Of bare feet and big dreams

One of my most vivid childhood memories comes from the years 1959 to 1961, when our family lived in Ballari and I was a student in the fifth and sixth grades.My father had recently passed the SAS examination of the Karnataka government and had been promoted to the position of assistant controller of state accounts. As part of his new responsibilities, he was transferred from Bengaluru to Ballari, which served as the headquarters for several districts under his charge.We rented a modest house with a mud roof in Ballari’s Fort area. The town was rocky and scorching. During the day, the Sun was relentless, and at night the nearby hill radiated the heat, making sleep uncomfortable.We were five children, and four of us attended schools located about two kilometres from our home. My elder brother, Kitta, studied at Wardlaw High School, while my younger siblings and I attended the London Mission School –both in the same compound.When a face match decides who eatsNone of us owned footwear. In fact, most children in our schools went barefoot. We never considered ourselves to be deprived; going barefoot seemed normal. The roads, however, were scorching hot, and walking on them often caused blisters. To avoid the burning heat, we did not walk to school—we ran. Running was our way of protecting our feet from the hot ground.Although my father held a respectable government position, life was far from comfortable. His monthly salary was about Rs 300, of which Rs 130 went to my eldest brother, who was studying engineering in Davanagere and was also a talented cricketer. My father encouraged him to pursue both. After meeting the needs of a large family, little remained for anything beyond basic necessities. We attended private schools, but luxuries were simply beyond our reach. Footwear was considered a luxury.I still remember one day when I gathered the courage to ask my father if he could buy us a pair of ‘Hawaii chappals’, which had recently been introduced by Bata and were becoming popular. He did not answer. Instead, I saw tears welling up in his eyes and silently rolling down his cheeks.Every morning, our mother packed lunch for the four of us. The lunch carrier consisted of a single metal container with a lid and a wire handle. There were no compartments, no plates, and no spoons. The meal always contained just one item.  My greatest ambition then was surprisingly simple: my own lunch box and spoon.By the time I reached the eighth grade, our family had returned to Bengaluru. At last, my long-cherished wish came true. I received my own tiffin carrier. To many, a lunch box and a spoon may seem insignificant. To me, they symbolised a dream fulfilled.Looking back today, I realise that the true wealth of our family was not material comfort but the values of perseverance, sacrifice, and contentment that our parents quietly taught us through their example.(Disclaimer: The views expressed above are the author’s own. They do not necessarily reflect the views of DH.)

Source: Deccan Herald