These blogs I will use to preserve memories of the past, such as I remember. And I will be as truthful as I can be - but not more!

One Sunday morning, in January or February of 1958, when I was still not quite nine years old, and living in Delhi, my mother sent me with a servant, Sohan Lal by name, for a haircut, to a market about a mile away from our house. (It must have been a Sunday because back then we used to have school six days a week – and Sundays were given to haircuts and such-like evils.) She had given me an eight-anna coin for the purpose. Rupees, annas and pice, such was the currency of the time; sixteen annas made a rupee, and an anna itself was divided into four pice. (Even a pice in those days could buy one a snack, that you may not for ten rupees today, but that’s beside the point.)
 
The barber charged me six annas for the haircut, and handed back a two-anna coin, a square of bronze an inch wide, with the likeness of George VI embossed on one face, and a large 2 upon the other, to signify its value. (Colonial currency lingered on until well after India became free, in 1947.)
 
As we walked homewards together, Sohan Lal and I came across a curious gentleman who ran a private lottery business, in this interesting way. Mounted upon the handlebar of his bicycle was a wooden frame, three feet wide and about as high. Across its width ran rows of thin steel wire, spaced half an inch apart; from which were suspended a few hundred squares of crepe-paper, covering the frame in its entirety. They were of many colours, pink, purple, green and yellow, neatly folded, mysterious, enticing.
 
Sohan Lal stopped to inquire of that enterprising man what their purpose might be.
 
Each of these squares was the envelope of a little piece of white paper, the man explained, upon which a number was written: one, two, four or eight. And he pulled out a square, unfolded it, and revealed its contents before our eyes: 4, writ large, clear to behold! That, he said, was the number of annas we would have won, if we had played the game, and chosen that square! And to encourage us further, the man pulled out another of those crepe paper squares from the frame. This time its contents bore the unmistakable figure of eight! Winning, the man assured us, was certain. But for the privilege of pulling out a square I would have to pay a pice. Sohan Lal urged me to try. After all, we had two annas left over, hadn’t we?
 
So I handed the man the two-anna coin, received my change, and pointed a finger at a little square of crepe paper, of purple hue. The man pulled it out and tore it open; but to my great astonishment and immense disappointment, the small piece of paper nestling inside was absolutely and perfectly blank! “This happens occasionally if you’re very unlucky” the man said. “But”, he continued cheerfully, “you should try again.” Sohan Lal was in vehement agreement, and I pulled out a pice from my pocket, ready for another trial. This time we chose a green square, but the result was the same. We had won nothing! Again!
 
Forlornly I walked back home. “What shall I say to my mother, when she asks about the two pice that are now lost and gone forever?” I asked Sohan Lal worriedly. He was quite reassuring. “Tell her”, replied that inventive young man, “that the haircut cost six and one-half annas. We needn’t mention the lottery at all!”
 
Reaching home, I returned the change (one and one-half annas) to my mother. She asked, “How much did the haircut cost?” “Six-and-a-half annas”, I replied, keeping as straight a face as was possible in the circumstances. She did not say a word, and I put the matter behind me.
 
She asked me to prepare for my bath. (My mother used to bathe me until I was ten or so.) It was necessary to have a bath after a haircut, for there would invariably be hairs sticking all over, after the shearing; for there were no blowers in those days; and had not one come in contact with the barber’s implements, and cloth? No doubt these had touched countless vile bodies. It does not do to dwell on these things. A bath after a haircut was therefore inevitable, inescapable, however much one might hate it. (The great disincentive to a bath was that our houses weren’t heated, and the windows did precious little to keep the cold winds at bay.)
 
Neither did we have running hot water in those days: fact is, most middle-class homes in India didn’t, till fairly recently; the arrangement was that water was heated nearly to boiling in a large saucepan, poured into a bucket, and into it was added enough cold water to make its temperature feel comfortably warm to the touch. This was poured upon one with a mug. The ritual was as follows: After the initial mugs of water were poured upon my head, so that I became more or less completely wet, my mother rubbed the bar of soap and worked up a good lather all over; finally she washed off the suds, using the quota of water with much parsimony, to ensure that I wasn’t placed in the unhappy situation of having soap suds upon my skin, and no warm water left with which to wash them off!

My mother began to rub the bar of soap upon my feet. She did not raise her face as she asked her question. She said simply, “Tell me truthfully, my son, how much did the haircut actually cost?” Imagine, if you can, my plight. A bolt from the blue! My lie, nonchalantly uttered, had been caught. I was naked before her, in more senses than one; I had no place to hide, nowhere to run away to, for she held my feet; nor anything with which to cover my shame. I told her the truth. She said, “I knew the haircut couldn’t cost six-and-a-half annas.”  I do believe she had asked Sohan Lal before she accosted me; doubtless he had told her of the lottery.
 
The benefit of that experience was that my lying diminished very considerably, though of course it did not entirely end. Apart from which I think that it has made me a kinder person, more tolerant and more accepting of others than I might otherwise have been. That is why I like the story of the woman who was caught in adultery, for whom Christ said, “He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.”
 
As I said a moment ago that I don’t think I lie any more, but sometimes I wish I did. I used to smoke in the seventies, forty cigarettes a day. But one day I quit – the 21^stFebruary, 1978. That was about ten months before I became married, to a girl my parents had chosen. (She’s still my wife, and a finer woman than her I have yet to meet. I hope she reads this blog.)
 
Years afterwards, I was at a friend’s house; Abhishek, our first-born, was then nine. He was with me. He used to look up to me as every nine-year-old does to his dad. In his eyes I could do no wrong. I had often said to him that cigarettes were evil.

My friend lit up a cigarette. I had earlier mentioned to her that I used to smoke too, as a young man, but that I had been able to quit. She asked, as she drew in the smoke, “Tell me, Sudhir, how did you manage to give up smoking? What did you do?”  Abhishek was all ears. I could see from the hurt and bewildered expression on his face that in that instant I had fallen deeply in his eyes; I could see that he felt betrayed; had I not told him that cigarettes were bad, that one must never smoke? Now he would hear what I had to say.
 
I still wish that I had lied to my friend that day. I wish that I could have prevaricated and said, “Who, me? I’ve never smoked, how did you ever get the impression that I did? You must be dreaming if you think I ever did!” And more words to that effect. But I didn’t. 
 
The first thing Abhishek asked me as we left her home was, “Papa, did you really ever smoke?”
 
A few years ago we – Aparajita (our daughter), Geeta and I – went to see Meryl Streep in “It’s Complicated”. Aparajita used to study at Brock University, and was back for the Christmas holiday. When we were returning home, she asked, “Papa, did you ever smoke pot?” For there is a scene in the movie in which Meryl Streep has a joint. I replied with immense vehemence, “Of course not!” She looked straight into my eyes and said, “I don’t believe you!” I smiled weakly.
 
So lie I do, on the rare occasion; and yet, and yet…there is the commandment, “Thou shalt not lie.” What is right, does one know? What is the common good? Must we always be truthful, or must we seek rightness, which may sometimes mean to utter a falsehood?