Sunetra was in the airplane for more than eight hours. Her long legs were cramped in the economy class of the international flight. Sunetra for the last half an hour was curiously peeping out of the photo frame sized airplane window; yearning to catch a glimpse of her motherland.

After a short but bumpy ride on the tarmac of the airport, the airbus 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 grandparent’s house after twenty years.

That day, Sunetra stood numb like a dead body when her stereotyped yellow and black taxi, stopped for her to dismount.

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 bus from the nearest bus stop, whereas Sunetra scurried in the opposite direction.  The warm pleasant morning sun at her back was sinking into her soul. The warmth of the ray was propelling her enthusiasms. 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 and pop shops that had opened up, probably 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 thirteen years of her life, till her father got transferred abroad.

After partition, her grandfather left Lahore in Pakistan. He came to the valley as a refugee, along with many others like him. In order to accommodate the lot of refugees, the government allotted them houses and it began to be called as Dalpatian Mohalla. This is where her grandparents lived till they breathed their last breath.

Today, as Sunetra was walking towards the house, after two decades, it slowly sunk in that she was no more the little girl and was well past her teenage days. Sunetra was thirteen 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.

Interestingly, the sewer drains in the narrow 4 by 20 feet lane, never had 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 sibling.

There were four families on each side of the by-lane and a dead end at the other end of the lane. 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. 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.

Today after twenty years, none of the four families lived there. They all had moved to newer colonies and bigger physical spaces. 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. The once demon like walls had mellowed down. They did not threaten or scare her anymore.

In that lane was the window to her grandmothers’ kitchen. Déjà vu! Sunetra felt as if she could almost hear her grandmother call out for her 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 though she blessed and was a disciple 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 flowers 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. Very soon the serene household would eject into high voltage action and activities. But today it stood still devoid of all that clamor and commotion.

The old cemented stairs were stained, chipped and broken at many places. Every corner and gap of the walls of the dilapidated house, was in the grip of vines of unwanted plants and ferns which 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 realized that all those high decibel conversation was nothing but their 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 we have to grow up; childhood is so much more pleasant and beautiful.
The room was a silent history to those household chores of grief and happiness.  The echoes and sounds of the bygone years; stored in the reservoirs of the room. The pictures of the divinities, Sunetra’s grandparents would pray to, were still hanging on the wall. Though, today 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.

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. 

A shelter that subtly reminded Sunetra that time had flown by; she had grown up and she now realized the strength of family and bonding. A house that stood witness to the hardships and rejoicing’s of generations.