Note: This post was originally published on August 2nd, 2013.
Childhood Recollections
The other day, I was reminiscing about my grandparents’ old home in Sadashiv Peth… the Heart of Pune: The human mind is a vast abyss, a creative thought-box harboring secrets and stories, an intricate phenomenon. I often find it remarkable what the mind chooses to remember. Memories that we create, particularly during our formative years, are perhaps the most poignant, powerful. I wonder at the mystery of the mind, and its selective nature. Why do we revisit a few memories? Are they the most important? Are they—perhaps—challenging us to discover something new about ourselves or others?
It remains to be discovered, or perhaps it isn’t worth probing.
I often find myself remembering the fun-filled childhood recollections at my grandparents’ old home in Sadashiv Peth, the real center of Pune. The home was special for many reasons: not only because I spent childhood trips to India there, but also because the home itself had a unique character to it. In its exterior, it was a simple home- nothing too distinct. It wasn’t large or exquisite, and it certainly wasn’t a three story palace. It had a kitchen, one large living room, bathroom, and gacchi– just like any typical home or apartment. But it was different.
I remember playing in the living room with my younger brother, the winter I turned 9, the small hallway leading to the main room. First impressions are often powerful, and my initial memories of the house are of the massive entrance- there was a wiry, fence-gating the way into the home. After being welcomed in by the powerful bark of the family golden lab, we would enter the guestroom, which gave way to a gathering room connected by a passageway with two blackish-gray iron windows with bars to the outside world.
The windows — they were my favorite place in the home. Standing on the pillars to see the outside world seemed so adventurous at the time, and I remember feeling as if I could leap or fly, when swinging before the bars on the window. My imagination defined my life at the time- play took precedence over logic. At different points during the day, the same barred window that was a window into the outside world transformed into a magic mirror, or a jail- sometimes it became part of a story, the backdrop for a unique drama- By the day’s close, it had turned back into a normal window.
My cousins and aunts recount similar stories of the home, reminiscing about the childhood memories, studying in small corners jutting from the wall, or playing on the gacchi, which was an awesome playroom-turned-garden-turned bedroom. It engaged imaginations, that house- it fostered creativity. To anyone, a child in particular, there was so much to explore there – from the roof, to the staircase, the enclosed dark, hidden room just past the kitchen that led to the balcony overlooking a serene backyard. Any room in the house had a different feel to it, a unique character. It certainly wasn’t a normal home.
Each room in the house had a different feel to it, a unique character…
I marvel at how vivid memories I have of that house, of playing in areas where my father must have played in his youth. I hardly spent time there- a handful of summers for a few weeks at a time. And yet, I feel a strong connection to the place- I attribute the fascination to the stories my family members have told me about it. Perhaps my imagination has illuminated it as a magnificent landmark, or a vacation house- somewhere worth remembering. Images of the large home, a place my entire family remembers and loved, will probably remain etched in my memory forever.
I’ve come to the conclusion that my grandparents’ old home in Sadashiv Peth was special for a multitude of reasons- perhaps most poignantly, it is because it’s where my father and his siblings grew up. It’s the place of so many memories, of so much action, of so many stories. It’s the site of hundreds of Jalukar family gatherings, a meeting spot, a community gathering area. Due to its central location, my grandparents often housed visitors- both family and friends passing through Pune for events, or who came to the city to seek an education. In this case, there were so many different individuals visiting the home, and I find it so amazing that each of these people, no matter their background, education or personalities, stayed in this home, whether for a night, week or years, and left a piece from their stories before leaving. Our abode in Sadashiv Peth was a real community haven. It was a retreat, a hospitable place, a comforting refuge for travelers and natives alike.
“True Punekars”
People say that those living in Sadashiv Peth call themselves true Punekars, as if living in the city’s center makes them truer or more genuine inhabitants. Regardless, there is a certain pride associated with being from the heart of a city so vibrant. Maybe it was my father’s pride, but I too share some of this emotion. My grandparents no longer live in that house in Sadashiv Peth. It was provided to employees of Pune Vidyarthi Griha, a school for orphons where my grandfather tirelessly and passionately worked as a schoolteacher for decades, 50+ years. Though our family now has no real connection to the home, nor to Sadashiv Peth itself, I guess I can revisit the home in my memories, run through that gacchi once more, pick a mango from the tree planted just behind the yard, and descend the massive staircase to Laxmi Road and Saras Baag, into the heart of Pune, my family’s second home.
