Nine

In nostalgia's embrace, memories entwine

---

When Malhaar turned one, we thought she’s too young to have a party of her own, so we planned an adult party. Poolside, 50-odd grown ups, baby – not even standing yet – in my arms through most of it and mostly weeping if arms were changed. My perfectly blow-dried hair was in a bun at some point because I was sweaty thanks to the April heat and babywearing. She was cranky through a lot of this evening - it was way past her bedtime and it made no sense why she was being subjected to this crowd, and I guess she wondered why it was so loud.

When she turned two, we did the opposite. At two, we didn’t think she had any friends as such nor did she care what we did, so we called immediate family home and did up a very amateur balloon set-up. She seemed to have a great time. We thought, three is when she will actually process the celebration.

But 10 days before her third birthday, we moved cities. Packed up the last of our belongings, and left Delhi. This wasn’t an unplanned, hasty move. Years in the making, this relocation had us waiting very patiently, for cleaner air, for more space, for a better life. So I guess for her third birthday, that’s what we are doing. Breathing cleaner air, taking more space, and perhaps eventually setting up that better life, too.

But today, Malhaar turns three and over the past few days I have wondered if this somewhat lonely birthday is what she deserves. This new, unfamiliar home where many of her familiar things lie still packed in cartons, She left behind all the friends she made in Delhi: 

• The twin girls who, though two months ahead, always behaved like her elder sisters in the park. Pushing M while she sat in their tricycle, holding her hand as she tried to come down a steep slide. 

• The boy she met more because of the bond their moms developed instantly, but before even the moms knew it, the two would demand video calls regularly. They’d built their own ritual of running up and down a particular slope, as if building memories and running down memory slope all in a very short time.  

• The music friends, the parent-toddler friends, the friends with whom she shared silence, the friends with whom she shared fries.

It’s hard to make sense of it when I count everything we left behind.

But when I tried to look back a bit harder, I think I found the answer in my last weekend in Delhi. I’m going to tell you a story that’s 35 years old and also, brand new, all at once.

I was born and brought home to an apartment that my parents built slowly, and with great difficulty. My father loved and lived in this house until the night he was rushed to a hospital, where he died the next night. We moved my mother out of there shortly after. This was a house made with so much love that I tear up even thinking about how we eventually sold it two years ago. All this love my parents gave every brick in that home, all this love with nowhere to go. Maybe that love still sits within those walls, bouncing off but not knowing where to land. Maybe that love is in the house, but it’s not home. Life moves on, and so did I, but that house always remained in my mind until my last weekend in Delhi, when I finally let go. 

You see, across the door from this first floor apartment, just two toddler-sized steps away, is another house. Aunty P lived here with her family. In the time when nannies were an unheard of luxury, Aunty P was my second mother. Her house was an extension of mine. Her door was never locked, nor was ours. I am told that I did all my naps at her house, that my working parents encouraged my ailing grandfather to lean on Aunty P for any support - and so, I spent my mornings and evenings doing whatever Aunty P did. We kneaded dough together, made little phulkas and then I’d store them in a box to feed them to my parents after work. I helped Aunty P bake vanilla cake in her round vintage oven and I kid you not when I say I can still smell it. 

When her husband passed away, she insisted she’d continue to live in that house, even if she was alone. Her son relented. I swore I’d visit her a lot more than I did, but I made excuses and offered them to myself in the way that we all do as time swiftly laughs at us.

But before I left Delhi, I knew I had to go meet Aunty P along with Malhaar. I did not explain to Malhaar the context of this visit. I only told her we were going to meet my aunty. I haven’t ever tried to explain to her the concept of my childhood home. Maybe I think she won’t understand. Maybe I fear she will ask me why we left. Maybe I don’t have any answers or explanations. Maybe this house, and its stories, died with my father. 

Malhaar had no context of how I know Aunty P, or my entire childhood that she is an irreplaceable part of. That evening, Malhaar was walking ahead of me. She climbed up the stairs to the first floor, and instinctively turned right (that was our home, Aunty P’s was on the left). What I am about to tell you is neither exaggerated, nor imagined. She turned and said, “Idhar Nanu baithe hai kya?” [Is Nanu (maternal grandfather) sitting here?]. The goosebumps are relentless, even as I recount that moment. Aunty P was at her door at this point, and she and I broke down as we hugged. Hello, goodbye, and how do we heal from this loss?  

How did Malhaar know? Why did she turn right? We have shown her no photos of this house. How did she know that Nanu did in fact live here? How did she know that the direction in which she was pointing is where he sat for 80% of his time in that house? His room was upstairs, but he picked this single mattress on the floor in an area of the house my parents called the lobby. It’s where she was pointing. What could she see? I have heard that little children are still connected to another realm but this was all hoo-haa to me until this moment. At this point, I am convinced they don’t go away. 

That evening, I saw Malhaar with my childhood second mom. My ‘takes-some-time’ baby instantly laughing, singing, playing with Aunty P,  eating everything that Aunty P offered her, making impromptu games with the random (old) stuff in her house. A coaster (the only one left in what must have been a set of six 30 years ago), a few of those glossy pebbles that people used to use for decoration, just laying in a little bowl on a cloth doily. Empty airline miniature bottles. A random crystal animal from some foreign visit but it now sports a missing limb or two. They played together, and Malhaar didn’t need context. 

In that moment, I saw a lot. I fully understood why I was so happy spending all my childhood in the home next door. I fully understood why I felt no desire to even peep into my old house. It was just bricks and walls at this point. Home was where I could see my own self, 35 years later, playing with the same warm Aunty P. Even as, supposedly, my father sat across the door.

The truth is that for me, meeting Aunty P was a priority because I feared this may have been the last time we would meet. Our entire family has left Delhi for good and I coudn’t go without giving her a hug one last time. But that evening, as M appeared to relive my childhood right in front of my eyes, I realised that maybe our memories can’t die. Maybe they, like us, just move homes. So while leaving, I looked at wherever M thought my dad was sitting, and I said, come with me. I’ll take you home.

And here we are, in Bangalore. We walked into the house with Malhaar carrying the Ganpati idol my dad had placed in his car. I guess it was my way of having her hold his hand as we walked in. I didn’t realise it then, but this, right there was a great gift for her, when she’s old enough to understand it. 

Right outside M’s new room, we have a table that he made with turquoise tiles. It was my favourite colour. Incidentally, it’s where he placed his cold coffee when he sat on that mattress where M ‘spotted’ him. On my shelf is his pair of spectacles. I found them while I was packing and brought them along. They’ll help him see his new home more clearly.

As Malhaar turns three, here’s a little something that I hope she can always remember:

There are two of them, alike in many ways.

Two stars in the sky, clear through all the haze.

They’ve always got your back, don’t you fret

Dadu and Nanu, I suppose you’ve met.

I like to think they chose you

When it was time for us to meet.

I like to think you lived with them

A preunion so sweet.

And until we meet again,

I know they’ll always guide you

No hello, nor a goodbye

Just your forever stars in the sky.