DK Kapila The Oracle

I parked my car at the of the T junction at my home town. Now totally bereft of close relatives but still my home town, always my home town. My great grandfather had worked there as amongst the first officials of the Punjab Education Service in 1920’s. My grandfather had constructed a house there in 1932, six years after my father was born. A sprawling old style haveli (a mansion with a mix of western and Indian styles of construction). The T junction I had parked on was exactly opposite my home, or what was once my home. There were a flood of emotions in me, the façade had changed, as I walked along one side, other changes came to be noticed. But I was not really noticing, my mind was only remembering what it chose to, laughter, stories of ghosts on chilly foggy nights, food shared with joy and cheer by innumerable relatives on holidays, I only remembered those voices and sounds. For me it was as though I walked amongst them again. I dared not to look in as I feared it would wound m...

                                        (Appeared in The Tribune 02 / 02 / 1996) My father hails from a small town in Punjab, the headquarters of the orchards cum gardens district. Its small size made the town quite an informal place. In this town was our ancestral house – a large old style imposing mansion with huge iron gates, one grand entrance gate being hand carved beautifully, huge walls, innumerable staircases and high ceiling rooms.   Summer holidays were always meant for going home from wherever Dad was posted in the army, exploring the rooms, browsing through the huge library, running around the trees and taking long walks in the cool evenings with the Shivalik ranges clearly visible. But slowly the house was emptying. My grandparents were no more and the huge house now had only a few permanent occupants – my aunt, uncle and cousins. Our visits continued,...