Hiraeth. Thats what it is. How fiercely can places make you feel more at home, than at home? How do you then define that feeling of home? Is it in those places that make you feel like you, that bring you back to yourself, after so long? Is it in those places that suddenly wake you up with a jolt, shouting at your face, that this is what you've been longing for all your life, only that you never knew? Is it in people who unexpectedly barge into your lives, taking you along journeys you've always wanted to go, but have just never been able to? Or is it in finding people around you, whose lives are so divergent, so different from yours, each a story of its own, yet you know that it is in these lives that you discover yours, piece by piece. Hiraeth. That's what this place is. The longing for a home that never was. Lustful as it may.
For the familiarity of the sound of the azaan that sets this place in motion. In crowded courtyards, lives mingle, in moments interspersed with urgency. And like disciplined soldiers, the files fall in place as the imam's deep voice resounds from the microphones. More people walk briskly to the inner verandah, young boys run. And when in all uniformity, heads touch the ground in prostration, I watch the art of the prayer and from a distance, the lighted chandelier inside the mosque adds to the aesthetics of the maghrib namaz. And like waves, come hitting back memories of Uppa. I remember the green frock. The one with the red flower on its side. And the small masjid close to our home. In evenings, before his customary walk to the beach, Uppa stopped by the masjid to pray. And on some days he took me along. I must have been four or five;I dont remember. Inside the masjid, I copied what the other old men around me did. With every call of the Takbir, I realised I had to move, and Uppa with all his patience and love, took me along every time I asked him to. Then someday the visits stopped. Abruptly. I never realised the last time I went there, was the last time I would go there. If I had, I could have at least bid the place a goodbye. A nice one.
How does a place stand it all, like a muted spectator, witnessing the beauty of all of its lives, savouring the pure joy of it? And strangely, it seems like there's always space for more. There's space for everyone. There's space for me and all of my rantings and all of my longings and lonelinesses. There's space for men in skull caps and white kurtas, with long white beards and kohl lined eyes. There's space for the amused tourist, draped in comical lungis with cameras and a face full of awe. There's space for the children who run around the courtyard. For the pigeons that fly around, carefree. For the old men who sell athar. There's space for our journey to the top of the minar, from where we saw all of Delhi looking at us, and we blushed, in one of those moments of our realisations. There's space for our love. I envy this place. I wish I were this place. Nothing more.
For here is where I've felt the safest, the most loved, the most the closest to the feeling of home. And I know I'll come back to this place when I need to find myself. Because I've chosen to stay behind here. Like when the Tsunami came, Uppa chose to stay behind in the masjid close to our home which was less than a kilometre from the beach. He must have felt the same way. Safe and closest to home.
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