Genesis

My early life is something I don’t usually discuss at much length with anybody. This is mainly down to the fact that my memory from childhood is piss poor. Of course there are plenty of moments I remember but as far as painting a cohesive, sensible picture of my early years…my memory fails me. However, there is one place that serves as a physical manifestation of Memory Lane—the place of my birth.

In the picture, nestled behind the trees, is my ancestral home. This is the place I spent the first eight years of my life. The house used to be owned by royalty—the Rana dynasty—and was handed down to my ancestors decades ago. It may not look it now but this shabby, shaky structure was like a palace to me. Made mostly from clay and wood, it is now dominated by the bigger, concrete buildings in the neighborhood. But the shabbiness of this house is what gives me some of the most clearest memories. From my father risking his own safety to get me out of the house during an earthquake to having to help my grandmother get out of the rubble when the roof in her room caved (thank God it was made of thin wood). The yard in front of the house from which this picture was taken was where I learned to ride a bicycle for the first time. The room hidden behind the branches, directly above that small window, was our room. This is a place of many memories and every visit brings many dormant ones flooding back.

Living in a joint family—my late grandfather and his brothers all lived here—meant there were easily about 12-15 people living in the house. That in itself was an experience. Of course back then I knew no other way but looking back now, I wonder at times how I would manage in a similar situation today…probably go crazy. But as they say, NEVER forget where you come from. And this aging, now decrepit place will always have a special place in my heart.

However, while the house still resembles its old, glorious avatar, congestion has rendered the surrounding neighborhood almost unrecognizable. This lane of shops used to be completely empty save for this one Indian food stall from where I frequently satiated my appetite. Today, its inundated with dresses, belts and tshirts that threaten to block your path as you walk through.

And it doesn’t end there. The road outside the house, too has been taken over by roadside sellers and small clothing stores. Here you’ll see the roadside sellers covering up their merchandise from the rain. I used to wake up at 6 AM everyday when I was little just to ride my bicycle freely up and down on this very road. I fail to think of any other time in the last 24 years when life was so simple. I suppose you can say this is the amalgamation of two things that are very important to me: simplicity and an obsession with reminiscing. The way this neighborhood has been adulterated by countless commercial merchandise stores and the ensuing throng of people and vehicles that such stores tend to attract breaks my heart. I suppose there is reason I don’t live here anymore. And again, I would probably get a migraine trying to beat the traffic out of here every morning if I still lived here. But that doesn’t dilute the rich memories I have from this neighborhood. The place of my birth. Where it all started.