Title: Fragments of Time (Memoirs)
Author: Snigdha Agrawal
Publisher: Notion Press
To say I was the wild one out of the four would be an understatement. The non-conformist in me surfaced very early on. I never tired of climbing trees, sitting on the guava tree branches, gorging on the half-ripe fruits, rescuing kittens from overflowing drains, cycling around the golf course, swimming and dancing in the rain. Activities one would tend to associate with boys. Indulging in these activities gave me a high, like no other, despite the occasional mishaps, sometimes returning home with cuts and bruises and once a sprained ankle. The latter memory still brings on chuckles and many more acts of dare-devilry, often landing me in serious trouble.
When I was about ten or eleven, I found myself clutching a squash racquet, sitting impatiently in the upper gallery of the court. My sibling and our best buddy were monopolising the game, deaf to my relentless pleas for a turn. Frustrated, I finally resorted to threats. “I’ll jump down and physically drag you two out!” I declared, pointing to the six-foot drop beneath me.
They burst out laughing, waving off my threat as an empty bluff. “Alright then, here I come!” I announced with dramatic flair before leaping off the gallery like a tragic superhero. Predictably, I landed flat on my skinny, bony backside, twisted ankle and all. Tears of pain and humiliation stung my eyes as I sat there, my busted pride compounded by the unmistakable warmth of pee spreading beneath me.
The scene was absurd: me, sprawled on the court floor, ankle throbbing, dignity in tatters and wet underwear adding to the shame. To their credit, the two culprits did feel a little bad. They hoisted me up and hobbled me home. Thereafter, I was sentenced to two weeks of house arrest with a plastered leg. My heroic leap had cost me not only a turn at squash but also a chunk of my pride.
The ‘Jamun’ (Java plum) season brings back more laughs—and another painfully ridiculous memory. The broad trunk of the Jamun tree in the backyard was too tall for us kids to climb, so we enlisted the gardener to shimmy up and shake the branches. The purple fruit rained down like magical stardust, scattering across the ground.
In a frenzy, I dashed across the open drain, gathering the fleshy fruits in my frock, which I’d rolled up to create a makeshift pouch. In my excitement, I missed a step and went flying face-first into the drain. The Jamuns soared into the air in protest, pelting down on me like purple confetti as I lay sprawled, filthy, and bruised.
My loyal partners-in-crime stared down at me, their goofy grins quickly morphing into full-blown laughter. Their hilarity was so contagious that even I couldn’t help but laugh at my misadventure. Covered in muck and Jamun juice, I climbed out of the drain, purple-tongued and scratched up, determined not to let Ma discover my mishap.
With my frock a casualty of war, I sneaked past her, heading straight for a long, scrubbing shower to erase all evidence of the day’s follies. No way was I going to cry or complain. If there’s one thing childhood taught me, it’s that a little dignity can survive even the most spectacular disasters.
Growing up with pets
During this period, the animal world entered our home, each one leaving under different circumstances. Out of the many, the first that appears in my mind is a monkey, kept in the garden shed, brought out occasionally to be fed, and patted. The gardener spotted the baby wandering around amongst the flower beds, looking lost and forlorn, in search of his mother, who probably had been chased back into the nearby Sal forests. Baba decided to parent this little guy till he was of age and able to fend for himself. Honestly, I never liked this furry creature, with large round eyes, vying for Baba’s attention. Six months later, he was seen bounding off with confidence, probably in search of a mate.
A parakeet with an orange beak, vibrant green feathers, and a long-spotted tail was the next addition to our home. This feisty little bird quickly made its presence felt, taking liberties whenever it was let out of its cage. It would hop onto the dining table and help itself to the food, unbothered by anyone’s protests. Though it was most attached to Baba, it also formed a special bond with Didi, the eldest sister. The bird would happily perch on her shoulder, observing the household with a sense of ownership.
Despite our many attempts to teach it to sing catchy tunes, the parakeet refused to comply, displaying an attitude far too big for its tiny frame. The only sound it ever uttered from its hooked beak was “khuku…khuku,” Didi’s pet name.
One day, the bird decided it was time to spread its wings—literally—and see the world beyond the confines of its cosy cage. The catalyst? A heated argument between Baba and Didi, during which Didi earned herself a thorough scolding for talking back. When she started crying, Laljhuti, the parakeet, seemed to lose its tiny green mind.
Squawking like an avian alarm, Laljhuti transformed into a miniature cyclone, zipping through the room at breakneck speed. It knocked over cups and sent saucers crashing, turning perfectly folded papers into a confetti of chaos. In its final act of rebellion, Laljhuti delivered precise nips to both Baba and Didi, leaving behind small but meaningful bite marks—souvenirs of its outrage. And then, with a dramatic flair, worthy of a Bollywood hero storming out after a family quarrel, Laljhuti shot straight out of the house.
Didi was inconsolable. Her beloved Laljhuti was gone. For days, she stood on the veranda, calling its name with the kind of desperation usually reserved for lost lottery tickets. But the green tornado had no intention of returning. Laljhuti had flown the coop, leaving behind only chaos, confusion, and a few well-placed dents in family egos.
To console her, Baba brought home a flock of colourful Budgerigars. These cheerful, social birds were more manageable and quickly became part of our household. They lived in a specially built cage, which Baba cleaned daily, ensuring their water and food bowls were always replenished. Their lively chatter often blended with our own, filling the house with a delightful din.
Over time, however, we lost a few of them and Baba decided to set the remaining ones free. With that, the “bird phase” of our lives came to an end, leaving behind memories of fluttering wings and chirping voices.
Next came a bunny rabbit, a fluffball with the whitest fur, pink glassy eyes, and a bushy tail that wiggled with mischief. This little creature was treated like royalty, roaming freely around the house and being pampered with baby carrots.
While everyone adored it, I had my grievances—specifically its habit of leaving tiny black droppings in the most inconvenient places. The worst was finding them nestled in my school shoes. There’s nothing quite like starting your day by gagging over rabbit poop.
To this day, I can’t recall what became of the bunny. One day it was there, twitching its nose and ruling the household, and the next, its cage had been unceremoniously relegated to the garden shed. Perhaps it hopped off to greener pastures, or maybe someone had finally had enough of the shoe sabotage. Either way, the bunny left its mark—quite literally—all over my childhood memories.
The last one was a surprise birthday gift for me and my twin, which arrived packaged in a shoe box, lined with layers of cotton. A two-week-old Siamese kitten got from a litter of eight and was as tiny as the palm of my hand. I watched Baba and Ma taking turns feeding this one with milk, prying open its mouth and squeezing the cotton ball soaked in milk. He was named “Tuuta” and as he grew, the colour of his coat changed from white to grey and then a darker shade of grey. From milk, he graduated to eating goat entrails mashed with cooked rice and was a happy camper, rubbing his back against Ma’s legs, perhaps as a reminder it was feeding time. My twin and I fought over him, as one would fight over toys, setting dates for Tuuta’s sleeping schedule under our blankets. One week in my bed, the next week in my twin’s bed. Soon enough the fights ceased, with “Tuuta“, going out for overnight dates with the stray cats in the neighbourhood, probably the most sought-after male in the cat kingdom. The reasons could be his debonair looks, his pedigree and the fact that he lived in a bungalow, served gourmet meals, slept on whichever bed he fancied and most importantly, had his toilet created out of a wooden crate, filled with sand, where he performed his daily business. Cleaned periodically. And if we so much as watched him at his job, he gave the stinky eye as if to say — “Get lost. Let me shit in peace!”
His entry/exit route for the overnight dates was through the open bathroom exhaust window. One morning when Ma found he had not turned up for his breakfast, we looked everywhere and found him in the half-filled bathtub with water up to his neck, trying to scramble out, with little success. The philanderer had missed his step on the ledge of the bathtub and landed inside. Of course, that didn’t change our love for him. He continued with such escapades, sowing quite a few wild oats, and ended up catching rabies. A very sad end for him and us. My twin and I had to take the rabies injection for a fortnight. Very painful shots in the hips, administered by the Company doctor in the hospital. Thus ended the saga of “Tuuta” the Siamese cat with whiskers that tickled, my favourite.
About the Author
Snigdha Agrawal (née Banerjee) is an aspiring writer who views herself as a perpetual learner on an ever-evolving creative journey. A graduate of Loreto Institutions and brought up in a cosmopolitan environment, she weaves a rich tapestry of Eastern and Western cultural influences into her literary work. Her writing is also shaped by two decades of corporate experience, which lends depth and realism to her narratives.
Spanning genres from short stories to poetry, her lifelong passion for creative writing is fuelled by a desire to connect with readers, evoke emotions, and spark reflection through her vivid storytelling. She is a published author of five books, the latest Fragments of Time (Memoirs) is available on Amazon worldwide and on Flipkart, in Paperback, Hardcover and Kindle formats.
Now in her 70s, she embraces life with curiosity and an unquenchable thirst for learning. When not immersed in writing, she explores new places and shares her adventures on her travel blog.
Based in Bangalore, India, Snigdha finds enduring inspiration in her husband, her partner of nearly fifty years. Together, they continue to cherish and celebrate the ever-changing journey of life, which serves as the foundation for her creative pursuits.
About the Book
Fragments of Time is a heartwarming memoir that celebrates the beauty of life’s quiet yet meaningful moments. Written by a woman in her seventies, it offers reflections on childhood, love, loss, and ageing, transforming the ordinary into the extraordinary. With grace, humour and honesty, these stories reveal the richness of a life well-lived, reminding readers that even the simplest experiences hold profound value and are worth cherishing and sharing.
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