God has a strange way of fulfilling wishes. I had wanted to post something very badly today and had even started on it but lost the enthu to complete it mid-way. And around half an hour back, a friend asked if I would put up something that he has written, on my blog; since he, for reasons best known to him has deleted his own wonderful blog - Technicolor Collage. Many of you already know him (we have even co-authored a story) and for those who haven't had the pleasure to read him - guys you have really missed out on some outstanding work. Arnab Majumdar has been both a friend and an inspiration in ways that I now cannot count.
My blog is honoured to be adorned by a post written by him and so am I. :)
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I’ve heard a lot of people say that there’s no place like home. I wonder if that’s true or not. For me, I don’t think it holds true anymore. You see, a home for me is more than the brick and mortar structure, the walls within which you live. A home is a place where you feel safe, comfortable; a place where you have memories that make you smile and cry, sometimes at the same time. A place that’s familiar, and yet you can’t get enough of it. My home wasn’t restricted to my house. My home was the city that I love, the place where I felt free.
It seems to me that the more I want to define my home, the harder it gets. I start with my house, but my home wouldn’t stop there. The park in front of my house, that’s always flaunting the lush green dew-soaked grass early in the mornings, the roads where I’d go for walks to cool off when I was angry, the uphill and downhill roads, the ones that got built on the last range of the Aravalis, they say. The park in the other colonies, the other blocks, where I’d spent so much of my time. See how my home never seems to be restricted by walls?
I went for a walk today. A real walk, something I haven’t done for in a long time now. I kept walking without thinking, and somehow, I walked to almost all the places that I’ve ever considered to be my home. I got out of the house, and somehow, I was reminded of the time when I was learning how to ride a bike. It was my friend’s bike, a brilliant blue one. I’d give the pedal a mighty push, roll off for a few centimeters, and then invariably fall down on the asphalt. I had the scars of those days for a real long time.
There’s a place near my house, which goes by the name of Pocket 52. There’s also another such Pocket in Chittaranjan Park (it’s a colony in New Delhi, that’s where I live), called Pocket 40. I’ve always wondered whatever happened to all those pockets in between. I’ve looked for them too, but never found any of them…
This Pocket 52 is a block (or a pocket, whatever you want to call it) which is located on a small hilly area. This means, that the roads running through this Pocket are quite steep. Once I got to learn how to ride the bike, it was here that I used to come most often, to hone my skills at. My friend – the one with that Brilliant Blue Bike, and I, would climb to the top of a road that went downhill, and push off, hard. The road was so steep that pedaling was never required. The wind would rush into our faces, push back our hair. The speed of the bike would invariably make our stomachs clench a little bit, and those 6 seconds of the downhill ride were enough to make us smile for the next 5 minutes we took to ride back home.
Just behind this small hill, there’s a bright green gate that marks the end of Chittaranjan Park, and the beginning of Greater Kailash II. When we’d grown up a little, and reached an age when riding a bike (specially red, blue or green ones) was considered kids’ stuff, my friend moved for a few years from C. R. Park to G. K. II. It was a strange time for me. This guy lived just four houses away from me before, so there had never been the need to call him up. I’d just have to go stand in the middle of the road, holler his name, and he’d be there. I didn’t even have his phone number, never bothered to take it. One fine day, I reach home, and I see a big metal board on his house which proclaimed that the residents had moved. There was an address and a phone number given, but it wasn’t of a residence. All mails to that house were being directed to their office, and that’s someplace where I couldn’t really go to meet my old friend.
During Durga Puja that year, which is a big thing at C.R. Park, I met this guy again. It was almost a month since we hadn’t met each other, so I was very happy to see him. He’d gotten his car with him that day, and we drove over to his house immediately. I was surprised to see him driving along the same roads that we’d ridden our bikes all our childhood, and couldn’t help but smile out loud at those memories. We moved beyond the bright green gate, along the new park that was inside my old friend’s new neighborhood, and finally reached his home. It was a very simple house, and there’ve been a lot of memories there too… but that place belongs to another family now, and I couldn’t visit it today during the walk. All I could do was stand there, at the gate, and remember the many hours I’d spent in his room, and the tiny balcony that I could see from the road below.
I walked slowly back to the park that used to be a place for us to escape to during the years he stayed at G.K. II. There were a few things there that still are etched in my memories. A bench made out of solid rock, a small wooden bridge that seems completely unnecessary at one end of the park, a set of four green benches facing each other. Nighttime in that park used to be jet black, but that’s changed now. They have halogen lamps there now, so the rock-bench, the little wooden bridge, the four green benches facing each other – they all glow white, all night. The rock felt cool, and I sat there quite a while. A few years back, whenever I’d go there, I used to gaze at stars, my mind in autopilot mode. I couldn’t see the stars today; the glare from the halogen lamps all around me was too bright.
In 1997, I had broken my collar bone. That time, apparently, C.R. Park didn’t have many good orthopedic doctors, so the guy with the big x-ray machine had sent me to the Birla Mandir, located near that old park. It was a tough time for me that time, as it would hurt my collar bone to do even the simplest things, like lying down or getting up. Every time I used to go to see that doctor, he’d have to change the crepe bandage around the collar bone, which hurt like crazy. And every time, just to cheer me up, Ma would buy me a big bag of Lay’s chips, which had those Tazo things in them. I ended up with a big collection, but finally I gave it all away. The shop where I’d buy the packs of chips was a tiny, dilapidated little brick room that time. It’s one of the few things of G.K. II that’s still the same way. The shop still stands proudly, with the big bags of chips in all colors hanging around the shutter. The only thing that’s changed about that place in all these years is that in place of a 100 watt Bajaj bulb, the owner uses a Havell’s CFL now.
I had been walking for quite a while in G.K. II, and somehow felt the need to return to my colony. The boundaries of my home can be quite dynamic as well, depending on my mood. I entered C.R. Park, and was greeted with the Kali Mandir. I’m not a very religious guy, but this is one place where our little group of friends has spent many evenings. Chatting about the most mundane things to discussing the most serious of issues, this Mandir has always given us a wonderful place to calm down during even the most frustrating of times. Today, being Bijoya Doshomi – the last day of Durga Pujo, the place was crowded. I couldn’t go in. Rather I didn’t want to go in; too many people, far too many familiar faces.
I walked on. After the Mondir, the blocks of C.R. Park continued. The I-Block Park used to be another one of our favorite hangout spots. It used to be one of the most well maintained parks in C.R. Park. With a badminton court, it used to be one place that drew us there almost every evening, till our own block park got badminton courts, that is. Still, there have been a whole lot of memories that followed me while I walked around that park, so much so, that even though I was getting late for home, I couldn’t stop myself from walking inside. Beside the two dark badminton courts stands a big tree, under whose shade we used to sit, after my friend would beat me at the game – every single time! I’ve known this guy for the last 13 years now, and I can literally count the number of games that I’ve won against him on my fingertips. I have absolutely no clue how he manages it, even now.
Sitting under the cool shade of that tree, I got reminded of one winter evening when we had nothing to do. There were three of us – my friend, his girlfriend of that time, and me. We were sitting, again under that big tree, just wondering what we could do to make life a little more interesting, when my friend’s girlfriend had a brainwave – Aankh Micholi on a dark, winter night! It was a long time since I’d played it, and it felt amazing to be a kid again. When my turn came to be the “denner”, I’d twisted my ankle. Tonight, I tried running through the grass like that night. This time, I cut my feet instead.
I explored my home one last time before I leave it tomorrow. I’m going back to Greater Noida, and although I know I’ll miss Home, things have changed. My friends have changed a lot, bit by bit, over the years. Now, little by little, the older things are fast fading away, and although I love this home a lot, I can’t stand to watch it become what it is turning into. I thought little things like this mattered to all the people around me, but somewhere, I was wrong. They’ve moved on from those memories, and I have to move on too. Still, it’s not easy to make a home just a house, once it’s become a home. Especially, a wonderful home like this was, with a family of friends that I chose.
