The transition to Bangalore is epic. All our furnishings and heavy household items are to be sold. Even then, a moving company moves heavy trunks and boxes. The thought of having new furniture in a new city excites us. But first, we have to reach Bangalore. Daddy describes the train journey to us. It will be a three-day, three-night train ride, with a change at Madras. We could spend half a day at the beach and visit the lighthouse. And later catch the overnight sleeper to wake up in the morning in Bangalore. How thrilling is that? A long journey, a larger place to live in, new schools, new friends—all this change leaves us stunned.

Mummy spends days getting the entire household packed. She supervises the kitchen sorting, including the fine bone china. All our clothes, both summer and winter, are crammed into metal trunks with our help. The heavy comforters, family treasures hand-quilted by our grandmother, are put away with extra care. We stuff our school books, storybooks, and our precious comic books. Most important is the one-year-old Juji’s little cane chair. It’s a potty we carry everywhere because Juji will not go otherwise.

Departure day finally arrives. Tearful goodbyes to neighbors make me realize this chapter of our lives is closing. At the train station, a surprised Sudhir nudges me to look at the crowd on the platform. A majority of the staff from Daddy’s workplace are present to bid us farewell. Mummy and Daddy stand framed in the coach’s door. Heavy jasmine garlands reaching almost to their feet, compel me to take another look at them. Mummy, sweet, dignified with folded hands, and Daddy smiling, nodding acknowledgements to everyone present. The image freezes in my mind.

The train moves down the tracks and gathers speed. Sudhir and I speculating on activities in Bangalore catches Daddy’s ear. He warns us to not get too carried away. We leave Delhi during the school year, and the plan is to not miss over four days of classes. We have only a few months before graduating, with Board Exams looming ahead. Staying focused on our studies and grades is top priority.

We reach Bangalore on a Saturday morning. The following Monday, we spend the day in interviews at schools for Sudhir and me. Daddy’s research makes sure of our acceptance by day’s end. And Sudhir is off to St. Joseph’s Boys High School and Munna and I to Bishop Cotton Girls High School. Our grades from Delhi are impressive enough for us to be shoo-ins.

We settle into our routines in Bangalore. School is intense and we need to graduate with top grades. We enjoy the climate. The bike rides, mornings and afternoons, along roads lined with flowering trees are awesome. Red Gul-mohrs, purple Jacarandas, pink Rain-trees, and yellow Tabebuia carpet the roads.

Sudhir, sixteen years old, is an awkward, gangly youth with traces of fuzz on his face. He shaves, but it is more a weekly routine. Dispite his shyness, he is good friends with a couple of new classmates. He graduates from St. Joseph’s High School with honors. A few weeks later, he scores high on the Indian Institute of Technology’s (IIT) entrance exam. Mummy heaves a sigh of relief. Sudhir aims to become an Electronics Engineer in five years.

However, he must first complete orientation in Madras. He returns, shaken quite a bit by the hazing. It was more than he had expected. Being a freshman for a year and enduring hazing seems daunting to him. He’d rather not go to Madras to live in a dorm. He can pursue higher studies at a local college living at home. Daddy and Sudhir go on long pep-talk walks. He assures him the hazing fizzles out fast once classes begin. It is not a year-long event. His own hazing, when he entered medical school, way back when, was severe but short. Little separates them from now. Daddy advises Sudhir to take it in stride with a little humor. “Try it for a week, and if you still dislike it, come back to Bangalore.”

In the end, Sudhir agrees to give it a week. It’s a relief when Sudhir does not return home. He visits a few weeks later during the Dushera break. The change in these weeks is unbelievable! A brand-new, made-over Sudhir. His shy awkwardness and gangly visage has disappeared. Instead, he sports a new hairstyle to match his newfound confidence in speech and stride. He’s gained weight from the greasy meals and now shaves daily. He laughs as he describes the antics of his dorm mates. The foibles of his professors are just as amusing. Mummy is thankful he has gotten over his initial fears. Seeing the new Sudhir is amazing. We had not realized until now how much we missed him and his wacky sense of humor.

One slow morning in Bangalore comes to mind. Mummy has had her usual busy morning fixing breakfast. Lunches packed, Munna and Juji are off to school. Daddy has left for work. Mummy and I are having a late breakfast. I have afternoon classes in college and have been busy studying all morning. Mummy is relaxing, perusing the morning newspaper, reading aloud interesting tidbits of news. She spots an interesting ad and asks how people get into the modeling business. I don’t know-maybe by responding to ads. She asks if they really travel to exotic locations used as backdrops? I shrug and get ready for college.

The soft plop of the mail as it drops through the slot announces itself. Mummy calls me to check out a peculiar piece of mail. It’s a large manila envelope from a strange person, J. Walter Thompson. A photograph shows a few young people in a scenic forest. I scan the accompanying letter and glancing again at the photograph, burst out laughing. The letter states the photograph is of Sudhir’s first modeling assignment. He had asked for it to be sent to his parents. Mummy holds the picture, and yes, the young man is Sudhir!

Sudhir, in a fun mood, had auditioned for a modeling position with the advertising company. His initial assignment involved visiting Mahabalipuram, a picturesque island. The ad was for the textile company, Binny Mills. Sudhir sported the shirt that our cousin Vijay brought from his first voyage to Japan! Not telling anyone at home, Sudhir wanted it to be a surprise.

A few months later, I spot a blown-up version of this picture in the window of a Binny Mills showroom. I point to it for my grandmother, who is with me. Bhabhoji walks into the store and requests that picture. “That’s my grandson—my youngest daughter’s son” she tells the manager. He removes and wraps the poster and presents it to Bhabhoji.

Sudhir has a couple more modeling stints, for the BSA Cycle Company, and for a fruit drink outfit. Then again, his budding modeling career is soon over. Sudhir gains a brand new Rajdoot motorcycle and the modeling gig falls by the wayside.

A question comes to mind. Why did Sudhir need the Rajdoot? One may well ask, but his argument with Daddy is classic. The IIT campus at Madras is a sprawling collection of buildings, several square miles in all. Each building serves a specific discipline of engineering and the pure sciences. Sudhir’s constant complaint is about professors scheduling classes for their convenience. Students sprint from class to class across campus. More often than not, students ended up missing part of a lecture and key information. Not being aware of an assignment, Sudhir’s grades are at risk!

Daddy offers to send him his bicycle to ride between classes to gain time. Sudhir tries to hide a snicker. With as serious an expression as he could muster, he did not think it would be helpful. The classes are miles apart! Everyone else has a motorcycle and quite fancy ones at that! All Sudhir needs is an inexpensive, made-in-India, striped-down Rajdoot. Sudhir reminds Daddy of his army-grade BSA motorcycle when he was younger! Even though it was an army surplus, it must have been expensive. Sudhir volunteers to pay part of it with his modeling fees. 300 rupees of the four thousand needed are already there! Daddy stalls asking for specifics. How many students is ‘everyone else?’ Where are the three hundred rupees saved? A letter from the bank asks Daddy to transfer money into his son’s overdrawn account. What is that letter about? Do you know motor-cycle accidents are nearly always fatal? Sudhir changes his tactics. Let’s visit the showroom and check out the safety features of bikes. In the end, Daddy gives in despite Mummy’s protests.

An entire contingent of Sudhir’s friends accompanies Daddy and him to the showroom. A major decision needs to be made and they must support their buddy. Paperwork completed, Sudhir rides the maroon and gold bike back in grand style. His comrades escort him on their motorbikes and Vespas. Daddy brings up the rear of the entourage in his black Fiat. At home, Mummy has a delicious spread for all before they disperse. Sudhir shows Munna, Juji, and me how to kick-start and speed up the bike to a roar! Gives each one of us a spin around the block! The Rajdoot is Sudhir’s pride and joy.

The next few days pass in a haze. Sudhir spends a lot of time with friends on his bike. In snatches, Daddy keeps impressing upon Sudhir the need to keep a level head. Stay clear of other speeders’ influence. Obey the rules of the road without question. These keep everyone safe. Ride bikes single file, no talking, pay attention, on and on. Sudhir affirms, “I know. I know.”

It is the last day of Sudhir’s vacation. He will take the evening train to Madras. The bike is being cleaned, the gas tank is emptied, all cherished acts of love. Sudhir’s friends arrive to transport the bike to the railway station in the back of a station wagon. It is loaded into the brake-van of the train and secured. Sudhir’s buddies are present to help, but they hinder instead. Daddy backs off and lets them take over. Mummy laughs. Even royal dignitaries do not get this kind of reception and treatment!

My friend Rita Gothi and I watch with great amusement. We hear a warning whistle and the train moves. Sudhir runs searching for his coach, followed by friends. It picks up speed, leaving Sudhir behind. No worries! We race out of the station and drive towards the Cantonment station. The train is pulling in as we park. First, a few friends inspect the brake-van ensuring the precious cargo is secure. Sudhir finds his seat. Amidst much laughter and goodbyes, Daddy gives last-minute cautionary advice. We wave Sudhir off to Madras in slow motion. As the engine gathers steam, Sudhir disappears around the bend.

Weeks follow Sudhir’s departure. A couple of vague rumors fly past us. Sudhir has had an accident, but calls to friends confirm nothing. When Sudhir visits Bangalore next, he takes the train. Daddy is adamant he not ride the bike from Madras.

Daddy is home for lunch, and Mummy is getting the meal ready. We are all helping lay the table, while Sudhir confirms his accident. It was nothing, very minor, a deer running into him. Daddy shakes his head, not believing Sudhir’s words. Deer, 500 pounds, collision- imagine the momentum. But Sudhir was going so slowly he lost his balance. He fell sideways, twisting his ankle. No one believes him. He reassures no one with his words, “The bike is fine. My grades are good. Mummy and Daddy need to stop worrying!”

No sign of injuries, not even a whisper or hint of casts or crutches, the bike needing major repairs. We learn these details a couple of years later. Long after Sudhir is in Canada and immersed in post-graduate studies at Halifax.