The house I am growing old in 1

One of the 'side effects' of Ranjan's lymphoma has definitely been looking at life past and present with brand new eyes. - Before I go further a quick update on Ranjan as many of you read my ramblings to get to know how he is. The weight dropped by a kilo:(( today but no worries; the blood counts have been taken; he is feeling well and has gone out for some work; and we see the oncologist tomorrow. - One of the things that has come to the fore is our house, the only asset we have and seeing how one could 'use' it better. The obvious solution keeping in mind the size of the structure would be to say: rent it! Well if you have read my previous blog, or seen the house you would know that is not possible. This house is more like someone's folly and was extended for 'emotional' reasons. The other option is of course break it and make it into flats. Reason says that is the way one should go but before you can plan further the heart takes over and floods you with memories of the past and alarming images of what is to come should we chose that option. Ranjan and Mama seem to have had the same reaction: how can we share our space with people we do not know (future). How can we empty it (future) and where will we stay for the time it takes to build. And now with Ranjan not being well, the idea of uprooting him is inconceivable. But I guess if push came to shove, all this would become possible.

But what do you do with the memories that suddenly crowd your mind, memories you had forgotten, some sweet, some bittersweet and some sad. Let me start at the beginning and you will understand why giving up this rambling folly is quasi impossible. When my father was still in post, they decided to settle in Delhi and thus bought this piece of land. At that time visiting the land was a real expedition as it was situated in the boonies. But it was ours. An architect was found, a plan designed and one of my uncles given the responsibility to supervise the construction. If all had gone well we should have had a built house by the time papa retired in 1969. But that was not to be.

By the time we retired, what we had was a shell with walls and a roof and unpolished floors. There were no doors, no windows, no toilets, no water connection, no electricity, no nothing! The estimated money had been spent and the contractor who was a crook, had further claims and had taken possession of the ground floor. We went to court but that was another nightmare. Papa was shattered as he was a scrupulously honest man who was lost in the reality of India and its corrupt ways. We won the case, and the police vacated the contractor's material but the next day he had put them all back and this time occupied the ground floor with a bunch of goons. To cut a long story short, Mama packed papa to Mauritius and she and I 'moved' into the half finished first floor. Mama was a real trouper and a woman of steel. Everyone was shocked as I was 17 and the both of us not truly equipped to take on drunk goons. But then you did not know Kamala Goburdhun nee Sinha! She stood her ground and in the winter of 1970 mother and daughter began living in the house I am today growing old in.

The situation was burlesque initially. The bedroom was freezing as all we had was curtains on doors and windows. We slept on two charpoys. There was one tap in the unfinished kitchen that also became the bathroom with one of us guarding the door or should I say curtain. Pooing was the biggest issue. Well we pooed on newspaper that was then packed and thrown away later. I do not remember if we ever had Delhi bellies at that time! We had a cook who cooked us meals and candles to light our dinners which were rarely tête a têtes as many friends joined us for dinner and sing song sessions, mostly bhajans, meant to irritate the goons. The local tea stall man who was a young boy then and still runs the street tea shop, would bring us hot tea every morning and after getting ready, quite a saga, and eating two toast grilled in a frying pan I set off to college. Mama stayed put guarding the fort.

One day when I came back from college, I found myself locked out. The contractor was at the gate and would not let me enter. Mama was on the terrace telling me not to worry and go get help. There were no phones in the vicinity, actually there was nothing! I ran across empty grounds to what you all know as R Block Grater Kailash I where a friend of the family lived, barged in and phoned everyone I could think off: my lawyer uncle, 100 for the flying squad and my father's friend who headed  RAW at that time. By the time I got back the police was there in all shades and hues, I was allowed to go to mama and the matter was sorted for the time being. But that incident scared us and we realised that we had to find a solution as courts and law would take an eternity and we would remain on the 'streets'. Before anything, Mama decided we had to have a phone and she moved heaven and earth again and we got one. I still remember the number: 78678. Strange how much one's memory keeps safely inside our heads.

All our money had been sunk in these unfinished walls and unless the contractor did not get out we too were stuck. Going to court did not seem the right option so we were forced to into 'arbitration'. An 'arbitrator' was appointed by the court and again to cut a long story short we were stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea, the arbitrator and contractor were hand in glove and ultimately we had to pay a little less than what had been demanded. Appearances had to be kept you see!

We had our house! By that time papa's famous Provident fund had been released and that is all we had to finish the house. The few months that ensued were strange yet comforting. Mama and I remained put in our palace without walls while the ground floor was completed. We had a tight budget so quality had to be compromised. The goons had left and in their place came in the workers. This was my first contact with people I would work with half a century later: the migrants! When I look back at those forgotten years I realise how close I felt to them. I spent hours watching them work and chatting with them. I felt a strange empathy for them but could not understand why. How could I begin to imagine that one day I would be working with and for their children. Another full circle I guess.

Anyway there are million of stories about those fateful months waiting to be told. I really do not know whether I will have the time and energy to write them but there is one I have to share. As I recounted earlier we always had someone to cook and 'clean' for us. One of them whose name I forget now, was elderly and used to spend hours cooking though I can recall his food never tasted great. Since my childhood I have never spend time eating and still do not, and get impatient when others take forever. This irritates Ranjan no end as I am always wanting to leave the table once I am done specially if it is only family. Anyway in those days when we did not have a dining space, I use to eat my meal in a jiffy and get on with other things, This use to irritate the said cook. One day, in front of all the workers, he threw an ultimatum to my mom: he did not like the little time I took eating the meal he had spent so much time preparing and hence either mama threw me out or he would leave. Everyone burst out laughing and you can well imagine who stayed!

The ground floor was finally ready. It was time to call Papa back home. It had been almost a year since he had left. It was lovely to have a room with doors and windows and above all a bathroom. I was given the first choice and chose the room that is now our kitchen. But now came the hitch where was the money to furnish the house. There was only one way to do it and that was sell all the things we had bought and brought back. Many of you do not know the days when one got practically nothing in India so people like us brought back cooking ranges, air conditioners and loads of other appliances not to forget a car! Ours was a Mercedes benz that was then sold to pay for my wedding. Anyway we furnished the house as best we could. It took time but things were better when Papa decided to take up legal consultancies. There was no looking back.

So even if my head says that this almost crumbling and irrational house should be brought down and made into sensible flats, the heart says no, or at least no until it becomes an emergency. This was not the house I was born in, or the house I grew in but it is definitely the house I would like to grow old in!