his lunch with his peer group. The dry popadum, the idli dipped in sour sambar and pickles of all varieties were most delicious.
The left flank of the office was an exclusive domain of the director. I liked the setting of this area, particularly, the curtains of “Khas”, that were drawn in summers. To give a cooling and soothing affect, a peon was specifically designated to splash water on the Khas curtain. The fragrance that emanated from the curtains could easily lull a fatigued soul to sleep.
Behind the main building was an annexe, that was in exclusive use of the stationery and storage department. It was mostly, when father was busy in meetings, that Jehangir would slip me or my brother out to the annexe, where the store manager who was elderly looking, and mostly sherwani-clad, handed out to us, some of the office stationery like pins, rubbers, clips, pencils etc — nothing expensive though. All this was accomplished very discreetly. More than us, the store manager and Jehangir, preferred to keep this secret, because both of them were fully aware of my father’s principles and his awesome temper.
Some years later, father was promoted as director and was therefore forced against his wishes to move to the more prestigious western flank. My father always kept reasonable distance from his staff, yet he was always affectionate towards them and I recall many of his staff members recounting to us, several incidents and instances of his benevolence and magnanimity.
Father was always immaculately dressed. He possibly never wore informal dress to his office. In Spring, he wore combinations; a chequered tweed jacket, with leather patches on the elbows, which was the in-thing then, with white or dark trousers, that were accompanied by brilliantly white shoes, with brown leather toes. During winters, it was invariably dark suits, with white shirts. My father had a penchant for white colour, in fact, he still has.
Amongst his personal staff were Mr Mohyuddin (secretary), a tall, lanky person, who obviously must have been an excellent professional secretary to have withstood my father’s excessive impatience and unreasonable demands for perfection; Rahim (driver) a fat, burly fellow, whose allegiance I personally always doubted, although I was extremely young to conclude on such issues; and there was Jehangir (peon), a slim and tall young man, who sported an ugly beard. Jehangir was a devoted worker; his hard work that would make the Wasserman’s donkey feel small. We all loved Jehangir. When I used to be riding with him on his bicycle, he would always be reciting verses from the Holy Quran. Jehangir was a pious and noble soul.
My father befriended me most dearly since I lost my mother at the age of two. Over the years that I grew with him, he became my closest “confidant”, with whom I would share everything beginning from my day at school to days at the office in the later years. He was a prolific reader and would discuss, which often would turn into a debate with me, on subjects as wide and varied as religion, politics, culture, social issues etc. He would narrate to me the several flirtations of Dilip Kumar, Madhubala and cite reasons for how Waheeda Rehman led Guru Dutt up the path of committing suicide. He would quote to me from Ghalib, Iqbal and Shakespeare with anecdotes about Bernard Shaw, Rabindranath Tagore. Since I had very little appreciation of Urdu poetry, father would often reprimand me with a remark, “You will remain an incomplete man if you do not read Ghalib, Iqbal, Milton, Wordsworth etc.” When today I find young people talk about the generation gap, I remain bewildered. A gap between father and son. I never had one — never experienced it, irrespective of situation or circumstances. Tragic it is, if children cannot look up to their parents, as being their “best friends”. Father, who is his youth displayed extreme impatience, turned so patient that in his later years he calligraphed the Holy Quran twice; translated it twice, once each in English and in Urdu.
My father would always refer to his office as “green gates”. He would remark, “I am going to green gates,” and I would always wonder because neither the office building was green nor the iron gates had that colour. It was much later in life that I noticed a marble plaque at the entrance that was hidden behind the thick green shrubs and leaves, next to the gates that said, “green gates”. I learnt that the original owners of the property, some nawab, who resided there, had named the place green gates, and the now rusty iron gates, were then green.
The memories of the office are still vivid. I often recall my visits there. There are occasions, like this morning’s eagle’s cry, that prompt a journey down memory lane. I hear the eagle’s cry. I miss you dad.
Being nostalgic can be sweet, and can also make a sensitive person brood over things that are not in his control anymore 
