A Tale Of Two Houses

Most of us love visiting our childhood. Be it in the form of food, books, people, places, music, movies...anything, just anything that connects us with that wonderful period in our lives. Something that may seem to be very ordinary to others, is significant and very dear to us, because it takes us back to the time when we were kids. I do not know whether our fascination lies in the simple, uncomplicated lifestyle of the yesteryears, or the age of innocence we were in at that time. I guess, it is a combination of these.

I relived a little bit of my childhood during a recent trip to Dhar. Now, Dhar is one of those places that were important centuries ago, but lost all their glory somewhere along the way, and are reduced to being nondescript, small towns today. The history of Dhar is synonymous with that of Raja Bhoj, under whose rule Dhar prospered and became an important centre of learning in the 11th century. Today, it is a dusty little place, overshadowed by its much bigger neighbour, Indore.

Growing up in Indore, I used to go to Dhar often, to visit my paternal grandmother's sister and her family. It was a joint family, living in two houses. One of the houses was called 'old house' and the other,'new house'. The houses had an old-world charm about them. And for someone like me, who did not have much experience with rural or small-town life, they held a great appeal. They had wells and cow-sheds and the floors in the rooms had to be smeared with cow-dung every now and then. I remember spending some happy days in those houses. Later, when I got married and moved on, I did not get a chance to visit Dhar. It was not far, only about 70 kilometres from Indore, but it went very far back in my memory.

A few months ago, when I was in Indore with my parents, we decided to go to Dhar, just for old times' sake. My grandmother and her sister passed away years ago, but their families have maintained a close bond. I was looking forward to checking out the two houses, and of course, meeting my relatives who lived in them. Three of my father's cousins with their wives, children and grandchildren live there now. When I checked with my uncles about the age of the houses, they estimated the 'new' house to be about 100 years old, while the 'old' one, anywhere between 150 and 175 years old.


We go to the 'old house' first. It is in a small alley, standing in a row of houses that are tightly packed, with no gap in between. It looks exactly the same as it did decades ago, when I had seen it last. The front door is unusually short. One has to bend to pass through it. 'You have to be polite, otherwise you can't enter!', someone jokes. The house looks smallish from outside, but is quite spread out inside. There are rooms of different shapes and sizes, connected to each other like coaches in a train. Many of the connecting doors are quite short.

There is a festive atmosphere in the house. Folks who live in the 'new house' are here too, so that we can meet the whole family at the same time. The lady of the house is busy in the kitchen, preparing a traditional meal for us. I am meeting most of them after years, but they are all very warm and genuinely happy to have us. There is laughter and bonhomie around the dining table where we relish the delicious lunch, taking turns in batches of six. They have acquired gadgets like a fridge, television set and even a computer. But they have chosen to live in the house that their ancestors built. Sure, they don't have conveniences like attached bathrooms and modular kitchens. Why, even answering the door while working in the kitchen is a challenge, as the front door and the kitchen are miles apart. But they are taking it in their stride. They have seen the outside world...the adults work in banks and schools, the children go to school, they travel...but what they call home is this. And the best part is that they seem to be very comfortable here.

photos by Prateek

Later in the afternoon, we go to the other house for tea. It is a three-storied house, with balconies on the outside. But the toilets are downstairs, in the backyard! And going up and down the steep, narrow staircase isn't a piece of cake either. But life goes on... has been going on all these years. I became a little girl again...seeing these homes. Most of the other old houses that I visited in my childhood have either been demolished or renovated beyond recognition. That makes these houses unique. And looking at the people who reside in them, I wonder if they are so incredibly warm, loving and simple because they are living in premises blessed by their forefathers. Or they are happy in these old-fashioned places because they are intrinsically unpretentious and down-to-earth. Whatever it is, I wish them even more happiness than they already have.

The Saree Saga

Time was when all married women were seen in sarees, at least in my part of the world. The training to wear a saree began earlier. The wedding of a close friend or a relative was a good occasion for all young, unmarried women to flaunt their six yards of splendour. These gatherings provided an excuse for prospective grooms and their families to 'see' girls / women of marriageable age in a natural setting without making them self-conscious. So it was almost an unwritten rule that young women wear sarees at others' weddings. Those who tried to deviate from this path by wanting to wear something else were sternly admonished: You'll be getting married soon, what will your in-laws think if you can't wear a saree properly.

Most of the leading ladies in Hindi movies danced around the trees dressed in opulent sarees, with their hair tied in ridiculously high bouffants. How they managed to lip-sync to a song, respond coyly to the hero's advances, prance about in high heels and look as if they were enjoying the whole exercise is anyone's guess. Jokes apart, saree is not an easy wear when it comes to doing several chores. As women discovered the ease with which they could do many things wearing a salwar-kameez or a pair of jeans and a top, they began relegating the saree to the back shelf. Salwar-kameez and its variants took over as the most popular costume for women across the country.

The humble saree was lying low for some time before it made a spectacular comeback. Not being a stitched garment, it is very versatile and can be draped in hundreds of different ways. And when some intelligent designer had the bright idea of giving a whole new glamorous look to the blouse, women started using the saree to make bold fashion statements. As the blouse went from being small to almost non-existent, the stature of saree as a stylish attire rose higher and higher. The birth of designer sarees opened unlimited opportunities. Once a traditional piece of clothing, the saree has become cool and happening. But fashion trends are always mercurial, so there's no telling where the saree will go from here.

Call Of The Border

If you happen to be outside the Golden Temple or the Jallianwala Bagh Memorial in Amritsar in the late morning or early afternoon, you can see several men standing here and there, muttering...border, border. What they are offering is a ride to the Wagah border about 30 kilometres away. Actually, Attari is the Indian town nearest to the International border, while Wagah is in Pakistan, on the other side of the border. A retreat ceremony is held daily at sunset at the border. Over the years, it has become a major attraction. Hordes of tourists flock to the site everyday to witness the ceremony. One can go in a shared taxi or one can book a taxi entirely for oneself. We opt for the latter and strike a deal with a driver after some negotiation. It is not yet time to go. He promises to meet us outside the Golden Temple at 2.30 in the afternoon. One has to go early to be able to beat the crowds and secure a good place in the stands.

He keeps his word. We set off in his 'Mrooti van', leave the hustle and bustle of the city, go past the magnificent building of the Khalsa College and drive through the sprawling campus of the Guru Nanak Dev University. We are on NH-1, better known as the Grand Trunk Road. It is a wide avenue lined with shops and businesses on both sides. There are many marriage halls, a go-karting centre and a water park among other establishments along the way. I am happy to see such normal activity so close to the border. I read somewhere that things were not so good until a few years ago and this stretch used to be deserted in the evenings.

As we near the border, the shops and other commercial outfits are replaced by fields. They are like large green carpets with yellow flowers in between. After about 50 minutes, the driver parks his van outside a restaurant called 'Aman Ummeed'. Very nice name for a restaurant that is right on the border. It means 'Hope for peace'. We leave our belongings in the car in the care of the driver. You are not allowed to carry anything other than a camera, mobile phone and wallet beyond this point.

There are separate queues for men and women. It is a walk of about 500 metres. We notice Customs offices on the side of the road before reaching the scene of action. Men and women are made to sit separately. The stands fill up very soon. Patriotic songs are playing loudly in the background. The border is flanked by two massive gates, one on the Indian side, the other on the Pakistani side. They are kept shut most of the time. Both India and Pakistan have arches situated a few metres away from the border. The arch on the Pakistani side sports a large picture of Jinnah looking towards India. The respective flags are of course in place on both the arches as well as at the gates.

I can see the Pakistani stands clearly from my seat. They are not even half-full. The Pakistanis are playing patriotic songs too. On the Indian side, the BSF personnel are raising pro-India slogans and people are responding enthusiastically. The BSF people invite some young women to come down from the stands and hand them large Indian flags. The women take turns in running towards the gate carrying the flag. Soon, some elderly ladies join in the run. Lot more come down and start dancing to the music that is blaring from the speakers. A smart BSF officer who is supposedly in-charge of the proceedings is running around. He is doing his best to whip up patriotic emotions amongst the crowd by playing songs, raising slogans and organising flag-runs. When there is a momentary silence, slogans from Pakistan are clearly audible. Each side tries to drown out the other side's slogans by screaming louder and louder. It is easier for the Indians as their number is larger.

The crowds are made to vacate the road to make way for a bus. The gates are opened. A shiny silver bus operated by the Delhi Transport Corporation, full with passengers, appears on the scene. It is on its routine Delhi-Lahore-Delhi run. It is greeted by loud cheers from the crowd thronging the stands before it goes past the Indian gate and enters into Pakistan.

It is time. One of the BSF guards unleashes long and loud wail-like cries to signal the beginning of the retreat ceremony. They are met by similar ones from the Pakistani side. Then two lady guards march towards the gate in smart, synchronised steps. They are followed by pairs of men marching in similar fashion. Once at the gate, each of them raises one leg very high in the air before stomping it hard on the ground. Almost identical actions are taking place on the other side. There is heroism, bordering on aggression, in the gestures of the guards on our side, as well as theirs. The Pakistani guards are dressed in dark olive green uniforms. A guard on each side starts pulling the rope of the flag on his side. It is done with such precision and perfect timing that the flags meet at a point to make a perfect cross. Then the flags are taken down and folded neatly. The Indian flag is carried back and brought to the BSF building while the Pakistani flag goes to the other side. The flags that were fluttering at the arches are brought down too.

That is the end of the retreat ceremony. The gates are shut. People start dispersing. We come down the stands and walk towards the gate. We are just a few steps away from the gate when the guards tell us we cannot go any further. We are looking straight into Pakistan. It is a feeling like no other. One cannot help being sad about the fact that the vast expanse of land on the other side, that the guards in olive green are guarding ferociously, was a part of our great country just 63 years ago, but was torn away from us after a series of unfortunate events. The historic city of Lahore is just 30 kilometres from here. Amritsar and Lahore could as well have been twin cities with their people sharing the same weather, same food, same language, same customs and same culture. But that was not to be. This is the place that was witness to the exodus that took place across the newly-formed border at the time of partition.

Photos by Prateek

Today, the same place hosts a show held with pomp and pageantry, put up by India and Pakistan with mutual understanding and precise timing. I wish and hope that both the neighbours show the same understanding in all other matters too. We cannot undo the ugly scars inflicted on our psyche by the partition, but we can surely lessen the pain caused by it with some positive actions.

Some tips for visitors:

* Do not carry any valuables with you. Only mobile phones, cameras and wallets are allowed. Even water bottles and ladies' handbags are not permitted.

* Mobile phones cannot be used in the border area as there are jammers that block the signals.

* Men and women go in separate queues and sit separately. It is a good idea to fix up a meeting place where you can meet with your family/friends after the ceremony is over. The souvenir shop under the stands is an ideal place for this purpose.

* Reach the venue at least 90 minutes before the ceremony starts in order to get good seats. The time may vary in winter and summer and can be checked at the Punjab Tourist Information Centre in Amritsar. They have a booth/office near the railway station.

A Temple Of Gold, A Pond Of Nectar

The free bus from the railway station to the Harmandir Sahib, also known as Darbar Sahib drops us at the gate. The entrance is simple. No ostentatious decorations. Only rows of blue, gold and silver streamers hanging overhead along the path that leads us inside the complex. There are no beggars, and no shops selling flowers or other offerings either.

The place where you must take off and deposit your footwear is impressive. There are rows after rows of shelves slightly under the ground level. They are manned mostly by elderly gentlemen. There are benches where you can sit while you remove your shoes. And washbasins to wash your hands after you have deposited them. Very thoughtful indeed. Walk a little further and you step into a shallow pool of running water. Your feet get a nice wash before you enter the holy premises. As you step out of the pool, there are jute mats and other mats made of a very nice green material, running along the entire length of the marble walkway that surrounds the pond  on all four sides.This makes sure that the floor does not remain wet and that there are no dirty feet marks anywhere. The entire temple premises are spotlessly clean. As you start walking along the path, the golden edifice in the centre of the pond gleams in the mild winter sun. Soothing strains of Gurbani waft in the air. They are singing it live in the sanctum sanctorum. Some people are walking quietly, others are sitting in the covered corridors on the sides with their eyes closed, and some are bending down, touching their forehead to the ground in reverence.

I stop at a window to buy some 'kadah parshad'. It is a kind of porridge made with whole wheat flour, oozing with ghee. Now we are on our way to the bridge which will take us to the temple. It is built on a square platform in the middle of the pond. It is a beautiful shrine, adorned with intricately carved panels of gold on all four sides.The crowd is moderate and people are waiting patiently in a queue. Volunteers are standing by silently, keeping an alert eye on the surroundings. I am trying to keep my head covered with my dupatta. But it does slip off. Every time that happens, I get a polite reminder from a volunteer to pull it over my head.

We pass through the Darshani Deori to enter an ornate chamber. This is the holiest of holy places for Sikhs all over the world. People are silent, bending in obeisance in front of the sacred Guru Granth Sahib. It is covered with a heavily decorated maroon quilt. There are flowers, a group of  people is sitting and singing, others are moving about. It is very calm and serene here, in spite of the presence of so many.

Little later, we head towards the langar. Volunteers hand us a steel plate, a container for water and a spoon. We enter the hall and take our place on the mat. The chapati, daal, kadhi and rice is simple, but delicious. It is amazing to see how people cook and serve food, and wash the dishes with a spirit of service...sewa. Thousands eat here everyday and the langar is open 24 hours in a day.

Photos by Prateek

 I go to collect my shoes. The gent who hands them over to me is a senior citizen. He joins his hands in a polite namaskaar to my 'thank you'. And I feel thanking him is so inadequate. The passion with which he is standing here, handling the footwear of thousands of strangers is something to be admired from the bottom of one's heart. I join my hands and the words 'Sat Shri Akal' tumble out of my mouth.

The Diwali Specials

Oh, what a treat! I have on my table 13 Diwali issues, neatly stacked, fresh, waiting to be read... and enjoyed. They are all in Marathi, brought out by reputed periodicals and newspapers just around Diwali. I don't know when this practice of publishing special Diwali issues started, but they were certainly around in my childhood. Most Marathi households, with their meagre budget, could not afford to buy these issues. Traditionally, they were borrowed from neighbourhood lending libraries and savoured by the whole family. Diwali was the undisputed 'king' of all festivals and these issues added to the festive spirit. The Diwali package consisted of new clothes, home-made goodies, school holidays, firecrackers and Diwali special issues back then.

Later, for several years, I lost touch with them. We moved cities. Diwali became more commercial and no longer meant the same to me. But I knew the issues were still being published. I am not sure if television and internet made a dent in their volume. Occasionally, a kind friend or relative passed on an old issue to me. I liked reading short stories, interviews with prominent personalities, articles, travelogues and more. Some issues specialized in humour. They featured cartoons, satire, short stories and poems laced with humour and double entendre...from funny to naughty to off-colour.

Photo by Prateek

This year, just for old times' sake, I decided to buy Diwali specials. I had never bought them before. It was not easy to get them as I have lived outside Maharashtra most of the time. Now in Chennai, I wondered how to go about it. I fished out a card that a sales person had thrust in my hands when I was visiting a renowned book store in Pune. I sent an e-mail requesting them to send me a list of all the specials that were likely to be out this season. They sent a list of about 350 titles, neatly classified into categories such as general, literary, women, health and beauty, mystery, crime, cookery, cinema, religious, spiritual, children, humour and Astrology. I was pleasantly surprised on two counts. First, because the store responded to my request so promptly and professionally, and second, to see that the specials are being published in such large numbers. I picked 13 well-known titles out of that list and placed my order. Now, some e-mail exchanges later, the issues are sitting at my home in all their colourful glory. Many of them are printed on superior quality glazed paper. I like their newness. And the crispness of the pages as I turn them over. I am looking forward to reading them over the next few weeks. A slice of the old times...acquired using modern technology.

Vanakkam To Chennai

It's been eight months since we moved base from Bangalore to Chennai. Think Chennai and what comes to mind is heat, humidity, tradition, orthodoxy, culture et cetera. I am still new here and do not know this city well enough to judge it but while first impressions do confirm all the characteristics I just mentioned, one can see a newer, more open, more tolerant face of the metropolis trying to appear from behind its old,rigid countenance. Of course, Chennai has a long way to go before it can be truly called a cosmopolitan city, but maybe the winds of change have started blowing, albeit gently.

It is still not easy to get what you want to say across to a Tamilian who doesn't know any English. But it's not as if you are starved of hearing any language other than Tamil. Go to a public place and you are likely to overhear some delightful Bangla here or chaste Hindi there. So, Chennai is opening its doors to people from other states and letting them be their own selves too.

Take our neighbourhood. At least a couple of houses have boards outside them that announce Hindi tuitions on offer, a Bikaneri Bhojanalaya has just opened that is attracting big crowds comprising of locals as well, cars sporting registration plates from different states are parked outside buildings all over the area and packets of fresh (not frozen) chapatis are always available at the nearby grocery store.

These little things are surely a big help. They are useful to an outsider like me who is trying to find ways to make this unfamiliar city a bit more likable. But one thing is for sure...you can never integrate with the locals unless and until you speak their language. I feel like an illiterate when boards written in Tamil stare at me from everywhere. And I feel helpless when I have to play dumb charades everyday with the domestic help, the watchman and the driver. Then why don't I learn Tamil? Well, it's still early days in Chennai. Maybe it'll happen. They say you need to be in the right place at the right time. I need to wait only for the right time. Right place? I'm already in it!

The Appetizer

I have been posting write-ups about this and that on our family group and the feedback I often got was: write a blog, oh, why don't you write a blog? I liked the idea but somehow it didn't quite take root. I am just a homemaker with not much social life, what can I possibly write about on a blog...I thought. But slowly as the frequency of my posts increased, I began to enjoy the experience. I kind of liked the thrill of finding a long-forgotten word and using it appropriately to make a sentence that read beautifully. And once you get bitten by the writing bug, you discover that there is no dearth of topics on which you can wax eloquent. There are hundreds of things happening around you all the time. The ingredients are all right there, all you need to do is to mix them in the right proportion, garnish them and serve the dish in an appetizing way.

So that's what I plan to do! I will not be restricting my posts to any particular theme. That way I am free to write about anything under the sun. I hope I don't come to such a stage where those who asked me, why don't you write a blog, will have to ask me, why, oh why do you write a blog!