Ode to 55/B Shah Abdul Latif Road

There is a piercing hurt in me. Sitting in the car, viewing the lane I lived in for twenty years of my life. My ancestral family home converted into an apartment building. I want to go inside. I want to see if that garden still feels the same, if there is that magical, mysterious quality to it- the feeling of being in a safe place, a haven. The tall palm trees against the turquoise dusk sky, the verdent green of the grass and the kiyari that lined the entire garden and also served as the Oonch in our games of "Oonch Neech". I have vivid memories strewn about in
my mind. My parents sitting in the garden after dinner, my mother hugging her knees while my father enjoyed an after-dinner smoke. The moon shining from between the leaves of the palm tree, the brilliant moon against the dark spikey leaves, like the lines on a zebra, white black.

I remember the sound of the television in my grandfather’s room, as we sat outside, I have never felt that sense of safety, an almost complacent sense of being - anywhere . I remember my Dada’s smell - tobacco and lotion. His mulmul kurtas, his blue checkered gown. His tall frame. White hair. I remember his shaving cream, his blue tin containers of tobacco, his spittoon, his penchant to quote poetry. His Gujrati newspapers, his dislike for mullahs.

There was a time when I hated the house too though. I would be embarassed to get any of my friends home, even at the tender age of ten, I was aware of ’social status’, of people being judged by where they live. You come full circle with alot of things as you grow older. It baffles me today to think how self-conscious I was. How aware I was of the classism that I see pervading society like a leech even today.

I remember those hot summer days, playing hide and seek. Hiding behind the stationary car in the garage, sometimes even going as far as stealing the car keys and hiding inside. It got boring soon though, since it was too hard to be found. Not to mention hot as an oven. All those pretend games I played, being the village girl who made kebabs out of wet mud and distributed them through her village, or through the periphery of the house, as reality would have it. I wonder if my father ever noticed those lumps of mud randomly strewn around in the gallis on both sides of the house. I remember the Ramazan nights, those starlit nights when there was an excitement in the air that was almost tangible. The man with the sheep who came by at iftaar time, the old baba with his stick who chanted in his deep voice, "Logon, Sehri ka waqt ho chukka hai - Arouse people , it is time for sehri".

It almost seens like I imagined it all...life was so real, so pure. I remember the sehri time, when I would wake our old driver up. He was like a father to me, I remember the hard feel of his stubble . I remember borrowing "Pheni" from my Aunt upstairs when we were out. The sounds from her kitchen, the smell of frying eggs, those sizzling sounds. I remember walking to the nearby park with my father - my brother and myself holding hands, in a time when we felt safe walking alone. We would have a plastic "chhalli" which we’d fill with goodies, the hot mince samosas and those glass bottles of pepsi, that only cost four ruppees. And then we would perch ourselves on the cement bench near the swings and have a little picnic. The smell of zeera biscuits from the bakery, the specific sound of the azaan, the muezzin’s nasal voice as he stretched the "alll" (so it sounded like "unn") in allahuakbar" from the nearby mosque.

Today we all have our new houses. The fifty year old house, built just before partition, is no more. In its place, stands a five storey building, with swanky balconies and a loud, jutting exterior. In the place of my Grandfather’s room, stands a room that belongs to someone else, in the place of the palm tree washed in moonlight, someone’s lounge.I wonder what they did with the driver’s kotri, his room. Probably demolished it for more space.

It is noones fault, we all move on as time goes by. But sometimes, it is after the event, that one realizes the enormity of what took place. It was after I moved out, that it hit me- this ancient house with its loud patterned tiles, its old wooden doors, its lack of privacy, its archaic grills - this was my haven, and today when i want to feel the feeling of being safe and at peace, i cannot because today - it is gone.