Like I wrote in an earlier piece, Banaras is the keeper of my soul. But the bond with the city was the result of the bond I had with two people – my grandparents – my mother’s parents.
Their village – my nani ghar– was 4 hours from Banaras. My summer vacation home – with huge papaya, mango and Jamun trees. With handpumps and wells, and cows, buffaloes, goats and chickens. An orchard where I spent my evenings, with such varieties of plant that I could never keep a tab on. A pond on the rear side of the orchard with orange and black fishes.
After my father would drop us to Banaras, we would take a local from the city railway station to nani ghar. I would sit on the window side – I was the responsible kid, the big sister – following papa’s instructions to take care of both my mother and my younger brother.
And I watch the trees go by and the kids playing far in the field, and women and men tilting lands eagerly waiting when would we reach to nani and nanu – year after year.
Nanu was a big, fat, burly man. Nani – my slender, tall, graceful woman. And like every couple in every corner of the world – they would have arguments on the littlest of things. Nanu would then tease her, she would smile – all forgotten and I would laugh in a corner.
My favourites were the very unique, desi bedtime stories that Nanu would tell me. Most in the form of poems than prose. Every noon, he would take his bicycle – his favourite mode of transport to the market and bring me and my brother treats – every single day.
We would ride the big tractor, go to the farms and he would patiently tell me all about the crops sown there, the methods he used, his grain storage, the men and women working for him in the farms.
Every day one of the household help would get a huge bucket full of mangoes from our orchards. And I would go on and devour them till I couldn’t. Me being his eldest grandchild – I always would get away with any mischief. I knew he adored me – his was just not the usual way of showcasing it.
I went to pay my last respects to him. That house – with 10 huge rooms, a big orchard, three verandahs, a massive terrace – seemed so small without him. Something I could fit in my palms. My towering glorious Nani looked so frail and exhausted; my heart seemed out of my chest for a moment.
I sat at the chaukhat (entrance) for what felt like hours – thinking I could see a happy big-bellied man coming my way with tons of treats.
It felt like it wasn’t just his end. It was an end to my childhood and my favourite memories – something I had clung on to for the longest.
And then sitting there – unconsciously, I began reciting a poem I know all of his grandkids remember –
Khasi khasi khasi, kaun ban rasi kaun phal kha ke tu itna motaila
Rahin la taran ban, khai la makoi, saat siyar din char bani hoi Baagh maar maar kari yaari Aur Sinh khojat mor paakal dadhi
It was one of my most favourite childhood stories. One between a khasi – a somewhat obese goat and a siyar – a jackal and how cleverly the goat escapes his pending death.
And slowly I cried to my heart’s content. Maybe it was his way of letting me know that childhood and memories never die. As long as I have those, I have him with me.
My Nanu – My big, fat, burly man – holding on to me forever.
The writer is At Random’s Editor – a woman with myriad tastes – both in life and in writing.
