Rainawari Chowk always
seemed a little queer to me. Being part of the old city downtown, where more or
less the narrow alleys can confuse one- such is the similarity, Rainawari
stands out. May be it has to do with the large ancient Mulberry tree that so
distinctly sets it apart or may be its the Hospital, which used to be colored
in red in old times; times from which I carry its memories.
I parked my car near the
Hospital- for want of space partly, and partly because I wanted to take a walk
through the whole area: cross paths along those metallic roads, that may have
been macadamized in many layers, since those early summer mornings, when my
friend must have ran to catch the school bus; school bag jostling left and
right. I had the address - Kralyaar, Dr. Kachru. I looked around and chose to
ask an elderly person. He must have been in his early 70s, carrying an aluminum
jar, a very downtown thing, filled with yoghurt from the local 'Goor' -- its
thick white cream shining under the sun. This gentleman very politely directed
me towards Kralyaar. ' Take first left, walk all the way down, in the corner
alley the Kachru's lived. Thinking loud while walking, I was aware many things
must have changed since my friend lived here.
The old man was right,
the corner alley was there. But how was I to find the house? At around 11 in
the morning not many people venture outside. The summer sun was unrelentingly
beating down. It was hot by Kashmiri standards. I kept looking through the
houses, trying to guess which one is it. A white Koshur skull cap wearing man
with thick mustaches came out from one of the houses. 'That one belongs to Dr.
Mantoo' , pointing with his finger, the thumb carrying the bead thread.
A shimmering marble
plate near the main Iron gate, freshly painted in rust red, read 'Mir House':
the current owners. I reluctantly pushed the gate. The activity inside the
compound was hurried and brisk. Open empty boxes, visibly meant to carry fruit,
had filled the small garden facing the Kachru house. Is this a fruit traders
house now, I wondered! Manzoor -- the owner of the house firmly shook my hand.
What can I do for you? I explained. He asked few questions again, well meaning
questions. Perhaps he was taken aback by what I told him. I was a friend of Dr
Kachru's family who has come to take pictures of Kralyaar and their house.
Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart, Murakami
writes in Kafka on the Shore. Still taking pictures, Manzoor explained to me
that the two houses in ruins still belong to Kachru's. 'They have not sold them
yet. Their ancestors lived in them’. Built in slender Maharaji bricks
with intricate wood work on window panes, the structures looked in
wretched state. Years of dust had piled on them, perhaps, muzzling the many
echoes from far off years. Time didn't stand still here. It had taken its toll.
"It may cause the family more anguish looking at the state of the
house." Little bemused, I asked Manzoor what makes him think so?
"See their's was an
educated family. Well read. We are merchants who deal with dry fruits. The
state of the house gives you a good indication." Manzoor spoke with utmost
earnest. In this land of Sufis and Reshis everything may not be
transparent, but there is no place to hide a dark heart. On a balmy June day,
it felt good to be in this compound.
Manzoor was kind enough
to escort me till the main road. Largely overwhelmed, he confessed though he
wasn’t very educated yet appreciated the effort I was taking. We again warmly
shook hands and bid good-byes.
My tryst with Kralyaar
wasn’t over yet. The air may have been humid, the streets largely forlorn, but persisting
thoughts of my friend and his family gave color to everything around.
The roads were hard, wind came at my back. We think we have a memory, but in
truth, it has us.
One of the many well known and frequently spoken structures in the old city is the Vishwa Bharti school. A visit to Rainawari was incomplete without it. Clicking pictures all around the locality, a bakers shop caught my lens. It was placed in an narrow alley with smoke emanating out through the chimney at top. It had a very nostalgic feel to it. A mad-man passed along, incessantly talking to himself- pointing to the sky, where few crows had gathered, breaking the mid day lull.
While standing at the entrance of Kralyaar, walking back to my car, many thoughts pulled me in different directions.
I write these words now, many lands distant from the spot at which, those hearts that throbbed so gaily then, must have ceased to beat; in many occasions in a land unknown to them;
many of the eyes that
shone so brightly then, must have ceased to glow;
the hands grown cold;
the eyes old, must have hid
their remnants in the
grave; and yet the old house, the room, the merry
voices and smiling
faces, the jest, trivial
circumstances connected
with those happy meetings, crowding upon my mind.
Some sights caught through the corner of one's eye can win us back to the delusions of our childish days; that can transfer a over worked adult to his paper boats in rains; that can transport the sailor and the traveler, thousands of miles away, back to his own firepot and his quiet home!”
Everybody needs his memories. They keep the wolf of insignificance from the door.
