Myriad Ways Of Blissful Existence

The road was crooked, with abrupt bumps in between, and  a  narrow path left to drive my car, as it was bordered by stray dogs, and women sitting across their houses with other neighboring women. I drove with speed hardly touching the twenty-five marker, as I scanned the place around , the lanes and by lanes of my forlorn past, childhood, and what remained, of what I thought of my maternal grandparents today, just memories. But I was proved wrong, there was much more to it than just memories.

I had frequently visited this place till the age of thirteen, however the immediate throw back that my brain gave me was that, of the time when I must be eight or nine years old, and probably the happiest in these twenty-four  years of life that I have lived. I drove past the iconic huge metal gate,that bordered the small expanse of about six to seven kilometers and stood earthed at one place, dented scarcely with time.

As soon as I parked my car, In the corner, I was flooded with not one, but a series of images, streaming seamlessly into my mind. I looked at the house of my grandparents, locked behind a rusty small door, behind a small  verandah , which now lay deserted, robbed of its health and beauty, which was once its identity in my memories. Neither did the flowers that introduced me to their species, last anymore, nor the trees whose thorns had scratched me once, gazed back at me. The house stood withered, covered in plastic sheets around doors and windows, across a barren land.

The neighbors’ grandson came along running upon seeing my mother, who had accompanied me in this journey. My mother, had been a caretaker of this property and its ageing residents, for as long as they breathed.

I could not make much conversation other than a slight smile or a nod, in reply to his gazes,as he spoke to my mother.  My mind was occupied, making efforts to stay in the present. The streaming memories, laughter and cries, and motion and people kept on raging upon my senses one after the other.

The gate finally opened, and we set afoot into my memory lane. It was after arriving here after so long that I realized how vividly I remembered every nook and corner of this house. The two maroon steps with a maze like square design on them, the diagonal design of the grey tiles on the floor. The blue colour of the outer walls of the house, the metal hinges on the ceiling where they hung the heavy wooden swing with brass and iron strongholds decorated with delicate curly design . There was this small window pane above the door, with small wooden pipes along its length, which brought the first sunrays in the house, every morning that I slept across it, in this house.

Amidst the creaking sound of the door, and the breaking spider webs and slight coughs caused by the unsettled dust of the house, I could see the photo of my Grandma hung on the wall, and my lips uttered Aaji, subconsciously, a smile stretching through my face. I guess this was the same smile, I smiled as a baby, as a child, as a teenager.  The first thing I did after entering this house, was always, tracking where she was, and smiling to her, as she caressed me with her soft hands, the same touch I still feel in my dreams.

I roamed around. In the kitchen, where she taught me how to wash utensils, at the table where I always ate the most delicious of meals, over to the kitchen cupboard, which held my grandfather’s essentials, labeled in tiny plastic bottles, of sweet homeopathic medicine. The Kitchen cupboard had a big drawer along its width on the top, which slowly became accessible for me along the years, as I grew.
The Drawer, was always filled, with a distinct sweet mellow smell, of old gold earrings, and finger rings, of handkerchiefs and tiny glass vile of the expensive kesar and other condiments. The cupboard in the lower section used to be occupied with brass vessels and Tiffins, shining golden in colour forever filled with delicacies. I remembered scouring with my cousins into that cupboard in silent afternoons of summer vacations, when the elders slept in the high ceilinged hall cooled by the cooler.  
Today all the tiny tin holders and cans inside the drawer were empty.  I am old enough to pull the drawer with one hand, which now opens at my chest level . The cabinets beneath, are filled with empty utensils, looking at which I half heartedly closed the small slit of the cabinet door, I had tried to peep through.  

My grandparents had built this house, set up their possessions, brought up their children, bid farewell to the bodies of their parents, in this very house. They saw their grandchildren play in different nooks and corners of the house, right from beneath the bed, where I used to hide, to the space outside the house beneath the window pane, where my cousin took care of puppies and kittens.

My grandparents were freedom fighters, during the Independence movement. Their house was a home for everybody, who had ever met them , once or twice or thrice, did not really matter. If they were acquainted, this house was a home to them .

My grandmother was not only fond of cooking, she was fond of feeding people. She administered a kindergarten in the area, where children living in the nearby houses and huts would come to learn, and were sent back home in a well taught and well fed condition.

My grandparents had a son, who they sent to the States for accomplishing his dreams, and in whose pride and passion they dwelled the last  few years of their lives. Away from his life and existence, but closer to his being. Their two daughters, were their pillars, more for my grandfather, after  Aaji  passed away. They loved their grandchildren, four of whom visited them often ; and the remaining two, whom they visited rarely, but loved all the more.

Two framed photographs hung on the wall in the bedroom, of my grandparent’s visit to the States, which were hung there by Aaji , so she could cherish the times she had scarcely spent there. They were now eaten halfway, by moths, but the smiles hung there, without faces.

 I kept on drowning myself in the memories that oozed into me, without any obstruction. I did not cry, I relished in them.  The only way I could relive them was by being here, and letting them scorch inside me.

I looked at the small temple set in the house, which always had a small lamp lit inside it, which had answered so many prayers and sermons. I touched the frames and idols, but did not pray, the lamp that lightened that urge within me ceased to exist now.
I breathed in the distinct scent I remembered as that of of Aaji  and Ajoba,  which still filled the black wooden cupboard, that now held shrine to their clothes and shawls. Amazing isn’t it, how some shreds and traces of existence never disappear, and can still be found hidden in some unknown depths.

Before locking the door to the house, we checked for any possible damage that could have occurred to the house, and found a few cracks into the ceiling. Before tracing back our steps through the dust worn floor I looked back upon the smiling faces inside the photo frames, that would fall back in their infinite darkness in a few moments now. Before I drove away from the house, I smiled back the same splendid smile again, looking at her, smiling back at me, and at anyone who would step upon her door.

As we locked the small metal gate with its rusty lock, we heard an old shrill voice from the neighborhood calling my mother’s maiden name, asking her to come in for some coffee. Those were my Aaji’s neighbors.

As I dragged myself out of the compound and into the one right next to it, I clicked a couple of pictures of the house, as a memorabilia for my visit here. Also, to send to my cousins, who shared similar or even stronger insights in this house. One of whom still sleeps, with my Aaji’s soft cotton sheet of clothing beneath his head. An inseparable habit that he has hung on to since ages.

Sitting in the neighboring house, I observed a  similar setup of shimmering golden utensils of brass and bronze on the rack nearby.  As I touched her feet, I could hear the twinkling of her bangles, similar to my Aaji’s, as she touched my cheek, I could see the layers of her wrinkled skin, just like my Aaji. For the next half an hour, I sat there, with my mother chatting with her, and me trying to seep in the era of my childhood.

For moments I was just staring at her, and the house, holding onto the feeling of peace, I felt in this environment, amidst these people, amidst the same space, where my childhood traversed.

I realized the infinite and innumerable ways in which I had been shaped as a person, being a part of my grandparents legacy. How everything around me right now, had a beautiful and unique essence unique to itself, which felt like home, away from the fallacy and pain of this world. How divine the existence and life of my grandparents would have been, that their warmth, their teachings, their words, their touch , their existence still remains unchanged in our existence.

We were gifted with a life, a legacy. If or not you could treasure this serene gift, is the real test,
that you shall pass or fail. The rest are merely, distractions and attractions, away and sometimes
right into the bliss of life.

My bliss, lies in the smile on my Aaji’s face. Where does your dwell?