The Afternoon Visitors

A Smile for Chacha Nehru

The year 1960 began with the Indian Science Congress session taking place in Bombay. I had turned five and started in elementary school soon after my sister was born, the previous year. Juggling the simultaneous and sometimes-conflicting demands of two young children, my family had gradually regained its equilibrium and now our lives were slowly returning to a more predictable pattern.

A couple of times a month, my parents would plan a special outing towards the late afternoon or evening in which I was often included. My mother and I sometimes would catch a train downtown to Churchgate Station and walk or ride a cab to wherever we were headed – a movie theatre, a departmental store, a restaurant, someone’s home. A little later, my father would join us there and we would spend the evening doing whatever we had planned.

As the sun began setting beyond the waters of the Arabian Sea, casting magnificent golden-orange and purple streaks across the sky, we would get into our car and head home. I would sprawl in the backseat, looking out at the passing scenes as my parents would chat comfortably in the front seat about things I usually did not make sense of while my father drove us all home.

Sometimes my mother would explain to me when we were on the train about where we were going and why. I didn’t always comprehend but I enjoyed these outings nevertheless and relished them. One crisp day at the very beginning of January 1960, she dressed me in a new blue-and-white-checked dress with a big blue bow that she had just stitched for me, brushed my short curly hair, and reminded me that we were going into town for a rather special event that day.

She herself took especially long to dress that afternoon, standing in front of the three perpendicular mirrors on her low-set dressing table for ages, pinning up her long tresses into a neat chignon - which I never tired of watching her do – and trying on a number of saris, before settling on a printed silk that made her look dignified and elegant. I wondered what this special occasion was about.

On the train, she explained something about the Indian Science Congress being held in town and how we were going to be at a trade-show where the multinational company in which my father was employed was exhibiting their range of products at a stall. Much of what she said made no sense to me. She told me then that Chacha Nehru was expected to come to open the trade-show and that we might be able to see him in person. At this, my ears pricked up because it was a familiar name.

Numerous times, my parents had pointed out Chacha Nehru to me in photographs in newspapers and magazines and explained that he was the first prime minister of India. They had also gone into much more detail about him and about the country and the independence struggle but my child’s mind wasn’t able to accommodate all the details or connect all the dots but some of the words stayed with me.

We reached the exhibition pandal and located my father and his colleagues in their stall. As the adults talked, I ran around and explored my surroundings, fascinated by the exhibits and lights. They were discussing rumors that Panditji was in a bad mood that day, having found many things going awry at the Science Congress sessions. The mix-ups, occasional chaos and confusion involving organizers, presenters and audiences had got him riled up and irritated to the point where he was scowling and keeping a thin-lipped silence while everyone in his immediate vicinity was treading on eggshells to avoid provoking him further.

My mother, almost always socially over-sensitive, called me to her and told me in a low voice that I must behave myself and when Chacha Nehru came by the stall, I was to hand him a rose (which he was very fond of) and be on my best behavior. I promised her that I would and promptly pulled myself away to run about again. She looked concerned and uncertain. My parents exchanged wary glances.

After a long wait, I was getting hungry and tiring of the snacks and drinks my mother had brought with her, I asked her if we could go somewhere to eat. She said “later”. I thought that if I told my father, he might think of something. But he was away from the stall, taking care of some detail. And that’s when without warning the quiet slow wait changed for us all.

There was a sudden flurry of movement and activity – a small crowd of people moving towards us, light bulbs flashing as photographers and journalists clicked their cameras. “Come here, quick”, my mother called. But I was still searching for my father in the people scattered about in the gigantic tent. “Come here!” She called again, her voice still low but sterner. “Chacha Nehru is here!”

I stopped and looked curiously at the small mass of people moving towards us. There was a trim dignified figure wearing a familiar cap and a long sherwani and his collared jacket over churidars walking in front of the group, flanked by some others. I think I recognized him at that point from the photos I had seen ever since I could remember. I think I began to beam thinking “Oh, this is Chacha Nehru…”

“Come here now!” insisted my mother. The group moved closer to where we were, talking as they moved along, flashbulbs still going off. Chacha Nehru was looking positively grumpy, barely shaking his head as people talked to him, pointing to exhibits, explaining, showing… Everyone seemed tense.

Just then I saw my father over on the other side of the narrow walkway on which the entourage was approaching, he was taking to someone. I called to him excitedly but he did not hear me. I began to run towards him. Meanwhile, my mother had rushed to where I was, just in time to grab both my wrists. I came to a standstill. “Stop”, she said. “What are you doing? Can’t you see that Chacha Nehru is walking towards us? You can’t go anywhere now. Here!” She handed me a rose on a long stem that she had kept aside until then. “Hold this carefully. Don’t touch the thorns. Give this to Chacha Nehru, okay?” I nodded, half-attentively, still trying to catch my father's attention. My mother still held on firmly to my arm.

I found myself on the horns of a dilemma. There was my father reachable within running distance and here was Chacha Nehru walking towards me. I wanted my father to be beside me with my mother so that we could all greet and smile at Chacha Nehru together. I struggled. My mother held on to my wrists the tighter. My father still did not notice.

Suddenly, as he drew closer, it was Chacha Nehru who noticed me. By now, I was determined to get my father's attention and so I kept trying to pull away and my mother kept holding on tighter. Something in my face or demeanor or silent struggle must have tipped the balance from a bad mood to an outburst of good humor. No one was certain what exactly happened because it all happened in a flash.

Chacha Nehru stopped in front of me, my mother still gripping my wrists from behind. I remembered to hand him the rose which he took. Then, as he looked down at me, his face suddenly relaxed, his eyes crinkled up and his mouth creased into a wide smile. I think he even chuckled loudly or exclaimed to himself. He reached for my face and cuddled my cheeks and chin in a sudden gesture of spontaneous affection.

Before we knew it, the world around us seemed to explode in light and sound. Cameras were clicking, flashes going off and, as Panditji moved on his way through the tradeshow, some reporters surrounded us with questions, asking for details. My father finally noticed us and came across. My mother relaxed her grip and let my father pick me up. Together they answered some of the reporters’ questions. I looked towards the group that had just passed with Chacha Nehru but I could no longer see him.

“I’m hungry.” I announced. My father took the cue. “I think we can go now. I don’t need to be here any longer as there is someone else manning the stall. I’ll bring the car around. You two can wait near the entrance.”

Some hours later, as we stopped in traffic on our way home, someone tapped on our car window to offer us a copy of the Evening News. Special edition, we were told. My parents happened to buy a copy and suddenly we noticed that my mother and I were in a photograph along with Chacha Nehru, complete with my mother’s hands gripping my wrist from behind as Chacha Nehru held my face in his hands, smiling broadly!

It was right on the front page of the Evening News and the caption read: A Smile for Chacha Nehru. The write-up explained what had happened. As I dozed or relaxed in my dream world in the backseat, my parents read the article and discussed it among themselves. Their rise and fall of their voices lulled me to sleep.

It had been a bad day for the PM, the newspaper article explained, after he had observed or somehow intuited the many blocks and conundrums that had marked the start of that year’s Science Congress session in Bombay and he had been in a dark and explosive mood most of the morning. When he arrived to formally open the trade-show in the early afternoon, he was still simmering.

Then he noticed a perky little girl with dark curly hair and bright dancing eyes and a smile that, in an instant, lightened his mood and banished the dark clouds which had been hanging about his shoulders. Panditji actually begun to beam himself, exclaimed the newspaper, and the rest of the evening proceeded more pleasantly, to everyone’s relief.

Over the next few days, weeks, and even months and years, people we knew phoned, visited and asked to see the photo which the newspaper had sent us. After a while, we even had an autographed photo to show everyone. My parents had carefully mailed Panditji a copy of the photograph and it had come back to us with his signature.

My mother took special care of my blue-and-white checked dress with the big blue bow, even washing it herself by hand and putting it away in the cupboard. We began to call it my “Nehru dress” and I wore it self-consciously on special occasions mostly.

An Indian Childhood
(c) 2017, PRB