Here, There and Everywhere

by Sudha Murty

  In a flash, the memories came flooding back and my father recollected that night. ‘Of course I remember you!’ he said. ‘It was the middle of the night and I urged you to go to Pune with your newborn. I think I was as scared as you!’

  ‘You gave me a hundred rupees, which is what my family paid you for the delivery. It was a big amount in those days and still, you handed it all over to me.’

  ‘Yes, my monthly salary was seventy-five rupees then!’ added my father with a smile.

  ‘You told me your last name but I couldn’t hear it because of the deafening sound of the rain. I took your advice, went to Pune, found your friend Gokhale and became a nurse. It was very, very hard, but I was able to raise my daughter on my own. After such a terrible experience, I wanted my daughter to become a gynaecologist. Luckily, she shared my dream too. Today, she is a doctor and is also married to one and they practise here. At one point, I spent months searching for you but with no luck. Then we heard that you had moved to Karnataka after the reorganization of the state departments in 1956. Meanwhile, Gokhale also passed away and I lost all hope of ever finding you. I prayed to God to give me a chance to meet you and thank you for showing me the right path at the right time.’

  My father felt like he was in a Bollywood movie and was enchanted by the unexplained mystery of life. A few kind words and encouragement had changed a young girl’s life.

  She clasped her hands together. ‘We are so grateful to you, doctor. My daughter wanted to call you for the inauguration of the nursing home here and we were very disappointed at not being able to reach you then. Time has passed and now the nursing home is doing very well.’

  My father wiped his moist eyes and looked around to see the name of the nursing home. He looked to the right and found himself staring at it—R.H. Diagnostic.

  7

  The Line of Separation

  During my trip to Pakistan, I was part of a large group. Each person in the group was keen to visit one place or the other in that country. Some wanted to see Takshila, others Lahore, Islamabad or Karachi. One day, we were having a discussion about this and everyone was voicing his or her opinion loudly. I noticed only Mrs Roopa Kapoor was sitting quietly. She was a seventy-five-year-old lady from Chennai and did not speak much unless spoken to. So I asked if there was any place she wanted to visit.

  Without any hesitation, she said, ‘I have to visit Pindi.’

  ‘Where is Pindi? Is it some small town or village? I don’t think we will have the time to make a detour like that from our packed itinerary.’ Roopa smiled at my ignorance and said, ‘I meant Rawalpindi. It is called Pindi for short by those who stay there.’ I was intrigued. ‘How do you know? Have you ever stayed there?’

  ‘I was born and brought up there,’ she replied, and then slowly she told me the story of her life.

  She had stayed in Rawalpindi till the age of nineteen, when she got married and settled down in Chennai. Now Chennai was her home and she could speak Tamil and make excellent Tamil dishes, like puliyogare and rasam, as well as any natural-born Tamilian. But she had always yearned to come back and see her childhood home if she ever got the chance.

  Soon we reached Islamabad and I was surprised to find it surrounded by mountains, as cool as a hill station. Roopa saw my surprise and said, ‘Islamabad is a new city. Rawalpindi is a sister city, but it is older. Islamabad was built after the Partition with wide roads, shopping centres and rose gardens. Pindi is only twenty-odd kilometres away from Islamabad.’ By now the soft-spoken, introverted Mrs Kapoor had become quite garrulous. There was a spark in her eyes and she spoke non-stop. Many of us wanted to see Islamabad first, but she insisted on going on to Rawalpindi.

  She needed a companion for the trip and I volunteered to go with her. She was now quite excited, and told me, ‘I want to see the house I left fifty-seven years ago.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ I said. Then I remembered the lovely bouquet of flowers I had been presented on landing at Islamabad which I was still carrying. ‘I will present this to whoever is staying in your house now.’

  She was touched.

  As the car left Islamabad airport behind, Mrs Kapoor started pointing out the sights to me like a tour guide. She showed me an old building on the left side of the road in a crowded area and said, ‘That used to be an electrical goods manufacturing factory. Its owner, Kewal Ram Sahani, was my father’s friend. My friends and I would come to this house for Lakshmi puja during Diwali.’

  I told the driver to slow down a little so that she could cherish the journey. The car passed Sadar Bazar and looking at an old building with many shops, she said, ‘Here my father’s cousin Ratan Sethi owned a jewellery shop along with his partner Maqbool Khan. It was known as Khan and Sethi. My wedding jewellery was made here.’

  She continued pointing out various buildings, each holding some fond memory for her. But many a time the buildings she was looking for had changed to new skyscrapers and she got disoriented. Suddenly the car stopped. A tyre was punctured, and the driver said it would take him a while to fix it. Roopa was restless. She did not want to wait even a minute more than required. So she said, ‘You change the tyre. In the meantime I will go and visit some of the old places. We will join you at the next main road. To go to the main road, you take a left turn and the first right turn. You wait for us there.’

  She behaved as if she knew every inch of that area and I followed her quietly. We walked into a small lane. She explained, ‘I have been here many times with my friends Fatima and Noor. This used to be known as Tailor’s Road. My neighbour Mehboob Khan’s wife Mehrunnisa Chachi was an expert in designing new embroidery patterns. We used to come and give the designs. Come, we will take a shortcut … That is where my uncle lived.’

  By now she was talking more to herself and making her way with ease through the narrow lanes. We went to the next road. There were old houses on the road and she went into the first huge bungalow. She said, ‘This was my uncle Motiram Rai’s house and the next house was that of Allah Baksh. They were great friends and loved each other. I still remember whenever Allah Baksh Chacha planted a tree in his house, my uncle would plant the same. This mango tree here was planted on a Basant Panchami day. There was so much of joy in both houses. My grandmother prepared kheer and sent me to Allah Baksh’s house with a jug full of it. While I was carrying that jug, I bumped into a young man and the hot kheer fell on his feet. I was so scared and embarrassed.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Not then but later. I married him!’

  She then looked up at the tree and said, ‘This has become so old now.’

  We walked in through the gate. There was no one around and I was afraid we would be stopped by someone for trespassing. But Roopa was least bothered. It was as if she was in a world of her own. She walked to the backyard while I stood hesitating in the front. A couple walked in and were visibly surprised to see a stranger standing in their garden, that too in a sari. It was also just then that I noticed a board hanging in front of the door. It said ‘Dr Salim and Dr Salma: Dentist’.

  I started apologizing and explained the situation to them. Their faces lost the look of suspicion as soon as I finished my story. Roopa was still looking at all the trees and remembering her childhood. The couple welcomed us courteously. ‘Please sit down. Do join us for a cup of tea.’ They pulled up two chairs.

  By now I was feeling very awkward, disturbing them in the morning. But Dr Salim said, ‘Please sit. We are glad you came. Our grandparents too were from Surat in Gujarat. They emigrated to Pakistan and I was born and brought up here. My parents talk with great nostalgia about Surati farsan, Parsi dhansak and khakra.’

  Just to make conversation I said, ‘It must be difficult maintaining such a large bungalow now.’

  Dr Salim replied, ‘We moved to this house some years back. You see, this house happens to resemble the one my parents lived in in Surat, and they made me promise that I would not break it and make apartments as long as I st
ayed here. Allah has been kind to us and we don’t need the money. Our neighbour Allah Baksh’s children sold their property long back and now there is a commercial complex.’

  By then Roopa had finished wandering in the garden and I formally introduced her to the couple. She asked if she could see the house from the inside. Dr Salim agreed happily. ‘After we purchased this house ten years ago we made very few modifications. It is perhaps in the same state as you last saw it,’ he said.

  I walked in with Roopa. She looked into the main room and said, ‘This was where my grandfather used to sit and control the house.’ Then she pointed to a coloured glass door and said Allah Baksh’s wife had painted it for them. ‘That was the window through which she would send dry fruits to my aunt’, ‘That was where we used to fly kites.’ Every brick, every wall held a memory for her. Finally I reminded her that it was time we left. We walked back to the garden and said our goodbyes to the couple. Dr Salim handed us a packet. ‘There is no time for you to eat, but I cannot send two elders away without offering anything. Please take this and if God is willing we will meet again.’

  We came out of the house and when we reached the main road the car was there, having followed Roopa’s directions. Now she wanted to see her own house.

  She told the driver, ‘Take a right turn from the chauraha. I know the way. The first building on the right side is Al-Ameen School for girls and a little farther there is a Jesus and Mary convent. A little ahead on the left side, there is a government boys’ school. Next to that is the Idgah maidan. Next to that is a lane with five huge bungalows. Each plot is an acre in size. The first one belonged to Kewal Ram. Second to Mia Mehboob Khan and the third one to Sardar Supreet Singh. Fourth one to Rai Sahib and the fifth was ours …’

  She talked on and the driver followed her directions. She was mostly right. Yes, the red brick building on the right was the Al-Ameen School for girls. The Jesus and Mary convent was now a Loyola College and the government boys’ school had become a degree college. But the Idgah maidan was not there. Instead there was a shopping complex. The five beautiful bungalows she described were also missing. Instead there was a mass of shops, hotels and video libraries piled next to each other. Roopa became upset.

  ‘Madam, are you sure it is the same road?’ the driver asked politely.

  ‘Of course I am sure. I was born here. I spent nineteen years here. You were not even born then. How can I make a mistake?’

  She told him to stop the car and got off to search. She was sure the house was still there behind the new buildings. She was possessed, as if searching for a lost child, or a precious jewel.

  ‘My house was yellow in colour and there were two storeys. It had an entrance from the right side. From my house I could see the Idgah maidan. Two years back a friend of mine who also stayed here came to see the place and she told me the house was still very much here.’

  She turned to me and continued, ‘You know, once I had unknowingly walked on the wet cement floor near the entrance of the house and my footmark stayed there forever. My father wanted to keep it as a reminder of me after I got married and went away. I can recognize my house without any trouble.’ But there was no house of that description in that area, with the footmark in the entrance. I knew by this time that the house was not there. But Roopa was reluctant to accept it.

  We stood in front of the building where she said her house used to be. It was a hotel and a chowkidar was sitting at the entrance.

  I asked him, ‘How old is this hotel?’

  He got up and replied, ‘It is only a year old.’

  ‘How long have you been working here?’

  ‘Ever since the old building was demolished and the construction started.’

  Roopa was quiet now.

  ‘Was there a two-storeyed yellow building here with the entrance on the right and footprints along the portico?’

  ‘Yes. There was a building like that but I don’t remember the footprints.’

  Now I knew that Roopa’s house had been demolished to make way for this hotel. I looked at the chowkidar and told him, ‘That was my friend’s house.’

  ‘Oh, please come inside. So what if your house is not there? The hotel stands on the same land. I am sure my owner will be happy to receive you. Have a cup of tea and a samosa.’

  I looked at Roopa but she was not listening to our conversation.

  She took a handful of soil from the little patch of garden in front of the hotel and said, ‘This is my land. This is my soil. My ancestors made this their home. They were born and burnt here. The land, the trees, the air, the water, everything was ours. We knew the customs, the culture and the food. One day, some person drew a line and created two nations. And suddenly we became foreigners in our own land. We had to leave and adopt some other place whose language, food and culture were alien to us. A single line made me a stranger to my own land. People who have been uprooted feel a special pain which no one else can understand.’

  I was quiet. I could only imagine her agony. I held her hand and suddenly realized that the bouquet of flowers I had meant to give to the owners of her old house was lying on the front seat of the car, withering slowly in the December sunshine.

  8

  India, the Holy Land

  Maya was a simple young lady who lived in the Tibetan settlement on the outskirts of Mundugod, near Hubli in north Karnataka. She used to teach the Tibetan language to the children in the camp, so they would not forget their roots. She was smart and hard-working.

  My father was a doctor working in Hubli and he occasionally visited that settlement. If any of the Tibetans wanted further treatment, they would visit my father at the Government Hospital in Hubli. Maya too started visiting my father when she was expecting her first child.

  Over the months she became quite friendly with all of us. Whenever she came to the hospital she would pay us a visit too. My mother would invite her for a meal and we would spend some time chatting.

  In the beginning, we would be in awe of her and stare at her almost-white skin, dove eyes, the little flat nose and her two long, thin plaits. Slowly we accepted her as a friend and she graduated to become my knitting teacher. Her visits were sessions of knitting, chatting and talking about her life in the camp and back in her country for which she still yearned. Maya would describe her homeland to us with great affection, nostalgia and, at times, with tears in her eyes.

  ‘Tibetans are simple people. We are all Buddhists but our Buddhism is of a different kind. It is called Vajrayana. There’s been a lot of influence from India, particularly Bengal, on our country and religious practices. Even our script resembles Bengali.’

  Her words filled me with a sense of wonder about this exotic land called Tibet and I would pester her to tell me more about that country. One day we started talking about the Dalai Lama.

  ‘What is the meaning of Dalai Lama?’ I asked.

  ‘It means “ocean of knowledge”. Ours is a unique country where religious heads have ruled for 500 years. We believe in rebirth and that each Dalai Lama is an incarnation of the previous one. The present Dalai Lama is the fourteenth … You know, India is the holy land of Buddha. Historically, we have always respected India. There is a nice story about how Buddhism came to Tibet through India …’

  I could not wait to hear about this!

  ‘Long ago there was a king in Tibet who was kidnapped by his enemies. They demanded a ransom of gold, equal to the weight of the king. When the imprisoned king heard this, he somehow sent word to his son: “Don’t waste any gold to get me back. Instead, spend that money to bring good learned Buddhist monks from India. With their help, open many schools and monasteries so that our people can live in peace and gain knowledge.”’

  Months passed and Maya delivered a baby. After that our meetings became less frequent. But she succeeded in awakening within me a curiosity about Tibet and a great respect for Buddhism.

  Recently I got a chance to visit Tibet and memories of Maya filled my mind. I kne
w I would be seeing a Tibet filled with the Chinese but nevertheless I was keen to go. Among the places I wanted to see was a Buddha temple in Yarlung Valley that she had described to me.

  When I finally reached the valley, it was past midday. There was a cold wind blowing though the sun was shining brightly. The Brahmaputra was flowing like a stream here, nothing like the raging torrent in Assam. Snow-capped mountains circled the valley and there was absolute silence all around.

  The monastery at Yarlung is supposed to be a famous pilgrimage spot, but I could see only a handful of people in the entire place. After seeing everything inside I sat down on the steps and observed the serene beauty of the place.

  I noticed an old woman accompanied by a young man walking into the monastery. The woman was very old, her face was wrinkled and she walked slowly and weakly. She was wearing the traditional Tibetan dress and her hair was plaited. The young man on the other hand was dressed in the usual modern manner, in tight jeans and a body-hugging T-shirt. The woman started circumambulating the monastery using her stick for support while the man sat down on the steps like me.

  When she finished, I realized the old lady was staring at me. Then she said something to the young man in Tibetan. She looked tired by the end of her ritual and sat down on the steps. She said something to her companion again but he took little notice of her. So she slowly picked up her stick and came towards me. She sat down near me, took my hands and, saying something, gently raised them to her eyes and kissed them. Before I could say anything, she got up and started to walk away. But I noticed she was smiling, as if she had achieved a long-held desire. I realized there was a wetness where her eyes had touched my hand.

  Now the young boy reluctantly came up to me and apologized. ‘Please forgive my grandmother,’ he said. ‘She is from a village in the interior part of Tibet. She has never ventured out of her village. This is the first time she has come to Yarlung. I beg your pardon for her behaviour.’