Learning to let go is hard. But when you do, the relief you experience is fabulous.
But I’m still in the process.
I miss Bombay. I miss Goregaon East - Vishal Housing Society. 4th Floor.
I miss how my grandparents exclaimed, “ANJUUU!!” reflexively, when I rang the door bell.
I miss their eager, excited faces on seeing my family and I, after months.
I miss the verandah. Especially Aanchal’s ayah glaring at me from her window.
I miss the smell of filter coffee wafting into my room at 6.A.M.
And the aroma of lemon rasam emanating from the kitchen.
Birthday cards arranged on the shelf behind the television.
Karishma's phone number scribbled on the white label stuck on the receiver.
The bathroom tiles.
"Goodnight" mosquito coil plugged in Thatha-Paati's room.
The detachable bed rest.
Sun TV playing on the television.
I miss watching Paati doze off while watching the television at night.
And thatha resting on his bed (his throne, so to say), gazing at the window opposite him - a crushed cigarette butt on his ash tray, an empty tumbler with dabara on the side table.
I miss the smell of Paati’s closet, the dressing table ke neeche waala cupboard, and her numerous hankies.
I miss the halls, rooms, bathrooms,windows, grills, vessels, empty Bisleri bottles, showcases, and the unused crockery arranged in those glass cupboards.
So many small things. The inhabitants. Details.
And all those infinite memories attached to them, and bonded to that house.
But I’m still in the process.
I miss Bombay. I miss Goregaon East - Vishal Housing Society. 4th Floor.
I miss how my grandparents exclaimed, “ANJUUU!!” reflexively, when I rang the door bell.
I miss their eager, excited faces on seeing my family and I, after months.
I miss the verandah. Especially Aanchal’s ayah glaring at me from her window.
I miss the smell of filter coffee wafting into my room at 6.A.M.
And the aroma of lemon rasam emanating from the kitchen.
Birthday cards arranged on the shelf behind the television.
Karishma's phone number scribbled on the white label stuck on the receiver.
The bathroom tiles.
"Goodnight" mosquito coil plugged in Thatha-Paati's room.
The detachable bed rest.
Sun TV playing on the television.
I miss watching Paati doze off while watching the television at night.
And thatha resting on his bed (his throne, so to say), gazing at the window opposite him - a crushed cigarette butt on his ash tray, an empty tumbler with dabara on the side table.
I miss the smell of Paati’s closet, the dressing table ke neeche waala cupboard, and her numerous hankies.
I miss the halls, rooms, bathrooms,windows, grills, vessels, empty Bisleri bottles, showcases, and the unused crockery arranged in those glass cupboards.
So many small things. The inhabitants. Details.
And all those infinite memories attached to them, and bonded to that house.
