Trip to Badaun was a train ride and a chance for the boys to get dirty in Nanu's farm. One week was spent around the fire place (it was very cold) where my dear husband relished the non vegetarian delicacies of Kababs & Curries with Roomali Roti, Biryani and Fish. I kept my toes warm around the fire, soaking in the heat and the nostalgia trapped in the thick old walls of our home where I grew up. Last time Baba was there in the bed which now comforts my father. My children occupied that same double bed during our visit. The room in which I spent my high school years now holds stock of blankets and pillows, sheets and trunks, and in their neat folds also remain wrapped up plans , practices, laughter, aches, aspirations, hopes and dreams. I spent the week with my father and brother around the old fireplace, feeling fascinated with glow of embers & cackling of fire. It made me feel riveted to the spot. That room stood monument to so much what influenced my life that I could almost see those events in my mind. It felt like I was in the center and all those events and people circled me like a whirlwind. So many people from that circle are not there anymore but it felt as if I could hear them call my name. It felt as if they would show up from the kitchen or bedroom or sun room, calling out my name.
My father told stories of his childhood, youth and Army days. He is a great narrator with voice modulation and accents to keep the listeners engaged. He is not the one to run out of topics for a conversation, however I don' t remember growing up chit- chatting with him. He was a busy guy always taking care of needs. Now I realize there is so much to him that I never knew about.I video taped him reading an excerpt from a book. We talked about Hindi literature, Urdu poetry, music and the writers and artists in our region, his views about the world and so much more. He spoke and we listened......not much different from how it used to be with Baba.....same room ,,,,same walls. So much of my making was done in that home before bidding farewell. It was time to leave once more ......so I could go back again.
My father told stories of his childhood, youth and Army days. He is a great narrator with voice modulation and accents to keep the listeners engaged. He is not the one to run out of topics for a conversation, however I don' t remember growing up chit- chatting with him. He was a busy guy always taking care of needs. Now I realize there is so much to him that I never knew about.I video taped him reading an excerpt from a book. We talked about Hindi literature, Urdu poetry, music and the writers and artists in our region, his views about the world and so much more. He spoke and we listened......not much different from how it used to be with Baba.....same room ,,,,same walls. So much of my making was done in that home before bidding farewell. It was time to leave once more ......so I could go back again.
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