I am standing in front of the house I lived in, which does not belong to us now, but is a house full of memories. I’m on that street where we played gully cricket, hide & seek, pithu, chuphan-chuphai and celebrated every festival with the neighbours like a family. The street was referred to as Krishan Mandir ke peeche vaali gali or VR opticals wali gali and was in Ward No. 8, Jacob Pura.
I don’t know why was it called ‘Jacob’ all I know that my ancestors settled here after partition. I lived in this house when I was 8-15 years old. 7 years of loved moments, childhood, teenage, ahh, nostalgic it is to remember all.
I visited it after few years and I still feel I live there. The door was a white coloured wooden one before which is now replaced by a grey ironed one. The baithak in which I sat with my grandparents, watched TV and had bread pakora’s every Sunday is now a jewellery shop.
A transition from most of the heartfelt moments to a capitalist mind, it has seen it all. I cannot go inside, or maybe I can, I don’t know. The door is locked.
There are so many questions in my mind, is the wall same? Did they change the colour from the inside, the outer still looks the same, painted with pink samosam paint. The white is different. Samosam which gets more deeper during rains. Is the cabinet still there where my photo frames used to rest? Does the terrace look the same way, where we sat, had moongfali, rewri, during winters? Is the mirror still broken, which was shattered while we played cricket in the verandah? Is the kitchen slab still there, where my great grandmother used to sit and make ghee-churri? I don’t know.
I wish to go inside, but I wish not to as well. Maybe next time, I say to myself. I leave the place and start walking around. The Krishan Mandir doesn’t look the same now. Neighbours have left too, homes are turned into godowns now. What if I come again and see that the house is all gone like the one I used to live in when I was born till 7 years of age.
That house has lost it’s essence. The home has been buried under the debris on which stands a godown. That debris has my touch, the taaks which have now disappeared forever, the lakhori bricks are now long gone, the part of my life is under this world, but the memories are in my heart. I walk away thinking about this void. I hope I come back and see the pink samosam painted house again and go inside. But, what if the house also gets buried under the debris too...
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