I visited Delhi properly after five years. When I lived there I was a child, and when I visited I was a foolish, young, college student, who had no answers to questions about her "future" that relatives who fussed over her asked. But here I was, all grown up, with a job and such, somewhat clearer of the choices I had made, and the choices I plan to make, visiting the grandparents whilst I was in the city for a conference on Regional Security and research work on Hindutva and the Naxals.
Delhi seemed strangely the same as it was years ago. I guess when your grandparents have lived in the same house for 40 years, with the same neighbors, the same maid, the same lady who irons their clothes, it is but natural to feel like you have walked into something you have known all your life. Everything about their house felt familiar. I could see the showpiece that my sister had chipped in the corner, still lying on one end of the living room, right next to the Krishna-Radha idol that the neighbors had given them so long ago. I could still see the pigeons outside the window in the corridor, and I could still hear the voice of Chaudhary Aunty who still lives downstairs. My grandfather still called everyone "bhoodambedal" (Persian for "ullu"), and he still repeatedly muttered to himself, "kis kis ko sunaoge, kaun sunega?" while insisting that he never learned how to write Hindi, and stuck to Urdu and Persian. My grandmother also was still the same, talking of the same things, with the same friends, in the same living room.
Caught in that familiarity I did not quite understand how big the changes had been. How old my grandparents had become, how tall my cousins had grown, how Chaudhary Aunty's dear dog Shampi had died, how Aarti Aunty had become the Mayor of New Delhi, how the neighbor's grandkids- Manu, Tejasva, Akanksha, and Arjun had all become so grown up and were studying outside of Delhi, how the park across their house (where my aunt got married!) had lights and a brand new gate (courtesy dear Mayor Aunty!), how casually my aunt offered to fix me a drink, and how easily my grandmother spoke to me off my live-in relationship and where it was headed, and attempted to understand why I had chosen to study "social sciences" and "politics" when I had the "brains" to study science.
Between the familiarity of my grandfather's stories of his days in London and his migration to India from Sialkot, Pakistan, and my days full of work and such, I understood one afternoon the comfortable enormity of how much familiar-things had changed. On that afternoon, I stood in the kitchen attempting to show off my cooking skills, while my grandmother who no longer cooks, sat on the steps opposite the kitchen, chit-chatting and keeping me company. The same steps, where as a child I sat, chit-chatting and keeping her company, while she, on hot summer afternoons, tossed cumin and mustard seeds into hot oil.
Delhi seemed strangely the same as it was years ago. I guess when your grandparents have lived in the same house for 40 years, with the same neighbors, the same maid, the same lady who irons their clothes, it is but natural to feel like you have walked into something you have known all your life. Everything about their house felt familiar. I could see the showpiece that my sister had chipped in the corner, still lying on one end of the living room, right next to the Krishna-Radha idol that the neighbors had given them so long ago. I could still see the pigeons outside the window in the corridor, and I could still hear the voice of Chaudhary Aunty who still lives downstairs. My grandfather still called everyone "bhoodambedal" (Persian for "ullu"), and he still repeatedly muttered to himself, "kis kis ko sunaoge, kaun sunega?" while insisting that he never learned how to write Hindi, and stuck to Urdu and Persian. My grandmother also was still the same, talking of the same things, with the same friends, in the same living room.
Caught in that familiarity I did not quite understand how big the changes had been. How old my grandparents had become, how tall my cousins had grown, how Chaudhary Aunty's dear dog Shampi had died, how Aarti Aunty had become the Mayor of New Delhi, how the neighbor's grandkids- Manu, Tejasva, Akanksha, and Arjun had all become so grown up and were studying outside of Delhi, how the park across their house (where my aunt got married!) had lights and a brand new gate (courtesy dear Mayor Aunty!), how casually my aunt offered to fix me a drink, and how easily my grandmother spoke to me off my live-in relationship and where it was headed, and attempted to understand why I had chosen to study "social sciences" and "politics" when I had the "brains" to study science.
Between the familiarity of my grandfather's stories of his days in London and his migration to India from Sialkot, Pakistan, and my days full of work and such, I understood one afternoon the comfortable enormity of how much familiar-things had changed. On that afternoon, I stood in the kitchen attempting to show off my cooking skills, while my grandmother who no longer cooks, sat on the steps opposite the kitchen, chit-chatting and keeping me company. The same steps, where as a child I sat, chit-chatting and keeping her company, while she, on hot summer afternoons, tossed cumin and mustard seeds into hot oil.
2 comments:
They say that familiarity breeds contempt. But in the Indian Parlance familiarity is probably a way of staying in touch with the individual you once were and the individual you are now becoming. Beautifully written, as always.
=) Thanks
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