HIRAETH (
hi.rai.th)
NOUN ---
A deep wistful longing for the home you can’t return to or that never
was.
A long
searing pain cut my heart as I read this word, letting out bleeding memories,
nostalgic times and years of growing up, flooding my conscience with images of
the stone structure that was home, the staircases, the halls, the many rooms,
gardens, tall trees and the forever alive kitchen which was the heart of that
structure.
Where was
all this, I wonder!
Beyond the blurred eyes all I can manage to see is a huge sprawling 2 storied structure, hidden behind tall Ashoka, purple and yellow jacaranda and jamun trees, fragrant night blooming jasmine (raatrani), green and golden frangipani (chafa), and the delicately pretty bakul tree. The rest of the plot was full of potted plants with leaves that shone red and yellow and a thousand shades of green. An occasional shrub of jasmine or jui laden with flowers that shimmered like stars on a starry clear night and wafted with fragrance that pleased the senses and warmed the heart. A red rose here, a pink one there and a yellow to brighten the day. Unfailingly, the most pious of all, the red hibiscus meant solely for Vignaharta who stood holding the house strong and protected, was flowering bright and cheerful near the side staircase of the house meant for a discrete entry, back door but not exactly back door as it was on one side but functioned as a back door, especially when one wanted to sneak in without being admonished.
The rest of the area around the bungalow had a narrow cement walkway lined by
pots with multi-coloured flowering plants and unnamed leafy plants all behind a
brick line placed obliquely to give that serrated margin to the walkway.
The concept
of bungalow was never in the architect’s head and so it was built into a huge rectangular
two storied cement and glass structure in the center of the plot, but made
beautiful by the trees and plants that enveloped it in their shade.
The ground
floor was dedicated to the hospital that was the temple where my parents
worked. It was the era where most doctors lived in the same building as their
hospital so that they could be near to their patients who depended on them for
life! A concept that has died long ago and still tugs at my heart with pain.
Imagine, as a suffering being, you get treated in the place where your doctor
is forever available, never ever leaves your side and looks after you at any
time of the day or night, must have been such a huge part of the trust and hope
that one comes with for delivering one out of the physical and mental misery.
For the
family growing in that home that stood on the first floor, it was difficult to
fathom why the parents worked odd hours, long hours, came home happy, sometimes
came home sad and defeated, but came home to a comfortable life!
Ahhhhh, the
first floor. Home is where the heart is, they say.
A multitude
of rooms, two large spaces (halls) that entertained visitors, relatives,
friends, extended families and occasionally doubled up as a place where
accomplished vocalists mesmerized a small elite gathering of music aficionados
till wee hours of the morning, the smell of cardamom laced coffee wafting
through the night with jasmine and roses adding to the ethereal experience.
A posse of
live-in servants moved seamlessly keeping each corner of the house clean and
shining while a matronly lady ran the kitchen with a precision of a corporate
honcho. My mother had given up on this activity, for obvious reasons though!
Kitchen-
where do I even begin! The smell of hot flat breads, the alarms from the
pressure cooker signaling the comfort of rice and dal and the sizzle of the
seasoning with mustard seeds and cumin spluttering in ecstasy, the curry leaves
making their presence felt and the various vegetables that simmered in taste
that still evokes memories of the theatre that was the kitchen. This routine
occasionally cut by the smells of sweets, fried puris, and special festive
food.
It was not just the daily kneading, frying, cooking, simmering, seasoning but come summer, the kitchen doubled up as a place for making tons of heady raw mango, lemon and chilly pickles to be stored carefully in huge ceramic jars for the yearly consumption. The amount would boggle the mind but every year the ceramic jars seemed to be emptying faster than the year that went by. Needless to say, the kitchen master, our matronly lady gathered her cronies for cutting, chopping and mixing the fruit before submerging it in tons of seasoned oil and of course, for the juicy gossip spoken in hushed tones, clamping up whenever the kids rushed in for a glass of water or a bite of laddoos.
The love and warmth
of the home slowly entered that corner of the heart through these smells and
sounds and stayed where nothing could erase it. It became an irreplaceable memory
The house
bustled with people, visitors who dropped in for a chat, cousins who wanted
some advice and good food, friends who bonded over whiskey and cricket
commentary. The dining table was a round table conference presided by the
Monarch and his queen, with eager, ‘green behind the ears’ budding doctors such
as me, my siblings and cousins, listening intently, on patient histories,
treatment modalities, newer advances in medicine, miracle stories that warmed
the heart, defeats that teared the eyes, and life’s lessons that would see us
through ups and downs, yet unknown to us, but being prepared for the life to
come.
There were
arguments, heated discussions, illnesses, and unifying festivals celebrated in
all their glory. There were angry outbursts, tears, failures, heart breaks just
as there were celebrations for birthdays, academic achievements, ranks, medals
and successes. There was the pampering of childhood just as there was the
admonishment of being the irresponsible adult. Life was full and growing in the
place we called home.
Time and age
wait for none.
Reminiscent
of the song by Sahir Ludhiyanvi- ‘sabhi bichhade bari bari’, one by one each one
of us flew out of our comfort zone to create the life we were being prepared
for. In the initial period, vacations and the unmissable Diwali was where home
was. As life took us further, vacations no longer existed, Diwali was difficult
to make it to home and a weekend here and there was all that was left for what
was home.
Time is ruthless and relentless.
Parents walked slower, patients went to younger
doctors with smarter demeanors and posh clinics, the hospital had now become a
ghost of itself, visitors came down to a trickle, relatives gradually disappeared into their own world as theirs grew, and friends slowly faded
behind the curtain of time.
The health
and age took its toll and the beautiful rock-solid bungalow could no longer
hold on its own. The chatter had died down; the gossiping coterie could barely
hear their own voice and the ageing Monarch and his queen shifted out into a
more manageable tiny home with lesser people to deal with. Ageing gracefully,
yet painfully lonely, finally fading into the sunset with dignity and a full life.
The new
owner shared no bond with the building and it crashed into a gigantic heap of
twisted steel and cement dust.
A new shiny
tower rose where lay buried my “HIRAETH”
Dr. Reina
Khadilkar
