A visit to Dalpation house

Avanti Sopory
Sunetra was in the airplane for more than three hours. Her long legs had clamped in the economy class of the flight. Sunetra for the last fifteen minutes was curiously peeping out of the photo frame sized airplane window; yearning to catch a glimpse of her motherland.
After a shot but bumpy ride on the tarmac of the Jammu airport, the plane finally came to a halt. Every passenger but Sunetra, stood up to walk down the aisle towards the exit gate. Sunetra choose to be the tail-ender. She wanted to get a grip of herself and the reality that she was finally going to her grand -parents’ house after twenty years.
That morning when her stereotyped yellow and black taxi stopped for her to dismount at the turn of Wazarat road, Sunetra stood numb like a dead body. Did it take me twenty years to reach here? She thought to herself.
It was a busy weekday morning for everyone around her; but Sunetra was on a holiday. People were coming out of their houses to board the matador from the nearest stop, whereas Sunetra scurried in the opposite direction. The stop was still at the same juncture of Wazarat road and Nai Sadak, which her grandfather sometimes referred to as Thandi Sadak, because of the cool breeze it allowed from the nearby hillocks.
The warm pleasant morning sun falling on her back was sinking into her soul. The warmth of the ray was propelling her enthusiasm. Her nervous small steps had turned in to giant leaps.
The once desolated roads had now become the parking station for many swanky cars, scooters and bikes. There were many new mom n pop shops that had opened along the sideways; probably they were the third generation of the original residents.
As Sunetra turned towards the direction of the labyrinth, her heart started thumping. Not for the fear of getting into an abandoned house, but for the anxiety of getting into a house where she had spent seventeen years of her life, until her father got transferred abroad; a house which was warm and filled with unconditional love.
After partition, her grandfather along with many more people left Lahore in Pakistan and struggled to settle in Jammu. In order to accommodate the lot of refugees, the government had allotted custodian houses to them and the locality was called Dalpatian Mohalla. It still is called the same, but the people around have changed or moved to suburbs.  This is where her grandparents lived till they breathed their last breath.
Dalpatian Mohalla and Khatti Ka Talab were two places which Sunetra remembered like yesterday. Khatti Ka Talab was from where her grandfather ran the first Urdu daily of Jammu, ‘Daily Sharda’ and which also happened to be the place for everyday grocery, vegetable and meat shopping. At a stretch of just ten steps from his office was the ‘meat mall’, (at some point this place was also called Kasai Bazaar) where there was an array of shops selling mutton. The narrow lanes decorated with all mutton types and parts and tinnier drains within; soaked in blood and discarded parts would give any vegetarian a shock for his life, but it was not an unpleasant sight for her non-vegetarian connoisseur grandfather. Close to his office was the Masjid, thronged equally by the rich-poor, powerful-powerless, needy and desolate people. As a small girl sitting in her grandfather’s office she could feel the sounds from the Masjid, resonating the complete surroundings of Khatti Ka Talab.
Today, when Sunetra was walking towards the house, after two decades, it sunk her that she had grown big and old. Sunetra was seventeen years old, when she had last walked in this lane. At that age the scaling walls of the neighboring houses appeared like demons to her. The lanes were narrow and the walls were suffocating close to each other. Well there were no balconies then, but the windows were close enough to aerially exchange stuff from one house to the other.
The house where her grandparents lived was in a narrow lane of 4 by 20 feet which also housed four other families with a dead end at one side. On many days when the working members from all the four families would leave for work, the rest of the kids; meaning the non-working ones had to be home, only to avoid any logjams or bottle necks. There were four families on each side of the by-lane. In case of any emergency, if the erstwhile Bajaj Vespa scooter was parked in the 4 by 20 feet lane, the mobility systems of all the four households would break down.
Interestingly, the sewer drains in the narrow 4 by 20 feet lane, never had a lid on them. On many occasions, being the youngest and diminutive, Sunetra had slipped into those stinky drains – all part of growing up. Not to forget the nudging and pushing in those narrow by-lanes by her pesky cousins and siblings.
Today after twenty years, none of the four families lived there. They all had moved to newer colonies and bigger physical spaces in the suburbs of Jammu. Sunetra reached the door of the house, which opened on the “baithak” side of the house. Her grandfather’s name still dazzled on the name plate dangling on rusted nails, but she did not want to enter from there. So she turned and walked a few steps towards her right and then took a left. There she was in the 4 by 20 feet lane. Demons from yester years had mellowed down. The walls and the narrow lane did not threaten or scare her anymore.
In that lane was the window to her grandmothers’ kitchen. Déjà vu! Sunetra felt as if she would call out for her name from the oil stained, iron meshed kitchen window.  As if trying to say “hurry up, food is getting served”. And that call was enough for her to sprint into the bada karma. Sunetra’s grandmother’s cooking was angelic, as if she was under the direct study course of Goddess Annapurna. The aroma of her cooking vented out from the kitchen window, to purify the complete lane. Sunetra was the only grandchild who would talk nineteen to a dozen with her grandmother.  With these memories Sunetra opened the main door to the custodian house; as it was commonly called.
The baranda which was only cemented the last time she had seen was no better off with the marble flooring. The baranda was the playing ground for the kids. The cemented water tank was stinking of stale water and weeds had grown randomly around it. There were shards of broken window glasses lying on the baranda. The huge bougenvaille tree which reaped magenta flower was butchered heartlessly.  The blunt trunk of the tree was now the secret hideout of the big black ants. The flowers which blossomed on this very tree were offered by her grandfather to the house deity. Morning ragas would start with the ringing of the temple bells by her grandfather to invoke the deities. After this ritual soon the serene household would eject into high voltage action and activities. But today it was standing still. The silence was defeaning.
The old cemented stairs were stained, chipped and broken at many places. At every corner and gap on the walls of the dilapidated house, vines of unwanted plants and ferns had engulfed the once hub of her childhood.
It was heart wrenching to enter the bada karma. The once cauldron of Sunetra’s grandparents life; it was standing lifelessly on crutches today. The permanent place where Sunetra’s grandfather would sit and rest his head against the wall, still had the oil stains on it.  As Sunetra entered she felt the presence of her grandparents, as though he would start his high decibel conversation with his wife, across from the bada karma to the kitchen.  Interestingly this loud conversation would happen every day morning irrespective of anything, regarding the errands of the household.  Sunetra now thinks that may be that was their expression of love for each other.
Sunetra remembered amongst the many rules, one rule of her grandfather – everyone was to have dinner together. This was the time for some light hearted conversations about anything and everything. Post dinner, in the bada karma Sunetra’s grandmother would sing lullaby’s to her grandchildren, while the younger ones would prep up for the rest of the chores. As the torrents of memories girthed Sunetra, she wanted to ask God – Why I grew up.
The room was a silent history to those household chores of grief and happiness.  The echoes and sounds of the bygone years were stored in the reservoirs of the room. The pictures of the divinities, Sunetra’s grandparents would pray to, were still hanging on the wall. Yes, today the spiders and bugs were saluting them, in all humbleness. The vein like structure created by the termites, across the walls of the room and the house was a vivid reminder to the fact that “no one lives here anymore”
With a heavy heart Sunetra controlled the flush of tears, when she heard thumping of steps. She turned to see that they were the local authorities, who came weekly to check if the house was still stable enough to not crumble and rumble on any passerby.
Yes, this house is seventy five years old and much stronger than any recent structure. The house is unshakable, for it still houses the divine spirits and souls of Sunetra’s grandparents.  And a house that told Sunetra that she had grown up and also taught her the strength and power of family.
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