History

Sukhmani Malhi

Is my hometown

The small city where my grandfather's family

was given a piece of land by the government

When he got off a train at 11 years old

The same city where 5 decades later

On a damp September afternoon

his third daughter bore him his first grandchild

Which was me

Or is it the land that sleeps

on the other side of that train ride

In a different country

Still waiting for his return

Is my hometown that place

or the feeling I had

When we turned the corner that led to the big white house In which I was more special

Than I actually am

That’s where the sunset lasts for hours

Where the mosquitoes are unrelenting and the monkeys notorious

Where the sound of Azan on loudspeakers and kids playing past their curfew is the only thing heard at twilight

Where we took cycle rickshaw rides

to go have chaat which tasted like it was made by the Gods Where I found an old book of short stories by Khushwant Singh On a bookshelf, one sunny day and no one saw me for hours

It was where summer days were spent devouring lychees

And nights spent reading under lamplight

Playing games, telling stories

And dragging mattresses up the stairs

to sleep on the terrace

It is where I saw my grandparents burn

Was it my hometown

and did it stop being that

When the last thread that tied me to it

Snapped like the crackle of a funeral pyre

Is it still a town if it is bursting at the seams

Trying to be more?

Is it still home if I never return?

they are still in that row house

When I picture them

But it wasn’t as big or as white as I’d remembered it

The last time I saw it

I didn’t know it would be the last

They are in there, bickering with each other,

My grandmother’s kidney bean curry on the stove

and my grandfather sitting with his glass of Old Monk

and a bowl of peanuts in front of the TV.

So maybe

They are my home

And the history that ties me to that town

Will outlast me

and every other place I tie myself to.

A Memoir

U Anusankari

It is hard for me to write about my hometown. It is hard to write about a place I don’t relate to or even recognize anymore. In retrospect, I see the reminiscence of my past in fragments. Those fragments seem very different from the whole reality in front of my eyes. Our home smelled like holy basil, paneer roses, and incense. Butterflies in white and yellow swarmed around. I would try and catch them whenever I laid eyes on them, until one day when my uncle pinched me hard on my arms to make me realize the pain I had been causing them. Our house always had a small basket full of flowers.

I can’t imagine our home without it. I would go out with my grandmother every morning to wander about the village and pick oleander flowers from our front yard on our way back. Then I would impatiently wait for the milkman, who brought us milk twice a day - once at 6:30 in the morning and the other at 6 in the evening. Carrying the utensil with milk up to the brim every time gave me so much satisfaction. That meager task made me feel so powerful every single day. I had nothing to do, yet I figured ways to entertain myself. I would count the butterfly pea flowers along the path that came in two colors; royal blue and white.

I was always biased towards the blue ones. If there were a couple of white flowers more than blues, I plucked a few whites just to let the blue one win. Seems silly, huh? I had all the time and energy in the world back then. There were empty fields all over and significantly fewer houses. Now, there are so many houses and hardly any open space. The people are still the same, but older and bitter, yet I knew no world beyond them. I loved them irrespective of their ideologies or perceptions. That was some 15-16 years ago when my innocence obscured the shortcomings of a happy family. Our family is highly religious, orthodox, and conservative. Those are not wrong. It is a problem when they use conventions and traditions to protect their misogynistic, patriarchal, biased views on society.

I don’t see my family the same way I looked at them years ago. Perhaps it is because I was oblivious to the flaws. I was happy and accepted because I didn’t challenge their conventions. I love them, but that is not enough for me to not bat an eye when I am being taught or told things that are not my truth. They are the same people I saw fifteen years ago. They have not changed. They still love me, but probably a little less. It is okay. It won’t change the emotions I hold behind my memories of this place. A tiny bit of my heart will always love the memory of this place, even if not the actuality.

Hindustan Ka Dil Dekho

Vibhuti Yadav

Gwalior. Situated right at the center of Madhya Pradesh, better known as the ‘Heart of India’. Baat he kuch aisi hai, bilkul apnepan jaisi hai yahan.

Toh kissa shuru huaa saal 2000 me, when I (yaaniki Vibhuti) was born at my dadi’s house. Dolled up like a little princess, I was welcomed at the house as I was the first child of the generation, toh khandaan ka naam toh mujhe he uncha karna tha na!

Growing up, dadi house was my favourite place to be during my school breaks, as my grandmother would pamper me the most. This used to be the only place where I could get away with not eating those weird vegetables (the legendary Gourd family). She used to make tiny clay stoves for me to play with my friends. This place is like a golden memory of a full-filled childhood.

Apart from this, Gwalior for me is a symbol of royalty! Ab aap poochoge ki aisa kyun? Voh isliye, because of the beautiful forts and palaces that are there in my city. As a person, I love all these ancient things and sites, so going for a morning walk at the Gwalior Fort was our form of desi workouts.

Visiting the most popular and the most crowded markets of the city, the Sarafa and Patankar Bazaar for some local shopping and the yum street chat! I miss those aloo tikkies, samosas and gol gappe (beware if you have a low tolerance to spicy food)

.

And at last, the fancy Jai Vilas Palace, don’t think of it as any other palace in the country! It holds the title of housing the World’s Largest Chandelier, around 8 elephants were made to climb onto the roof to test its durability. The palace belongs to the Royal Scindia family, whose family lines are now a part of the BJP.

The list of the pretty things in my hometown does not end here, but sab kuch mujhse he jaan loge? Arey, kuch din toh guzaro Gwalior me. Even though I live in Delhi now, Gwalior lives on in my heart.

Aao “Hindustan ka Dil Dekho”