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 me deeply.
The sweet seller (the shop was exactly as I remembered it) at the T junction was curious and asked me if I wanted to buy the house, I told him no, I am Pandit Balmokand’s grandson, this was home to me, I have played here, stayed here, let me just stand here awhile. A cold drink appeared with sweets, I wanted to refuse but it would be impolite. I thanked him, spoke to his dad briefly, glad and touched somebody still remembered us or rather my grandfather after all these years. I drove to the Office of the Ex-Servicemen Centre, checking if my dad’s name was still listed there as a gallantry award winner in the 1971 war. It was, satisfied, I drove out, never to return again to the T junction, it was too painful an experience. Even if work demanded my presence, I would drive in from another route, attend to my work and go away. But there was a particular reason I was there that day.
This small town in Punjab, the headquarters of the orchards cum gardens district, is my father’s home town, but for me it has always been my home town to. Its small size made the town quite an informal place. In this town was our ancestral home. 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. I can even after all these years recollect every turn of the road to the house and the crossings over the seasonal rivulets.
Home to me was 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. I can simply close my eyes and vividly recall the mounted heads of deer, the portraits and the placement of the crockery. It was a place to unwind, meet up with sundry aunts and uncles and long chat sessions. The home represented to us safety, happiness, comfort, laughter and above all tremendous love and affection. But slowly as the years passed, as they always do relentlessly, 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, but as we grew up, rather less frequently.
However in my mind the home was always there – each and every object etched permanently on my memory bank – the feeling of having it close always. A short visit was all that was required to recharge the batteries. Over the years the sisters got married and they moved away – the house saw it all. The cousin joined the army and got busy with his counter insurgency campaigns. Then my aunt was no more, but my mind still saw the home as it was under her gentle , affectionate, comforting hands. Then uncle also passed away and the home was truly alone. For me the home was orphaned the day they passed away, for to me they were the grandparents I never had as grandpa and grandma passed away when I was small.
Visits home stopped completely now, but in my mind the home is always as it once was. There are too many sweet memories to allow the reality of the present to intrude rudely into them. Quite some years after my aunt and uncle passed away, someone rang up and told us that the trees were in full bloom in the forecourt and the bougainvillea was spreading colour all over the deserted brooding home. Nature was looking after its own even as we had all moved away. I felt tempted to visit my home and see the sight but then discarded the thought. However I could not control my heart, hence my last visit to see the trees from outside and the house. Having seen it I just had to drive away, the home as it now was could not replace what already was embedded in my mind. I do not have the mental strength now to see the trees of my home again.
With all the passing of the years and my advancing into the fifties, to me now and always, the home is a revered sacred memory which will not bear the sight of a builder tearing it down to make it into small, neat, modern houses. For me the home is forever.
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