I was about four and learning the rudiments of the alphabet. One of my first attempts at handwriting was to lovingly etch the letter ‘S’ — the first letter of my mother’s name — on the surface of her dressing table. The table was new with a glossy finish and appeared a very inviting surface indeed. I used the kitchen knife as deep as I could, to give shape to my efforts.

It was done stealthily. Not because I thought I was doing something wrong but because I thought I would be giving a pleasant surprise to my parents. No one was around when I was doing this, but once my handiwork was discovered I was disciplined — but rather mildly. My mother showed my handiwork to my father. They both laughed at my efforts but did not encourage them. My mother, sentimental as she was, dotingly preserved the result of my childish prank for years.

It’s funny this need to preserve such memories. I understood the urge only much later, when I had kids of my own. I have retained, dated and zealously kept among my important papers the unused 4-anna postal envelope which became precious to me after little Poppy, my child, had drawn on it the sketch of a train with its steam-engine emitting ribbons of smoke.

How fondly my wife and me remember the day our toddler, Daisy, suddenly appeared in the drawing room while we were having tea holding a shining shard of china. We were aghast when we discovered that the piece was a fragment from the new and expensive tea set we had just purchased and was lying partly unpacked in the living room. The mother’s first impulse was to check whether the broken cup had injured the fingers of the child. That piece of pottery is now priceless and among our prized possessions, reviving pleasant memories of bygone days.

... contd.