Sara tells me that I am too soft spoken. Then she tells me I am too boring because unlike how most girls are supposed to be( rather how they are stereotyped to be), I dont like shopping. When I tell her that I like historical places, the very reason I am in love with Delhi, she gives me a look of a disheartened young adult. Noorjahan, who is in her 11th standard, spending part of her time at the NGO helping small kids out with their lessons, hugs me every time we meet. And Mehwish curiously looks at my smile and asks me if I can see anything when I smile because my eyes narrow down too much when I do.
One of the major reasons why I, of all the NGOs that I was given the opportunity to choose, chose Hope over the others was because it was located in an area that is one of the oldest continuously inhabited human settlements in the world. Nizamuddin basti developed around the dargah of Hazrat Nizamuddin and there are a million stories written on top of each other, merged into this beautiful shade of colours waiting for one who seeks, in the area.
Interestingly, I bonded over alphabets and numbers with the children in the NGO and the teachers who teach there- all of whom are from the Basti. And even though I still have this huge inertia to push myself out of the college into an auto for a 15 minute ride to the basti, once I reach, there is this strange sense of familiarity that binds me to the place.
Maybe its in Areeba maam who talks like a relative I've seen after so long- taking me to her home for tea. Maybe its in her tiny single room house, on the floor of which we sat and treated ourselves to a cup of tea and biscuits while listening to dadi talking about the basti and the dargah- with Sara so astonished that I am interested in them. Maybe its in the way Areeba maam told me that she'll make me good food while dadi sadly commented that in hostels you wont usually get good food, with me assuring the two that I do get to eat up to my satisfaction. Maybe its in the children who lovingly call everyone Baji( though I really dont know what that means). Maybe its in the way everyone in the NGO behaves like an extended family, not considering me, an alien from 3000 miles away, an outsider. Maybe its in the sound of the azaan that I dont usually get to hear from where I am living- a familiarity that takes me back to home. Maybe its in the aroma of good food that escapes through the windows of the houses which are cramped together. Maybe its in all of this. Its in each of this.
I think its particularly in finding people your parent's age caring for you- something that has been absent so far in our lives in Delhi. Its in the comfort that you get when they express their genuine concerns for you, a feeling that you are not fighting it out all alone in this huge city.
And strangely it is this, that takes me back to my home. Especially the homes in which my parents grew up- where all of my relatives stay. It reminds me of my ancestral house(Vappi's home) in Chakkuvally, a village on the Kollam border- of Noorji Vallumicha who makes beef cutlets and fish fry every time I come back from Delhi, of Naseema vallumicha who sends me food back to Delhi, of Ammachi whose songs we used to listen to as children, of Uppicha- our Sir Uppa, of the Hanafi and Shafi mosques in Mayyathinkara( popularly known as Pandyarde palli and metharde palli and in our imaginations as the pink mosque and the green mosque), signifying the rich history of the migration of the Ravuthars from Tamil Nadu, generations back, of which my family partly belongs to, of the Malakkuda festival in Malanada temple, the only Duryodhana temple in South India and the gigantic models of colourful oxes decorated for the festival, of the farms spread across acres and of hundreds of people who are part and parcel of the story of the village. Then of Ummi's house right next to the sea, and the 1km walks with Uppa to the beach, of the games I played with Ummachi, my grandmother, Ummumma, my great grandmother and Vallumachi, my grandmother's sister, of Yacob Mama who runs a flour mill- my best childhood friend, of Naseeha thatha to whom I used to run for mehendi, to Usha aunty and her beloved dog Appu and of the famous Vettucaud church. It takes me most of all to people who call me Suruma( Suru, surumi, even urumi, so many variations!) It takes me back to the familial love thats been a blessing, I've been taught by life not to take for granted.
Its beautiful how in places so far away and people so different, you find things close to your heart. You rediscover yourself and the things you love among people who come into your life even without you knowing they are meant to be there. And even when you make a huge hue and cry about homeliness, you realise that you have created for yourself a place in this city, that strangely, always has room for another person. And then it really strikes you what they mean when they say we really dont belong to any particular place on the Earth. We really belong with people who share and cherish our values and ideals, people whom we dont want to lose. It couldn't have been any more true.
One of the major reasons why I, of all the NGOs that I was given the opportunity to choose, chose Hope over the others was because it was located in an area that is one of the oldest continuously inhabited human settlements in the world. Nizamuddin basti developed around the dargah of Hazrat Nizamuddin and there are a million stories written on top of each other, merged into this beautiful shade of colours waiting for one who seeks, in the area.
Interestingly, I bonded over alphabets and numbers with the children in the NGO and the teachers who teach there- all of whom are from the Basti. And even though I still have this huge inertia to push myself out of the college into an auto for a 15 minute ride to the basti, once I reach, there is this strange sense of familiarity that binds me to the place.
Maybe its in Areeba maam who talks like a relative I've seen after so long- taking me to her home for tea. Maybe its in her tiny single room house, on the floor of which we sat and treated ourselves to a cup of tea and biscuits while listening to dadi talking about the basti and the dargah- with Sara so astonished that I am interested in them. Maybe its in the way Areeba maam told me that she'll make me good food while dadi sadly commented that in hostels you wont usually get good food, with me assuring the two that I do get to eat up to my satisfaction. Maybe its in the children who lovingly call everyone Baji( though I really dont know what that means). Maybe its in the way everyone in the NGO behaves like an extended family, not considering me, an alien from 3000 miles away, an outsider. Maybe its in the sound of the azaan that I dont usually get to hear from where I am living- a familiarity that takes me back to home. Maybe its in the aroma of good food that escapes through the windows of the houses which are cramped together. Maybe its in all of this. Its in each of this.
I think its particularly in finding people your parent's age caring for you- something that has been absent so far in our lives in Delhi. Its in the comfort that you get when they express their genuine concerns for you, a feeling that you are not fighting it out all alone in this huge city.
And strangely it is this, that takes me back to my home. Especially the homes in which my parents grew up- where all of my relatives stay. It reminds me of my ancestral house(Vappi's home) in Chakkuvally, a village on the Kollam border- of Noorji Vallumicha who makes beef cutlets and fish fry every time I come back from Delhi, of Naseema vallumicha who sends me food back to Delhi, of Ammachi whose songs we used to listen to as children, of Uppicha- our Sir Uppa, of the Hanafi and Shafi mosques in Mayyathinkara( popularly known as Pandyarde palli and metharde palli and in our imaginations as the pink mosque and the green mosque), signifying the rich history of the migration of the Ravuthars from Tamil Nadu, generations back, of which my family partly belongs to, of the Malakkuda festival in Malanada temple, the only Duryodhana temple in South India and the gigantic models of colourful oxes decorated for the festival, of the farms spread across acres and of hundreds of people who are part and parcel of the story of the village. Then of Ummi's house right next to the sea, and the 1km walks with Uppa to the beach, of the games I played with Ummachi, my grandmother, Ummumma, my great grandmother and Vallumachi, my grandmother's sister, of Yacob Mama who runs a flour mill- my best childhood friend, of Naseeha thatha to whom I used to run for mehendi, to Usha aunty and her beloved dog Appu and of the famous Vettucaud church. It takes me most of all to people who call me Suruma( Suru, surumi, even urumi, so many variations!) It takes me back to the familial love thats been a blessing, I've been taught by life not to take for granted.
Its beautiful how in places so far away and people so different, you find things close to your heart. You rediscover yourself and the things you love among people who come into your life even without you knowing they are meant to be there. And even when you make a huge hue and cry about homeliness, you realise that you have created for yourself a place in this city, that strangely, always has room for another person. And then it really strikes you what they mean when they say we really dont belong to any particular place on the Earth. We really belong with people who share and cherish our values and ideals, people whom we dont want to lose. It couldn't have been any more true.
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