Oh, East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet! These words from ‘The Ballad of East and West’ by Rudyard Kipling are marked by pessimistic finality. They are followed, however, by less well-known lines which state that, in certain situations, there is ‘neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth’. In my case, long before several subsequent encounters, East and West converged in childhood.
In the late-1950s, my parents and I lived in Cranfield, a village in the county of Bedfordshire, England, where my IAF father was pursuing a two-year course at the College of Aeronautics. While we mingled with the families of other Indian students, my mother also sang with a local choir and took classes in baking and sewing. I attended a nursery school where I was encouraged to dabble in colours. I had a particular fondness for clouds. I painted them blue, not white, and they were far from fleecy but my creativity was uncurbed.
I also enjoyed the freedom of going around by myself. Not yet five, I would set off along the pavement on my small blue bicycle, equipped with stabilisers. Armed with shillings (no decimal currency then), I bought stamps and stationery at the post office-cum-shop
before selecting a couple of picture books. I could not tell A from Z but my parents regularly read stories to me. I remember being fascinated by the tale of Dick Whittington, legendary Lord Mayor of London.
Whittington’s dream-city was only a little over 70 km from Cranfield, and we occasionally visited its historic sites. I recall more vividly the shorter excursions to the nearby town of Bedford, for the repulsive reason that I was invariably sick on those bus trips. I did not enjoy travel. I was happy at Cranfield, with my dolls, toys and Tiddles, our landlady’s cat. Miss Mary Street, our landlady, was a stickler for discipline but she could be generous. One Christmas, she gave me a gift that is still in my possession: a beautiful bracelet, adorned with golden charms engraved with the Ten Commandments.
My parents assiduously obeyed one of those divine decrees. Every Sunday, they took me with them to the Church of St Peter and St Paul. There, I built towers with prayer books and laughed gleefully when they came crashing down. While my architectural accomplishments embarrassed my parents, I received support from a spiritual source.
The preacher declared, in sermon after sermon, that he warmly welcomed the presence of children in the congregation and that they did not disturb him. He spoke in general terms but, since nobody else was playing a ‘constructive’ ro-le, it was clear that I was the chosen one!
Yes, ‘East is East and West is West’ but when both blend, they’re at their best!