My grandfather belonged to a large family that was traditionally a land owning class and keepers of the crown’s land under the Dogra kings. After his matriculation he moved from his village Kalyal Bainsi (in distt. Mirpur, now Pakistan territory of Jammu) to Jammu city (now in Indian territory) to earn a living as a teacher. But his life was to witness a different plan, when his cousin filled out a form for him to enlist in army
Jawahar Lal Nehru, my brother Bruce and I, at the Air Force Station, Adampur, Punjab, India. Circa 1955 Image and Narrative contributed by Brian Fernandez, Maharashtra This image has my three year old brother Bruce on my left, and I, four years old, gazing with awe and wonder at the unmistakable icon, India's first Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru signing my father’s autograph book. And it has several fond and sad memories attached with it. Nehru had arrived at Adampur, on a whistle-stop election tour, in an Illyushin aircraft of the IAF (Indian Air Force). I can still vividly remember the twin-engine, grey aircraft with its distinctive, clipped wings. I believe these aircrafts were in service for many years after that, into the 70s. The IAF also had a squadron of Vampire aircrafts ( plywood, twin-rudder, jet- fighter aircrafts ). Our family - my Dad, Mum, and younger brothers Bruce & Barry used to live by the airstrip, in a huge canvas tent which was the standard Officers’ accommodation in those days, before we moved to Adampur village. My father Captain L. T. Fernandez, an Army pilot, was posted to an Air Observation Post (AOP) Flight, based in Adampur and flying the propeller driven Harvard. He retired in 1981 as a Colonel in the Regiment of Artillery and passed away a year after my mother, in 2009. Somewhere along the way we misplaced my late father’s autograph book on which Pandit Ji's signature was taken. But what I do remember is that Jawaharlal Nehru signed his name in Devanagari (hindi) script. This photograph is special to me, because it also reminds me of Bruce, my younger brother who suddenly died at…
From Rajiv Gandhi to me. New Delhi. December 1, 1985 Letter and Narrative contributed by Swati Bhattacharya, Gurgaon Blame it on my only child-ness if you must, but I love famous people loving me. I like provoking intimacy. But only from the jet-setting beau monde. I crave intimacy from people who have no business to get intimate with me. After coming back from school (Delhi Public School R.K.Puram), and doing the stuff I had to do, I'd sit down and think of writing to someone. The first person I had written to was Hiroko Nagasaki, a Japanese 13 year old swimmer who had swept the Asian Games in 1983. She and I became pen-pals for the next two years. She'd send me paper stickers, perfumed erasers and then one day in school somebody stole my Hiroko box. Traumatic as it was, I quickly recovered because by then I had received a flowery handmade-paper letter all the way from 22, Zaman Park, Lahore, Pakistan. Imran Khan, the famous cricketer, had written to me. The letter became my raison d'etre for a while. The fact that love does find a way, the fact that the letter had 18 red flowers printed at the back, and the fact that it had been signed as 'Imran' and not 'Imran Khan', to me it was a sign of a cosmic connection. We were meant to be and all that...Anyway, I lost this letter in a crowded Mudrika bus, while doing my nth show and tell. The letter I am sharing with you is one that still lives with me. Born out of jealousy, it got written in the November of 1985, when newspapers were full of Rajiv Gandhi writing to a Sri Lankan kid. The TV cameras had gone loooking for her and captured…
