A for Aam ka bantwara

Home is where you're one, no?

“Kyunki aam phalon ka raja hota hai,” my daadu explained with the cutest possible made-up expression to participate in the excitement of kids hovering around him. What followed for the next 20 minutes, I don’t remember particularly, for I was busy in my head absorbing the new-found fact and comparing every possible fruit that was ever dear to me with this now-reclaiming king of fruits.

There was apricot with the most perfect blush, there was majestic guava with its sneaky seeds that would trouble you for hours after eating it, and then, of course, there were grapes in all colours and glory. So many of them! But then, the garden at my grandparents’ house was a realm in itself where all fruits could compete for the juicy throne.

Most of my favourite stories from my grandparents’ home revolve around the mango trees- The night it was so hot that we decided to sleep out under the big one, only to wake up with rain and storm and lightening so bright that it may have been our best family photograph till date. The day me and my brothers spent fighting, in its entirety, over the division of mangoes from the garden (Eventually, we each owned a certain type of mango, another solution by daadu). The afternoons I'd spend with relish on rented comic books I devoured along with the kachha ambi picked directly from the trees. The times we would place our charpoy under the tree post afternoon meals to listen to sharbat chacha’s exaggerated stories. Or the time I tried climbing a tree for the first time and had a nap in the wooden, wise arms of one of the oldest lives in the garden.

Right before the storm.

Right after it.

You can’t find any grander entrance than the one to my grandparents’ house back there. The place is nestled right at the feet of some puny and some not-so-puny mountains. Lazily settled between a village and a town, my hometown is everything that would make you feel away from the city life and yet just there.

Two minutes before my home and you can find yourself ogling at the magnificent garden of mangoes and litchis. Take the turn into the locality and I promise every household, no matter how far away they are stretched out (there are farms and puny canals in between most of the houses), would take a peek to find out and give you a shout out if you’re recognized too. Their pets soon follow the suit, of course. 

Hit the gate and there’s a good 600 feet of wedding aisle like green pathway with fields on either sides, directing you to the real entrance to what we call home.  A verandah as big as a society playground and a byre good enough to be our adventure home welcomed you to the rest of the house. But my favourite spot was always the terrace where the night was so purple and the stars so yellow that it looked like I had been colouring my drawing books with a wrong sky all this while.

From the charpoy, under the tree. No filters whatsoever.

On your left, from the verandah.

And amidst all this was Johny. Sitting under the jackfruit tree, Johny loved watching (read scanning) the people approaching and mostly scaring the shit out of them. In my on and off 26 years of summer there, we’ve had chicks and rabbits and cows and buffaloes and baby birds (picked as patients post a storm) and dogs and cats and even tadpoles; but Johny was my favourite out of them all. That weak, slimy-eyed, ferocious son of a bitch almost went to dog heaven as a pup when a jackal picked him once for a nice midnight snack. Thank god for my aunt who did not seem to agree with the jackal about his diet choices, and thus Johny stayed with us.

As little Johny grew up, us kids realized he’s not the usual hungry-for-love dog but rather selective-with-one-and-all kind. He may have been a dog but I often suspected he was a cat’s soul in a dog’s body. His trickery and the art-of-suspicion was no match for ours. Feeding him wasn’t a free pass, one needed to win his love first and foremost. The all-black fur and growl at a moment’s notice didn’t help much either. But once you won the free pass, he was all yours.

However, what we enjoyed most was our non-negotiable yearly ritual. His bathing ceremony. The entire year, Johny came under the hygiene radar none but once- when I would visit home. In a household of 20 members (come summers), I was the only one he listened to, a fact that never failed to put a rather pleased grin on my face. He never allowed anyone to bathe him and depending upon the frequency or rarity of his swimming escapades in the canals, his fur could be a homogenous mixture of sugar, spice and everything nice (Just kidding!).

It needed my brother’s help to pick him up and my firm resolution to have him bathed, because nothing else would work. He always acted rather miffed with me post bathing, which evaporated by the time he dried up, always in all the eagerness to show off his newly cleaned fur and catch a cozy afternoon nap with me. Too much of love always made me feel special and uncomfortable at the same time. And I stayed special and uncomfortable for years to follow. Later, during one of the summers I missed going home, I was casually told on a call that Johny was dead. And just like that, I was ordinary and comfortable once again.

Today, it feels like all this just happened yesterday. Except it didn’t. Ever since daadu died, every little character in my stories evaporated too soon to preserve a proof that they existed. Grandma stayed with us for a long time afterward, so all the cattle and pets were given away or sold. Gone are the malpuas that my daadu cooked specially for me every time I went there, and so is the rental comic store, for who reads comics these days! The lavish farms are now handled by someone else, and sharbat chacha now struggles with an advance stage of parkinson’s and keeps all the stories rather to himself.

The mango trees, however, are still alive. Quiet, but observant. And they still remember everything. Hopefully.

Because whoever said it's just a dog, obviously never petted one!

Yes I know i come back to this picture a lot, but this is among my all-time favourites! Tozz and me, having our 'What am I' moment at Triund Peak.

And her eyes are wide open again. She searches for her cell phone in the dim light floating around in her room from the night lamp rock at the corner. The night lamp was one of the many birthday gifts from Diplomatic Witch, and according to her excited story and the shopkeeper’s fancy tale, the rock was a piece originally brought from Antarctica which apart from melting/corroding in rains, spread positive vibes and ate up nightmares of those using it. Every time the Wench thinks of the story, she can’t help but get amused. “Eating up the nightmares, what a fancy superpower!” “What if another night lamp could eat up bad memories too!”

“3.55 A.M”, flashes the cell phone, forcing her to twitch her eyes as the light from cell phone hits her hard. Why would you get up at 3.55 A.M when you slept at 2.10 A.M after finishing FRIENDS-season 6 for the nth time! But that’s her, liking something too much or not at all.

Her flat mate can still be occasionally heard giggling every now and then in the background. It’s her weekly boyfriend night after all when he comes over. He’s also the one who eyes Wench suspiciously as some psycho-lesbian chick for some unknown reason!

She looks around to get familiarize with the setting. It’s been 2 months and she’s still getting used to the fact that she stays all by herself now in the same city, all away from her jungle and her parents despite being the super protective child.

The lovely room has all stuff of basic necessities along with a chain of twinkie-lights hung on one wall highlighting the weird looking chart she’s pasted on it. (Now that’s a nice ‘My Bar’ Paharganj touch, I would say!) A bottle of water, a make-fold ash tray and dear, old Snoopy lies right under her bed on the side towards the door, making it perfect winters for her!

The photogenic cool dog who posed on a high wall for us at Mcleodganj!

Eyes wide open again! Only this time, she can feel something warm, wet and rough on her right hand. Okay no, now it’s fuzzy and warm. And now, there is this strange sound. Forcing just one of her eyes to open, she finds Snoopy up as the morning sun, trying to wake her up with her tongue-n-rub routine! She can easily tell it’s well past 7 with the sunshine and Snoopy’s restlessness.

“Go away, Snoopy. Play with your mistress.” she pleads while digging her face deeper into her pillow turning onto her stomach. To which, Snoopy gives a ‘i-don’t-care’ look with a small moan and gets to it again. She knows it too well by now what gets Wench up. To and fro, fro and fro, a little jiggle game and she’s all up!

Snoopy has always loved back rubbing sessions. That’s the third thing anyone has ever seen her react to (after mangoes and Wench’s entrance every evening i.e) Every morning however, with her wet, warm nose she’ll pick on Wench’s hand hanging out of the bed. Once she maintains the balance, she’ll throw the hand up in the air with the proficiency of the famous circus clown who juggles bottles. By the time the hand comes down, keeping her timing perrrfect, she’ll glide three steps ahead so that the hand falls just upon her lower back. Her perfect hot-dog like shape and size helps in making the strategy only perfect.

Once the hand is set on the back, she starts moving one step forward, one step backward. Forward, backward. Backward, forward. Like she’s making you rub her back, reminding you the need to be petted, loved and assured. And coming out with that need of hers so courageously, so demandingly, like she isn’t afraid of putting her vulnerable side in front of you. Like she trusts you enough to put it out like that. Just like it should be, with everyone. Fretting, Wench would give in, get up, and give her a heavy back-rubbing session while showering abuses and pecks together combined.

The furry, werewolf-like mountain dog I met up in the hills. It took me 15 minutes and some intense communication to get his approval to touch him. Some experience!

Wench doesn’t really remember how and when Snoopy left her real mistress and adopted Wench as her part-time mistress and companion. Only few weeks back, she used to be this hesitant, aloof dog out of the three ridiculous looking dogs Wench’s flatmate owned- Coochie, Naughty and Snoopy (No offence, but what ridiculous names, I swear!)

While one was a cocker spaniel who was an impulse buy by the flatmate, the other one was a ‘loving’ gift by her (then) boyfriend. (p.s: The new one doesn’t like dogs, at all! And since he doesn’t know exactly which one was gifted by the then boyfriend, he hates them all as a rule.)

Amidst all this, Snoopy was an adopted case and the only female in that weird pack of dogs. She was new, she was scared and she was hesitant. The flatmate was a self-confessed animal lover and stayed home full-time with them, but Snoopy just had hard time trusting people.

Caramel coloured cocker Spaniard with an enviable flair when she walks, she picked Wench instantly after showing indifference for a week. Now every evening, after Wench finished her dinner with the flatmate and her occasionally frequent guests and moved to her room, Snoopy picked up her pace and followed her as a ritual to her room.

She would never shower affection like other two dogs on Wench, but just be there. Wench goes to the living room, she follows. She tip-toes to kitchen for a mid-night snack, she will alarmingly get an idea, wake up and follow her for her share. Wench can’t sleep and decides to sit in the front yard at 2 A.M, she’ll make a face, yawn, get up and sit next to her leaving the cozy room. 

If another animal or a guest took a fancy to Wench’s room, she makes it her job to keep them out and if not possible, show her displeasure at it!

But of course, she always made it clear that despite all the affection, mangoes came before the Wench for her.