As I opened the familiar gate today a huge lump rose in my throat and lodged itself there because the doors and windows were shut. The doors had never been shut and locked since the house was built. When the need to lock the house arose the latch had to be repaired because never having been shut tight in past thirty five years it had become stubbornly free spirited and refused to shut. The house was built after my marriage and was completed by February 1983 and I had come for the big griha pravesh hawan from Alwar. The house was teaming with loving laughing friends, relatives and well wishers. There were my white haired grandmother, my erudite buaji, my parents, my parents-in-law, Banwarilal, neighbors, old friends and new, the regulars and the ones we met rarely. All age groups were represented and genders were balanced. The joy of constructing our first own home and the excitement of living in a new house were unmatched.

Baba was still in government service and lived in a huge bungalow so my parents really couldn’t enjoy living in the new house; buaji, Banwarilal, Bharat, Ayah and Bhayyaram were the lucky ones. My sister came to live there to continue her studies in Meerut. I came very often from close by Alwar and stayed for as long as I wished. My brother came and stayed in his room upstairs. The house was pristine, clean and well cared for by Bharat. Few houses were built around so we had all the fresh air, sun and view.

In the mean while I moved away to distant Rajkot with my husband and the frequency of my visits decreased phenomenally. We still came for major festivals because my parents-in-law were also in Meerut. They had also built their house in Meerut at almost the same time. From Rajkot we came to Kota which was closer. I was carrying my first child so the doctor advised that I should go to my parents’ house and promptly I descended in Meerut. Baba had taken voluntary retirement and had joined Jaypee Rewa Cement as General Manager. So mummy was with him in Rewa when I came. Buaji took charge and so mummy could come much later, close to my due date. Those days many notorious gangs of thieves were active and electricity disappeared for long durations at night as also during day. My sister and I kept awake and vigilant all through the night along with our hyper alert dog Snowy.

My daughter was born on the New Year day of 1988. The house was now five years old. Baba had made it so pretty and green with plants and wines and trees galore. A fresh charming new grape wine had weaved a green canopy on the passage. A wood apple tree stood auspiciously covering the entrance gate. Tall slender swaying asoka pendulas outside the boundary wall provided a filter for dust and a curtain from prying eyes. A gulmohur tree bestowed its red, vermillion, orange and yellow petals upon us. Umpteen healthy palms and cycus in pots added to the allure along with seasonal flowers. Orange and lemon flowers infused the house with sharp subtle perfumes.

Whenever I visited my parents’ home I never had to ring the bell because I found someone or the other outside waiting for me, always. Usually it was Banwarilal sitting in his shop transacting his business with his eyes and ears alert to sounds of rickshaw wheels. I never had to bother about paying the rickshaw wala or carrying my luggage in. Mummy made special preparation in advance. She asked what I would want to eat when I told her about my program. Later, when I came with my children elaborate preparations were made for the children. If it was during summer then fresh lemonade would be ready in tall glasses as we entered the house. 

As time passed I became careful and did not let baba or Banwarilal to take my suitcases in, I carried them myself. Almost always I found mummy in the kitchen making something for us no matter what time we reached. The feeling of coming home was so complete and immersing that I will never find a parallel.

Time took away my grandmother first then my buaji and then Banwarilal. Mummy’s uncontrolled diabetes clutched her ravenously and slowly rendered her weak and immobile. It did not feel good to see mummy sitting on her bed and not in her kitchen but we adjusted to it. For last few years we found mummy waiting patiently for us sitting on her bed. Sometimes she did not rise to greet us but we got used to that also. 

Diwali last year was the last time we were all happy together in our house in Meerut. We lost mummy in December and then the house lost its status of home for us. The futile burglary in February was the last nail. Now the house is up for sale and home is lost for me. And that’s the lump that refused to budge. The tears stayed in control, though I wept silently figuring out the finality. I felt my ties with Meerut severed. Everything took on an alien detached look. Nothing has remained the same after mummy’s death. Yes, she was suffering so much pain that I had told her to pray for quick liberation but in her going nothing has remained the same. The vacant locked house with no tempting smells emanating from the kitchen, with no mummy…

The grape wine was there so was the wood apple tree laden with fruit. The passage had freshly been swept clean after yesterday night’s wind storm; the palms were freshly generously watered and washed with rain but the two dusty vacant chairs in the veranda…