Homing Instinct, or: The Long Way Back
©September 30th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
So, I’ll keep this brief.
I was about five years old and completely fearless (except for my irrational fear of Dracula and Mini-Cula, a character made up by my uncle who told us scary stories which made me whimper at night).
I was at school — Hutchings High School (which, despite its name was a k-12 school) in the city of Poona (now Pune), India.
I was up in a tall tamarind tree, gorging on tamarinds. Everyone who knows tamarinds knows that they are sour, but the unripe ones are green and even more sour than you can imagine — they make your taste buds squeal in squirmy ecstasy, like someone tickling your toes. I loved plucking them and sucking on them, screwing up my little face into a rictus of comic joy, no doubt.
Other children were there too, on different trees, but I don’t remember them.
Lost as I was in sour bliss, I lost track of time.
I noticed after a long time that the whole playground had suddenly gone silent. I came to myself, and looked around. There was no one there, not even my elder sister, who would usually wait for me (I shall ask her tomorrow why she didn’t), and remind me to do stuff.
Panic must have stricken me. I don’t remember. All I remember was calmly thinking about HOW I was going to get home. We had no telephone. My family was of modest income at the time. Home was quite far away. My father would have no idea of where to begin looking for me. I think I worried more about them than about me.
So, I thought rapidly. The mists of late evening had fallen. I remember the darkness pressing down on all sides.
I thought and thought, and light dawned on me. I knew what I’d do! I’d take an auto-rickshaw home.
Now, those of you who know the city of Pune know that it is the proud home of Bajaj Autos and of scooters, motorcycles and the like. I imagined my route home. And I knew I could make it there.
I hailed a rickshaw. I don’t remember anything about the driver of it, except that he was kind and patient. In rapid-fire Marathi ( a language of which I do NOT remember anything now), I outlined my situation to him. I told him confidently that I knew the way home, and that he should take me there, and that my parents would pay him when he delivered me.
He must have smiled to himself, but he was very nice. And I led him through a torturous route, which he followed patiently (I could not remember addresses and such, but I knew how to get home).
A rickshaw ride that should have taken about fourteen minutes took about an hour — but he took me home, and delivered me to my thunderstruck and frantic parents.
Now think for a moment about this. In a world where children are routinely abducted, sold into slavery, molested or killed, I made it home safely. My driver was a good man. I bless that man, and wish him well, if he’s alive. May his children and grandchildren grow and prosper.
For he was a trust-worthy man, and I trusted him. We always have to trust in the kindness of strangers, but in today’s world, it’s better to verify as well.
My mother must have wept, my father must have laughed in relief, my sister must have sobbed ((I have no memory of their reactions). The rickshaw-wallah reassured them, then laughingly told them something that my parents reminded me about for a long time, and which I still remember: I had led him home on the longer, slower school-bus route, and had pointed every house, every pole and every landmark along the way.
Perhaps, that has been my route in my life, too. I have always taken the longer way — it’s not always been efficient, but I’ve met good and wonderful people, and it’s been fun.
It still is.
I was plain lucky. And I had an unerring homing instinct. I still have it. Put me down anywhere, and I’ll make it back home. I have the map of my world imprinted on my nerves, I think.
And I love coming home.
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