I went to Matunga (Mumbai) recently and was passing by this old, rundown building called Patel Mahal. I drove past, then drove back and stopped. I paused and looked up at the small balcony jutting out of nowhere from a first floor house. This was where my dad had spent his childhood 80 years back jumping around with his little brothers and sisters. The house was eventually sold many times over and someone else lived there now. I looked up again and was tempted enough to go and check out the house. Who lived there now? How it looked from inside? Would i remember anything from the few times i had visited this house with my dad when I was a small kid - to see Dodama ( dad’s mother).
I climbed up the wooden rickety stairs. Various kinds of odours permeated the air. One was of food being cooked - vaguely. Another was of burning coals, probably being made ready to put it in an iron for cloth-pressing. I arrived on the first floor landing safely, though more shaken than the shaking stairs. It was a square area with small houses in all directions. There used to be a common toilet / washroom in the centre of each floor which thankfully had disappeared, and hopefully each house had its own now. I knocked at my feeble memory, looked left, looked right, and took the left. I walked straight at the end of the small corridor and rang the bell, not knowing who would open the door, if at all, and what would I say. After releasing a few latches a young man opened the door. He looked at me quizzically and asked - yes?
I said - let me first just look at the house for a minute and then I will tell you why I have come here.
This was really stupid and I could feel it. The guy looked at me more stupidly. There were two more guys living in the same house who now appeared and came to - kinda - the rescue. Not sure why and whose? Now we all looked at each other stupidly.
Finally I said - this house belonged to my dad 80 years back and I have just come to relive those memories.
There was a general relief and we all smiled. Stupidly.
I requested to let me inside and they obliged. The structure of the house seemed a bit different from what I remembered - which was not much to remember. I took some pictures, some with them, and let the moment sink in. After spending a few minutes I thanked them and climbed down those stairs.
I should have felt happy and emotional but something was missing and I was not quite sure what it was and why I was not feeling it. And then it struck me. I went back to the first floor and now instead of going left. I took the right. Yeah. Yeah. I rambled on dodging some debris and stood at the end of the narrow corridor. I stared at the door on the right. Long and hard. Damn it! This was the house. How could I have forgotten? So much for knocking at the wrong house and giving a dumb bravado speech for entering.
This door was freshly painted but the house was locked. Well - people living here would sigh with relief what with me knocking and asking lame questions to get in.
So many memories came flooding back. And then I thought - wait! These are not my memories. These are my dad’s memories which he had told and retold us. And we never got tired of hearing them.
Yeah - now I could feel everything through my dad’s stories. Wish he was here with me, standing outside his house to relive his childhood. I stood there for some time imagining the past that had lived inside.
One day I will revisit this house and knock at the door again.
