Chiaroscuros Of Existence

What do you love about where you live?

This prompt makes me think.

In this miasma of pollution, congestion, inflation, social alienation and the rest what makes me stick on?

I was brought up in this city. It’s more than five decades now. I guess by now it’s become my comfort zone. I have tried hard to be a part of it. A cosmopolitan hub where you tend to give up your ethnic identity. The sub continent is too big and too pluralistic to let you remain your own self. Yet, I have spent my childhood here. It was a chequered childhood – part enjoyable and part resentful. But more than often I let myself be cloaked by the warmth of the good old days overlooking those dollops of time which made me unhappy.

My family settled down in this part of the country in the 70s. It was a quiet and clean city then. After seven in the evening the roads would be deserted.

A city of extreme climate – scorching summer and freezing winter. We had long summer vacation of two months from mid May to mid July. Those months dry, hot  wind called the loo blew throughout the day making it impossible to leave the shelter of the house.

Nights became cooler. Neighbours took out their charpoys and slept on the road. We made our beds on the terrace. Before that buckets  of water were poured  to cool  down the heated floor. The breeze would become cooler. A clear sky  dotted with stars right above our heads would spread out like an awning. I would count the twinkling sequins – one …. two …. three and fall off to sleep know not when.  On nights when the breeze stopped  blowing we would often pray peering hard at the huge Pipal or Neem trees in the adjacent park. Did the leaves shiver a bit? Was there a faint stroke of breeze?

Sometimes in the middle of the night a sudden storm or aandhi would break out  followed by an unexpected downpour. We’d rush to the room on the terrace called the barsati with our beddings. It would be a respite from the  suffocating heat – a moment to rejoice as the days ahead would hopefully be milder and breezier.

As soon as the school reopened after the summer vacation we’d make to the bus stand in the midst of torrential rains. The dawn would turn pitch  dark as night. A sudden streak of lightening would tear the sky apart. Rumbling of rain clouds. Stars would hide. The moon would play truant. Sheets pelted blinding, roaring, groaning like the cathartic end of a claustrophobic narrative.

The rains would continue till  September end and sometimes even till October. October was the harbinger of wistful autumn. A shiny, blue sky would be smiling back at earthlings. The clouds – soft, snowy – floated leisurely. Often staring at the blueness of the sky my heart filled with an inexplicable longing. I wanted to cuddle the clouds. Where are you going ? I would whisper to them. Waiting for an  answer with bated breath. But they’d just wisp passed swift like nimble footed ballerinas!!

Winters were dramatic. Me and my sister folded under heavy rajais reading a Christie or a Marple or a Feluda  till mother put off the lights brusquely reminding us, “Tomorrow is school , girls.” Often I would lay my hands on books which were not meant for me. The folds of the weighty quilt a safety kit  from being caught. I never understood why these books were so “out of reach”. There was nothing wrong…nothing scandalous in them …. nothing that would turn my world upside down… Perhaps I was older than my age ? But not precocious. I swear!

Winter noons were a kaleidoscope of colours, sounds and smells. The  sellers pouring crackling, sand roasted groundnuts into paper packets. The clicking of the knitting needles of the neighborhood ladies grouped on charpoys chatting, laughing, cracking open nuts with calloused fingers and biting into its nuttiness.

Mother sitting in the sun picking up a pattern from the knitting book. We, boys and girls,  playing in the gully. Lines being drawn on the asphalt with chalk, rules made, hop, skip , jump, shouts of winning, whines of losing, somewhere knees grazed by a fall, arms bruised, glasses shattered, a shrill cry – all part of a day’s game. Chest heaving, sweating, panting ….mother calling out ” Don’t take off your blazer. You will catch a cold.”

Spring was too short – February end till March – fervently coping with the onset of a blazing summer. The breeze changed its way…. loaded with the intoxicating fragance of abeer, gulaal… The roudy festival of Holi and then all subsided with April –  sunshine stoking the neem leaves. It’s branches wriggling up to my window. A gentle swish of still not so warm air. Empty roads where the echoes of sudden footfalls made heart skip a beat. Oh !!!!!

This city made me aware of the distinctive seasons rolling one into the other. Made memories. Drove me with dreams.  This city pulsated with  the  sudden flush of first crush. This city gave me charming  friends and cruel foes.

This city gave me salivation over street food… The awesome flavour of crispy aloo tikki, the hunger inducing papery roll of  a masala dosa, the notorious cravings for Chhole bhature , the historical shammi qabaabs of age old joints….. slurp! Noodles in indigenous gravies!  Endless…

This city had also been a mute spectator of my first brush with grief, separation, death. This city grew on me like never before when I left it for a long spell yearning each moment for a much awaited come back.

My past is entwined with the alleys of this city. I have learnt, unlearnt and relearnt while walking on it’s busy roads. I have been enchanted by its boulevards. I have cried out loud when it’s heartbeats stopped for a while at intervals.

I have seen this city grow brick by brick, spread out it’s wings and meander away to something bigger, busier, louder. I have witnessed history as the landscape transformed itself to accomodate the maze of people – the gigantic pillars, the metallic slide on tracks, the underways carousing me down into the bosom of  mother earth.

I have been part of it all. I have lived it all. I have loved  it all.

This city has given me a sense of civilization. It’s humungous crowd has awed me. Here I have picked up the tricks of the trade called survival. And here I have retired in search of a peaceful, sedentary haven.

Where we live we make our homes. Everytime I have parted ways with this city I have rushed back to hold it in an embrace of cozy comfort – its someone I know from my heart, I can converse and convey perhaps even convince it  to stay as it has stayed with me forever.

I guess that is how you grow with where you live and make it your own. Can you say it’s only this that I like about where I live?

No.

Where I live it’s omniscience is in my breath , sight, sound and touch. It’s an inseparable backdrop of my narrative which has shaped me for good or for worse.  As you see me you see the city which thrives within me and I have thrived within it.

A city I love with all its flaws and fancies. In turn it has given me space in its heart.