Poem: 'Fred and I in '54'

Many Happy Returns of the Day!

Happy Birthday Fred!

Today is Freddie’s Birthday! Freddie is my younger brother in the U.K. He lives in Peterborough. The closest I got to my brother as a boy, was in the summer holidays in 1954. We were both borders in the Boys’ High School, Allahabad.

The school routine, dormitory chores, study classes, assemblies, long school hours, compulsory games in the evening and finally study classes again before dinner, kept us apart and we saw very little of each other.

The Summer Holidays, a long two months, May and June, brought us wholly together for the one and only time in our boyhood.

A Rudyard Kipling-like atmosphere prevails, specially reminding us of Kim and his adventures.

I’ll sign off as,

Yours truly,
M.A.

P.S.: “M.A.”, is what Freddie would affectionately call me in those days. This poem titled, “Fred and I in ’54”, is dedicated to him.

Fred and I in ’54

How do I remember

A summer long gone by

With younger brother Fred?

Younger than I am now,

And younger than I was then,

In the Summer of 1954.

He couldn’t paint,

I couldn’t maths.

I was older & stronger,

Strong & bolder was Fred;

One and a half years younger,

In the Summer of ’54.

Separated by the system

In a boarding school,

Times shared were sparse and spaced with rules;

Big brothers had to be distant

From younger ones. Holidays. Then came

The Summer of ’54.

United once again; again at home

In scorching Allahabad.

Fred in shorts, sweating,

With glowing skin, and I

Without a vest, climb to the top

To view a brood in nest; that Summer of ’54!

Beneath a culvert

Ran a stream. Tall grass

Took vantage of the cool & wet.

Between the stems a mongoose

Ran; we knew him well

And watched him long – that Summer ’54.

Hot winds raced us to

The trees and bushes; on

Our knees, to dig out Earthworms for our hooks.

O, Kim could have not been more

Pleased to touch the earth,

That Summer ’54.

Hoopoes, falcons, doves and kites,

Sparrow hawk and barbet

Crow and fowl and pigeons too,

Young pariah dog

On corded leash,

Moved through the balmy Summer heat of ’54.

Beneath the chil-bil tree,

A mango shared by two;

I lick the drip cascading

Down my arm. And Freddie

Too, with self same charm

Saw mangoes through that Summer of ’54.

A kite he made, with paper thick,

Some glue, a stick and twine.

With twinkle eye he cast it high

And stretched it to the moon.

I stood close by, and envied sly

The flyer of Summer ’54.

With stealthy poise, on brother’s arm,

We move in silent strides

Towards the hole where

Local cobra hid. “Don’t tap

the ground, M. A., for he can tell

That we are near” – that Summer ’54!

This garden Opera House

Was still & quiet sometimes;

And often loud and clear

With bird and childish cries.

Was there a doubt that secrets

Lie, in shadowed coves, of Summer heights, in ’54?

The monsoons came with toads,

And `hoppers too. Lal-boochies, dragonflies

And other creepy crawly things.

But sparkling jars our captives held

And caterpillars made to tell

How Summer moths were born in ’54.

The culvert, hopping filled

With frogs, and line in hand,

We caught a few while

Freddie caught a chill

With icy raindrops on his back,

Raw with prickly heat, in the Summer of ’54.

The years gone by

And frogs no more,

And rain that comes in drips,

Of warming weathers

And treeless ’scapes

We miss that Summer of ’54.

The outdoors made a Scout of me,

And Nature close to him

Made tackling life

A smile with strife,

And golden days a charm

To dangle on a moment there in Summer ’54.

This joyous summer knows no end

’Spite separated years! Life had

It’s streams to cross, and hillocks too;

It’s bushes and it’s banks.

Stiff climbs we saw: mirrored,

In our Summer of 1954.

End of Poem.

Look forward to a paraphrase and notes on the above poem. Illustrations in watercolours will follow too.

Brushes with M. F. Husain

Even though I kept up with my ‘painting’ from time to time, I had lost contact with the artist fraternity and the art market.

It was somewhere in `98 that I felt the need to fill the empty spaces on the walls at my farmhouse with some large paintings. I did two for the living room.

I had a visitor one day. A chap called to buy one of my Labrador Retriever pups. While haggling over a price of the pup, he noticed the two paintings on the wall.

“Beautiful paintings,” he remarked, closely scrutinizing the works. “Who is the artist?”

I told him that the paintings were done by me.

“Do you sell your paintings? Would you care to sell these to me?”

“Well…” I wavered. “How much would you like to pay?”

“Don’t get mad… I am only hoping…How about twenty thousand each?”

I sold him both!

Not bad, I thought. Forty thousand bucks for a couple of afternoons of fun, putting paint and thoughts on canvas.

This tickled me enough pink to visit an art gallery in Delhi. Soon I was at the doors of Vadehra Art Gallery then in Defense Colony. I ambled in and struck a pose before a Husain.

Winter had just set in and I was in my Harris Tweed, beret and all. That must have impressed the lady – here was a prospective buyer.

“That’s a Husain, Sir,” she volunteered.

“How much does it cost?” I asked.

“Fifteen, Sir,” she replied. I remembered that I had just sold my paintings for twenty a-piece! Husain for only fifteen!

“We’ve got another one here in the corner, Sir. Take a look at it please.” And she guided me to the corner.

“I suppose it’s about the same price? Fifteen thousand?” I asked.

Her face changed to one of contempt and disgust.

“Not fifteen thousand – FIFTEEN LACS…!”

She turned around, dropping me like a hot brick, and walked back to her desk.

I gaped. Fifteen lacs!

Somewhere in 2003, both Tyeb Mehta and Maqbool Fida Husain sold their paintings for over two crore each.

A few days ago, in the newspapers, I read, “Hounded out, M. F. Husain becomes Qatar citizen.”

To me the news is utterly demoralizing.

One of the last times I met him was in November 2001 – the 23rd to be exact. I was invited to see, ‘the last 40 minutes of its completion, (Knight Watch 2001 set to Sound of Richard Wagner, at Vadehra Art Gallery, D – 40, Defence Colony, New Delhi.



I asked Manisha to meet me there. I introduced her to Husain who autographed a brochure for her, and presented her with one of the paint brushes he was using to complete the ‘Knight Watch’.




I used the right hand side of the brochure, now bearing his signature, to do a sketch of him while he was in the act of painting.

He has presented only three other brushes, of which one was to Madhuri Dixit and another to Amrita Rao. And now, Manisha, the forth recipient!

The brush was still holding acrylic paint. Manisha hurriedly began to wash it clean. I stopped her.

“Keep the paint on. Let it dry.” I knew the brush would soon be caked stiff and possibly out of commission forever! “The paint is proof that this brush was used on the 23rd of November, 2001, on the Knight Watch.”

Five years later, in the Times of India’s, ‘Delhi Times’, 28th December, 2006, an article appeared. The press reported thus: “I am very selective, I’ve done this (given brushes as gifts) to maybe four people in my life,” Husain muses. “I have given Madhuri one and I gave one to Amrita.”

So Manisha, is now the proud owner of one of Husain’s brushes!

I met him again in September 2003 on his 88th birthday, at the Ashoka Hotel, New Delhi. It was a bash hosted by the local artist fraternity. He autographed a limited edition poster of one of his paintings for me.

Now at 95, M. F. Husain is faced with a dilemma. He has a decision to make: his citizenship – India or that of another country. “Inadequate security to artists is strangulation of free Bharat,” screams a newspaper headline, voicing our concerns too

Poster Signed for me by Husain on his 88th Birthday, 2003.

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE RAINBOW, Part-1

Allahabad's Singular Landmark:'All Saint's Cathedral,

in the moon light.

In the school library there was a huge globe with all the countries of the world running around it. I would place my finger on a dot which stood between two crooked lines. This dot was the sleepy town of Allahabad and the two crooked lines were the mighty Ganges and her comparatively placid sister the beautiful Jamuna.

Adorning their graceful, meandering curves were the kachars, sprawling agricultural fields, which according to the season, brought forth rice, wheat, vegetables and supported the famous Allahabadi guava trees. No Aunty in town, worth her name, could miss out on traditional family recipes of guavas cheese, guava jelly, guava jam and guava stew! I knew and visited all the Aunties who kept a stock of such goodies!

The kachars were always inviting, summer or winter. Summer evenings and nights meant watermelon feasts. The nights called for moonlight picnics, where iced watermelon sherbets were top on the menu, and much dancing to gramophone record music.

I shot my first crocodile on a Jamuna bank with a 30 Springfield rifle and nearly drowned in the Ganga about two kilometers from my house.

Around 1953, the schools I studied in had a bunch of wonderful kids. There was that kind of shy kid who never had an enemy. Yogi the boys called him, but I stuck to his full name, Yogendra Narain*. Baccha was thin and tall with wavy hair. He always wanted the best part in the school plays. His actual name was Amitabh Bachchan*. Hari Uniyal and his brother Lalit, Ravi Dhawan and his sister Rani, and others made up a long list.

The world was very clear to me, a twelve year old at that time. King George was dead — long live the Queen! The Queen was very young and pretty. She had got the news of her father’s death when on a safari in Africa. We school boys in boarding stuck close to the radios at teachers’ homes and sat through the funeral of the King and the coronation of his daughter.

Also clear to me was the fact that I was a Scout now. So were Amitabh Bachchan, Yogendra Narain and many other friends. Still clear to me was the mighty swish of the Head Master’s cane as it landed six – of – the – best on our bottoms. “Sorry Sir!”

What was not clear to me some years ago, in1947, was this Independence thing. I learnt some of the patriotic songs blaring on the loudspeakers then. My favourite was, ‘Door hatoo oh duniya walo, Hindustan hamara hai!’ I loved it and involuntary sang it at times too. What was the end of the Raj? Why were Indians Independent? What was Independence?

I was a lucky boy – a very lucky boy. I saw the last years of the Raj and remember it vividly. I saw the beginning of an Independent India. I was a part of it all. I was a boy full of wonder! I would never have missed a single moment of it!
(to be continued...)