I must have been four or five and an absolute glutton when I came across an oddly dressed, portly gentleman on one of the many train journeys I undertook with my parents and sibling.
The gentleman, travelling with an assistant of sorts who took care of his needs, had large, expressive eyes that would have scared me away, but for the box of Nankhatai that he carried with him.
My parents recognised the gentleman. I remember them telling me that he was Pandit Birju Maharaj – the best-known Kathak exponent of his time. Not that the name meant anything to me. The only dance I had ever seen was the awkward flailings of relatives at family weddings. This was long before the ubiquitous Rail Gaddi and Naagin had hit the shaadi scene.
Trains back then were even more rickety and uncomfortable than they are now. The scene outside was an uninspiring monotony of fields and bridges that I had no interest in. My brother, my only distraction in times of boredom, was characteristically lost in the book he was reading.
The gentleman was on his feet; the assistant was rolling out his bed on the lower side berth. He looked at me and smiled. More importantly, he offered me the box of Nankhatai.
The rest of the journey was punctuated by the shortbread cookies that he offered me at regular intervals, despite some minor discomfort to my parents, who had always been embarrassed by my gluttony.
The train ride ended, but the memory of the gentleman and the Nankhatai never left me. They say, "It's the little moments in childhood that make for the biggest memories."
Experience is a funny thing; though it seasons you, it robs you of spontaneity as everything you see or hear reminds you of something similar you have heard, seen, or read in the past.
The gentleman's granddaughter, Shinjini Kulkarni, was performing in the city recently. My job was to cover the event for the newspaper that employs me, but I was tempted to write of her grandfather's generosity, which has stayed with me despite the many stations that life has crossed since then.
