Can houses speak?
I
believe they do! After you know them long enough! And you reach out to them.
Our
house in Pakaria did, and often, but only when we were alone.
It was a quaint
little house. Little, of course is a misnomer. While it had only three rooms,
or rather two and a half, the courtyards, godown and garden spread over more
than 15 katthas or twelve thousand square feet. Built atop a mound, the main
house was an imposing structure in the style of a bungalow.
The front of the
house faced east and received the first rays of the rising Sun every morning.
The front greeted people with a lawn and garden with a cute little path leading
up to the semi circular veranda and the main gate of the house itself.
The garden had a
variety of roses – pink, yellow, red and white – lovingly nurtured by Baba, my
grandfather. At the end of the pathway, were two Croton plants on either side
standing like two guards. The colorful twisted leaves gave the rounded tops a
distinctive appearance. The designed boundary wall also carried the grape
creeper all along it.
There were other
plants too, Marigold, Sunflower and even a couple of “neem” trees. Neem trees
served the purpose of not only providing antiseptic neem leaves, purifying the
air but also provided the twigs to be used as tooth brush in the morning. The
early morning dew on the grass felt soothingly cool to the bare feet in the
summers.
From the semi
circular covered veranda two doors led into the house. The one on the right
would take you into the largest room of the house. This room was usually
occupied by my grandfather and was unusually bare by today’s standard. It had a
“chowki" (a rudimentary but sturdy bed), a clothes rack, a small table
carrying principally the load of a Ramayana and Baba's diary, and a couple of
“machias" (a rural version of the low modern day chairs.
Baba's diary
contained all the data pertaining to his farming activities, the list of receivables,
assorted memoranda and the letters received from my father and uncle from time
to time. It was a large room, with an enhanced appearance of size due to being
sparsely furnished. It used to have a Godrej almirah earlier, but that had been
shifted to the other house that had been built by my father and uncle, a little
distance away.
The other door from
the verandah led into a corridor with Baba's room on the right and the
remaining two rooms on the left. The first room was larger and would serve as a
bedroom for my mother and aunt and as many of us children as were willing to
sleep there. After the other house was constructed, this would mostly remain
vacant.
The third room,
smaller in size, contained an almirah and also served as the temporary storage
for whatever vegetables were in season. The almirah was a magic one, from which
my grandmother could bring out whatever was required at any given time. But it
did not contain any money, which was kept in an unusual place. More about that
later!
The other end of the
short but wide corridor had another door. Once you stepped out of this door,
you entered a small area which was not a conventional room as such since it had
six doors leading into it or out, depending on your point of view.
On entering from the
corridor, the first door on the left led out to the first courtyard. The second
one to the bathroom (larger than most bedrooms nowadays, the third door led out
to the second (and smaller) courtyard and to the staircase for the terrace, the
fourth door to the kitchen, and the fifth one served as a side entrance
(usually used more frequently than the main entrance).
This space also
served as my grandmother’s bedroom, symbolized by a “khatia” (cot) from which
she ruled over her empire. She refused to shift to one of the bedrooms and had
been a permanent fixture of this place for as long as any one remembered.
The first door led
into a medium sized courtyard across which stood the “godown” or storage room
for grains and stuff. This courtyard had a “okhli" for chaffing grains, a
“jaata" for grinding wheat, spices etc. The okhli was made of wood in the
shape of a large sand clock with a long and heavy wooden pound and the women
operating it had a beautiful rhythmic grace. The jaata was basically two circular
stones roughly two feet in diameter with an oblique wooden handle and a
circular hole in the centre for feeding wheat. The wheat would be ground into a
coarse flour and spill from the sides into a bowl like receptacle in which the
jaata was placed.
The godown contained
the produce from the fields in large containers and sacks. It also served as my
grandmother’s bank and safe deposit vaults. She would place sums of money in
plastic bags and bury them inside the wheat, rice or pulses.
She knew exactly how
much had been put in and where. It was as near fool proofed as was possible.
The godown was about six hundred square feet and with the amount of containers
and sacks a thief would need to be very lucky to be able to locate those ones
which contained the money.
As we entered into
this courtyard, on the left was another door leading to the kitchen garden of
sorts. This was used to grow potatoes, vegetables, corn, and other things for
in-house consumption depending on the season.
At the end of the
courtyard was another door which marked the edge of the mound. Steps going down
would lead us to a rather large courtyard. This courtyard was divided into four
informal parts. The far end of the courtyard had a hay covered long space which
housed the “dheki" a larger version of the “okhli" in the shape of a
lever operated by foot.
Perpendicular to it
along the boundary was a long open shed which contained the firewood, the dried
sugarcane chaff and cow dung cakes, all used for fires for cooking and for heat
in the winters.
The third side
contained two “theks”. These were raised cylindrical structures about ten feet
high and five feet across with medium sized rectangular openings near the top.
The flat top was thatched with hay bundles. The entire structure rested on three
legs about a foot high and these structures were used to store grain.
The centre piece of
the courtyard was a grand guava tree which gave us some of the best guava fruit
that I ever had. It was huge and some of the branches reached over to the
terrace. It was not cut down when the house was built.
I believe that it had
made friends with the house and they had grown together. Grandma used to look
after the tree like her child and had a plate and stick contraption fitted to
make noise. This contraption had a thin rope attached to it which ended at
grandma's cot. At night she would make noise by pulling the rope to drive away
the bats that came to feed on the guava.
Adjacent to the house
there was another small structure divided into three parts. The furthest part
served as the garage for our Willy's Jeep. The second part was a stable of
sorts for our horse, cows and bullocks in the night. The third part was of the
most interest for me.
It can be best
described as the “milk room". It was meant for storing milk, cheese and
the curd set by grandma. Aaji, as grandma was called, did not allow anyone to
enter this room. Before she entered, she would wash her hands and feet. And the
curds that she set- simply out of the world.
The curd would be set
in an earthen pot and left overnight over the dying embers of a fire. The heat
from the dying fire and the earthen pot would help to draw out the water from
the milk and the curd would be sweet and solid in the morning. All this I saw
from the door as this was a strictly restricted zone. The first person to
receive the curd would be my father, her youngest son. Only after this would
the rest be served.
Aaji had a close
bonding with the house. And since I was the youngest in the family at that
time, I think the house also bonded with me. I felt the house sheltering me,
loving me, talking to me, comforting me and at times playing with me. It was a
secret between the two of us.
Aaji, of course, had
a much closer bond with the house and with the animals and the tree and all
that came in contact with her. She looked part of the house as it did of her.
We would visit
Pakaria at least twice a year during our school holidays. And stay there for at
least four months a year.
Since I was very
young, I would touch the walls of the house with my cheek and with my palms and
I could feel it caressing me back. The wind ruffled my hair but I believed it
was the way of the house expressing its love. The thick walls would be cool to
the touch in summers and warm with the absorbed heat from the sun in winters.
Even when it was full
of people, and it often was during the holidays, there were nooks where one
could snuggle into and feel at one with the house. Straight on from Aaji’s cot
was the flight of stairs across the small courtyard which took us to the first
level of the terrace. This looked over the other two courtyards on the other
two sides.
As we walked down we
reached the terrace over the kitchen which was informally partitioned and
provided a secluded place for conversing with the house. One could sit in the
corner and ponder over a variety of things and seek the advice of the house on
matters of importance.
The house would
convey its agreement by enveloping itself, or rather its cool touch, to me. Was
Amar a good friend, was there a plan by some boys to not include me in their
games – all such matters of great importance were discussed with house. And its
advice was valuable. Its support gave one strength to move forward.
Sometime when some
mischief was likely to land me in trouble, the house would beckon me and hide
me till trouble had blown over.
From this terrace,
one had to climb another short flight of stairs to reach the main terrace. This
provided us with a 360 degree view of the entire area surrounding the house for
miles. The house would point out little secrets – a guy stealing some
vegetables from someone's field, children hiding from teachers, couples
fighting over trivial things, someone’s goat feeding on crops, a farmhand
having a snooze while his bullocks toiled on their own and suchlike. We would,
both of us, have a good laugh together.
When I came to
Pakaria, I would see the house from afar as it would see me. I waved to it and
I could sense that it was happy to see me.
The familiar sight of
Aaji waiting for us at the raised verandah at the side entrance would bring
such pleasure to me that I would often run ahead to hug her. She would hold me
tight and behind her the house would reach out to me beaming and ruffle my
hair.
I would run inside to
meet the guava tree and I could feel that the branches were trying to reach
down to touch me. Probably house had requested its friend to do so as it was
bound by the cement and mortar and unable to move much.
Late evening we would
all sit around Aaji’s cot while our dinner was being cooked on earthen stoves
in the courtyard in front of it (I never saw the “kitchen" being used as
one while Aaji was alive, it was used more as a storeroom for food, cooked or
uncooked).
There would be
stories from Aaji – funny ones, ghost stories, stories about relatives that we
did not know, stories about the time when she was younger. Sometimes she would
forget or correct herself and I knew that house was listening intently and
prodding her to remember or correct.
I believe the house
and Aaji shared confidences. For even when the new house was built almost
adjacent to this one, Aaji refused to move. It was a house which she had built
along with Baba, and they had become blood relatives and the best of friends
over the years. Despite many pleadings, she steadfastly refused to give in.
At night she would
talk to the house, share her joys and sorrows with it. I saw her doing so once
when I slept with her, but said nothing. I understood! Many others also caught
her at it but thought that it was the rambling of an old woman. I knew better.
And I believe that my proximity with her allowed me to talk to house.
When we would be
leaving at the end of holidays, the house would be sad but it would try to put
up a smile. For it knew we would be back in a couple of months or so.
When Aaji would be
preparing the puris for our dinner, she would be sharing her sadness with house
and they would be finding comfort in each other.
When Baba would bless
us with a Rose each as was his custom, in front of the Kali temple, house would
be blessing us through him.
I always felt safe in
the house. I knew my friend was looking over me. I could seek help, share
thoughts; vent frustrations, celebrate victory with it.It would celebrate my
happiness and empathize with my disappointments.
It was my friend, my
guardian, my mentor – all in one. When all of us were there, it was a happy
house. It seemed to be smiling more than usual. It felt warmer, livelier. This
is in comparison to what I saw later.
During festivals, it
would participate with us. Holi – it was splashed with colours, Diwali – it
would demand a whitewash, and stand with dignified poise. It would change with
seasons and with the vagaries of the weather. It would sense an impending storm
and reach out to us to come in where it would protect us from the wind and the
rain.
Winters it would
retain the warmth of the day and pass it on to us at night. Once it rained for
seven days and for the first time, I saw Pakaria flooded. The house stood firm
and solid in protection, not only for us but also for quite a few of our
neighbours whose houses were also flooded.
I have seen the house
worried. My father had an accident – a terrible one when his jeep skidded on
the highway and turned turtle. Several times over! When we reached Pakaria the
next day, I saw a different house.
It looked dejected
and worried. But when it saw me, it tried its best to put up a brave front. It
comforted me, and I knew it would be all right in the end. My house was looking
over him.
I have seen the house
sad when Aaji was on her deathbed. The only time she was moved from the house.
It knew that she would not return.
It looked lost
without her. A lifetime friend was about to bid farewell. It had been a long
and strong partnership. But it was about to end. Even though Aaji struggled
against death for a few days, I would spend some time with house everyday to
talk to it and comfort it.
I was too young to
fully appreciate its concerns but understood it well enough to know that it
needed someone to talk to. And I believe it understood the motive behind my
efforts. But it was much wiser than I was.
Aaji did return to
the house once more. But in death and not in life! Her cremation procession
started from this house as per the wish of my Baba who perhaps understood this
bond better than any one of us.
Once Aaji was gone,
the house was not the same anymore. It looked forlorn and the smiles seemed
forced. It also started letting go of its health and maybe it could sense its
growing years.
Baba’s passing left
the house in an even worse condition. Instinctively my father understood what
my Aaji had felt all along. He made special efforts to visit Pakaria and also
tried to restore the house to its old glory. But it was too old and too wise to
allow this.
When my father
suffered a cerebral stroke, it was the beginning of the end. It was impossible
for him to go back after that, but his heart was in Pakaria. He asked us to do
something about the house from time to time, but we had become too busy in
trying to make something of our life to do much. I did go back twice
afterwards, and could not bear to see the plight of a once grand entity.
It was losing its
will to live by the day. It had lost its sheen, and had given up trying to
fight against time. It was a shell of its former self; the boundary wall was
gone, the plaster was peeling. I did have it cleaned up and opened the windows
to let in the light. The strength had hone from its voice, and the smile seemed
forced. It knew that with every passing moment, its end drew nearer. The open
windows let the light in and brought some cheer, but I felt it was just to
humour me.
When I was returning
from my last trip, I turned to get a last look at my friend, guardian, and
parent. All appeared lost but for one thing.
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