I sat in Prospect Park on a sunny afternoon, watching Fall just about to set in. The leaves were turning yellow at the tips- the rest of the body crisp and charming green after a bout of rain the night before. I was carrying the Heart of India with me- Mark Tully's journeys into the hinterlands of UP and Bihar- his accounts of watching caste wars and greedy zamindars in action or barren women going to old temples to pray for a child. For the most part, the book felt like a revisiting of childhood stories that any Indian child would read in Panchatantra or Amar Chitra Katha- the tone was of Once upon a time tales. Hardly any dramatic writing or heavy metaphorical language that Indians are so famous for. What was most fascinating was Tully's definition of fiction and non-fiction writing. The stories seemed true. They were observational more than evidence-based.
I noticed how alone I was in Prospect Park. A vast open space in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world. And I thought of home, the streets of Delhi, the connections that had broken off in the two years that I had been away from home. What evidence would emerge true for my writing- if I were to pick up a pen and paper and start scribbling at that very moment? How can we classify writing that emerges from the gaps in memory and in retrospect? Who would believe in these frail images of a past life?
The street that I start to remember does not have a name. It exists, but as a concept. It is where people fight for parking space. A soiled red and black tent , rented from caterers emerges occasionally from the houses when birthday parties, anniversaries, weddings or annual harvest festivals take place. The vegetable sellers push their cart through the celebrating bodies and in the midst of it all, children clamor for space and attention as they play cricket. There are mango trees and overgrown shrubs outside some houses and the colorful flowers and seasonal fruits are the cause of much friction between the neighbors.
The street is not just a street...it is the locus of my imagination, the place I start writing from.
I often return to the house on the street, but with great difficulty at times because the directions to the landmarks keep changing. At one time there was an open tea stall to the left of the street. But the owner managed to make a lot of money and moved a little further down the road in to the fish market. The sky was no longer visible from his shop, but had red plastic chairs inside it and a badly made sign board hung outside said " Tea and Snakes".
The street of this year, in which I tell my story has a monster that my sister and I were always cautioned against. There is a shop, sharing the wall of a house, with an asbestos sheet covering, propped up by bamboo canes. Hand painted posters of women with bulging cleavages flap in the gentle breeze. It is difficult to guess who they are. We lower our eyes and rush past it as we walk home from the bus stop, the film songs blaring from a radio, filling the empty weekday afternoon. At times, we stand watching from a distance as our grandfather quickly buys a cigarette from there. He hides them in his shirt pocket, and clutches our hands to take us home.
The home of this year is being painted and the exterior is effervescent, the white shines in the golden sun. The smell is of the arrival of a new blue awning, of a new season and a new color, as the black door frames are replaced by a pleasant yellow. My house resembles an ice cream parlor, but I don't mind it at all.
On a Sunday in the home of this year, my sister and I play with Lego blocks. We place the small potted plants first, but they keep getting knocked over by our skinny elbows. The house has red, yellow and green brick walls and a red chimney. I wonder why our house does not have a chimney...the long snout, placed on the roof through which Mary Poppins traveled in and out. I think she got stuck in the chimney once, and that is why we never got a chimney. The one story house grew in to two, as the blocks vanished from the box. I turn my attention to the ladybug that my uncle has sent from England. I hold it in my hands and wind the tiny key as it sputters and crawls on the cool floor. Big feet suddenly appear in front of my eyes, dusty soles and hard nails, that leave a trail of dust at the entrance of the yellow door. I look up and a pair of bloody red protruding eyes stare back at me. A smile that has a missing front tooth and a couple of more at the side, breaks in to a maniacal laugh as it bends down to grab my shoulders. In the background I hear my sister yell in fright as she grabs my hand and we run to my grandparent's bedroom and hide under their bed. It is the Missing Tooth plumber she says, and both of us sit in the darkness, hoping that the ants would not give away our secret. A layer of dust lies on the boxes and I try to open them. A sneeze shakes the earth and the ants shift their trail. The game is over.
At an hour on a Sunday in the home of this year as the day is settling in, I return to my home's childhood again ,when my sister and I wear identical clothes ( she is in pink and I am in blue, but that is the only difference) and run out to the sunny porch. My grandmother has taken out a new sari, a white one with a red border., but her hair is still messy, the comb stuck in it as she settles on a brown wicker chair. My grandfather reads a red book, with brown withering papers, as the golden rays glisten on his silk shirt. At this very minute of the hour, my mother comes hurrying out putting the clasp on her silver watch and runs her hand over her black hair, tied up in a bun.
At this second of the minute of the hour of the day of the month of this year of the dream... when we scramble to sit in position, the small in the front and the tall at the back..my father cranks the camera. It whirs and clicks..as we move from the land of messy blue, red, pink, green and gold to just those two- black and white. I wander in the day and think in my dreams. And I want to have this dream tonight.
******
The street has a name- of a revolutionary freedom fighter who fought for independence. The house is located in the colony of people displaced from East Pakistan. I lost the ladybird one day and could never find it again. The plumber with the missing tooth, disappeared around the corner and was never found again. The house stopped glowing as the two stories grew up in to three.
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