India, Aug. 1 — Rhythmic prayers reverberated in my ears
Pious bells’ jingle filled the vastness with serenity
Neither did I visit a temple nor did I take a holy dip
Yet piety touched me as I paid a visit to my hometown
I, recently, got the opportunity to visit my hometown, and a wave of nostalgia hit me as I drove along the lanes that led to 12A, New Officers’ Colony, in Ambala City — the house where I spent my formative years.
As I crossed the district session judge’s residence, I found it changed — solid walls had replaced the hedge I remembered so well. I pointed out the peacock perched on the tree and the prisoners working in the field to my son. Nothing had changed, not really. In my mind’s eye, I saw a younger me naively asking the prisoners brought from the central jail to work in the fields, “What crime have you committed? Do you miss your kids?” And, recalled with a smile the subsequent earful I got from my mother for being intrusive.
With the present occupants graciously allowing us to take a look at the house, which for the longest time had been home to me, I saw that the walls had been freshly whitewashed, the ceiling was wooden, and chips adorned the floor. The only significant change was the large LCD television in the living room, and the laptops and mobiles dotting the table.
Like the olden days, the piercing sun made its way through the kaleidoscope of foliage, and the fragrant breeze seemed to be celebrating my homecoming. The lawns around the house were well-manicured, and the guava and jamun trees, under whose shade I had studied and played, and on whose branches I had swung, seemed to be beckoning me, taking me back to those golden years of my childhood. The energy of the place was such that I felt the passion that had once inspired me to aspire and accomplish wash over me once again.
We had moved to this house from a non-descript town Nilokheri (Karnal), after living in three rented houses. The verdant surroundings immediately won us over, and the well-ventilated rooms, open spaces, and secure locale sealed the deal. The house was witness to several trials and tribulations, gay and grey moments. The most painful had been losing our youngest sibling.
Our parents were not son-crazed like the average Indian parent of their time but gave us the best education and tools so that we could become the well-placed professionals we are today. I recall my parents regaling their three daughters with tales of gritty women from the Indian heartland and as I moved around the house that I knew so well, I could see myself holding my father’s hand.
As I left the house I wondered whether it really was as inanimate as it seemed. No, it was an entity in its own right, I decided. It was a place pulsating with magical memories. Celebrated American poet Robert Frost’s words echoed in my head: “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.”
Overwhelmed with emotions, I also visited my alma mater. The school grounds whispered many a tale in my ears — tales of sharing, stealing, pushing, and poking. I realised that the assembly line, PT line, and the line to board the bus, were much more than mere queues. As I walked down the road leading to DAV College, I could see myself cycling, the wind caressing my carefree face, the sprightly motion of my iron steed, and the rapid rush gave me a sense of freedom.
The experience is best encapsulated in the words of the Swiss writer Pascal Mercier, who said: “We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.” A plunge into nostalgia left the soul enlivened and enthused, invigorated and amused.
ritukumar.gmn@gmail.com
The author is associate professor in English, MLN College, YamunananagarFor any query with respect to this article or any other content requirement, please contact Editor at contentservices@htlive.comHT Digital streams Ltd
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