The Home That Was

Strong and sturdy, the house represented ourfrom one end of the road to the other, and must
family to us. We lived in a close-knit unit thathave been filled with the happy sounds of at least
encompassed uncles, aunts, cousins, their kids anda dozen children.
every other guest who decided to visit and stay.The rasodo, kitchen, an important place, had a
As children we never quite knew whom to callstove - a very crude counter top structure that
siblings and who to call cousins. It was one hugehad two burners, with a large space underneath
family living under one roof. I remember myfor the wood logs that formed its fuel. Lit early
mother and all the female relatives cooking happilyeach morning, it burnt all day, and was used for
in the kitchen, sometimes for as many as thirtyevery single need, including heating water for a
people, without the slightest flutter of panic.bath. A sigri, coal stove, was used for smaller
The house seemed huge when we were small.cooking needs like making rotlis, paper thin wheat
The endless rooms had really solid, thick walls.chapattis, or a quick cup of tea.
Parts of it had a ground and first floor, that wasNo Gujarati household is ever complete without a
beamed with wood, on which rested red tiles.jhoola, and we were lucky to have two of them.
Each room had a name that described it, and myOne in the outside room, where the men
grandmother, Dadima, refused to call them byentertained, and another in the inner room where
any other name. She always spoke to us inthe women sat with female guests. We, the
Gujarati, even though we were actually fromchildren, would spend hours swinging higher and
Bhuj, and were supposed to be talking in Kuchchhi.higher trying very hard to get out footsteps on
Strong and big boned, she could freeze us with athe ceiling. A couple of times a few of us slipped
single look. Even my Dadaji was petrified of heroff accidentally, but nothing serious ever
although he stood six feet tall and had a luxurianthappened. We were quite adept at taking care of
moustache that curved upwards - macho style.ourselves - lying flat on the floor till the swing
A courtyard formed the center of all activity instopped, or yell like crazy till every member of
the house. It never stopped fascinating me howthe household came rushing to see what the
you could not see into the house from outside,problem was, offer appropriate sympathy and go
and there was no 'gate' as such, something ouroff to get on with their chores.
home, in Coimbatore has. A few steps led to theThose were carefree days, with no television, no
Deli, or outside door. We had platforms calledelectricity and not too many cars. We walked all
Otlas on either side of the door, on the exterior,over Bhuj, whether it was to the shop at the
right next to the road. Made of solid wood, themarket, or to the park, on our evening outing.
Deli could be opened from outside as well as fromAt night, during the summer, we would put out
inside. We left things lying in the courtyard, all nightthe coir rope beds, with cotton mattresses on
long, and nothing would actually happen to them.them, and sleep under the stars in the courtyard.
Nothing would go missing unless the object was aI always made sure my bed was made as far
book that the cow decided to eat for heraway from the cattle as possible, afraid one of
midnight snack, because it fluttered too close tothem would decide to nibble my hair off my scalp.
her nose. Besides, it tasted different from herAfter an early dinner, we were sometimes
normal, boring grass.allowed to perform small plays, dances and songs
Each morning, before dawn snaked its way intofor our family. I would imagine myself to be a
another day, the cowherd would arrive and roundManipuri dancer, and bend as low as possible in an
up our cattle, taking them to destinationsattempt at being graceful. A bullied cousin was put
unknown, and would bring them back eachin charge of making sure everybody watched,
evening - a satisfied bunch. Once, my brother, anand applauded.
aspiring cowherd went along just for theThat experience has paid off, and today he is a
experience. 'It was fun,' he claimed, returningleading solicitor with a thriving practice in Bombay.
looking all red and dirty, but completely bored.My real sanctuary was the little attic. It had an
A special room right next to the entrance, on oneattached terrace, and I spent a lot of time there.
side of the courtyard held fodder for the cattle,I would read, write or simply be, listening to the
making me wonder about the quantum of foodsounds from the road below. The room was hot,
they ate through the night. "Chew, moo, chew.very hot during the summer, but it was my
That is all they do," I sang at age six, I knew Iprivate space. Nobody ventured up the steep
would write poetry some day. An Enid Blyton fan,wooden staircase. I could'nt stand straight in it,
I decided to name the cattle. The cow wasunless I stood in the middle of the inverted
Bessie, the goats, although both female, werebeamed V.
George and Billy.During our last pilgrimage there, my sister and I
One particular room held a lot of mystery for myhad gone to pray to our family deity. Grown up,
young mind. Always locked, it was dark, intriguing.with families of our own, we felt that the house
I would sit on the staircase that led to thehad shrunk. It no longer looked or felt as huge as
terrace wondering what was inside the trunksit had during our childhood. It seemed sad to me,
that lay stacked one on top of the other. Soft,desolate almost, not half as mysterious, tired. My
fluffy, gray cobwebs added to the untouchednessgrandparents were both gone, in their place lived
of the room, and the old lock, huge, rusting butstrange but welcoming tenants. The house had
secure protected all that was inside. Obviously,electricity and water flowed out of taps. Soft
precious things, I imagined. Diamonds, rubies,water no longer had to be drawn and brought
pearls and gold crammed lay crammed inside, likefrom a well at the other end of town. Our
in Ali Baba's cave, but never really ventured totenants had TV, and the cattle fodder room was
ask my Dadima what it really was. I suspect evenno longer in use. There were no cattle to feed.
she did not herself quite remember.But it held a very important part of me, one I
What she did remember, though, was that thewould not, could not let go.
house was over two hundred and fifty years old.Then, just as I was planning my next visit, the
She told us tales of how her father, who was ahouse died. Razed to the ground by violent jolts
very important minister in the king's court hadof fate. On January 26th 2001 we lost our
given her a share of his huge house as part ofancestral home, one that we thought was
her dowry. The part that did not come to her,invincible and strong. With it, we lost very dear
was divided into many smaller bits andmembers of our family. All that remains amidst
bequeathed to other members of the family.the rubble is the tiny temple - the abode of our
During its undivided heyday, the house stretchedfamily god, and our memories.