It is pretty hot even at five thirty in the evening. I can feel it as soon as I get out of the car which I just parked in one of the tiniest lanes of Kasba Peth. Few kids are playing cricket in the same 'galli'. I hope they don’t smash the car with their ball.
"We used to play cricket here, fielding is difficult", Dad says as we start walking towards our 'wada'. "It’s the same place, only a different generation."
As I see the ramshackle 'wada', I recall those memories when my grandfather used to stay here and we used to pay a visit. The entrance is like a dark tunnel where cycles would be stacked upon each other. One of those belonged to my grandfather. We -or shall I say the whole world - used to call him 'Mama'. Mama used to ride his bicycle from Kasba Peth to ordinance factory of Dehu-road and back. His wife, my grandmother, used to work as maid. This would ensure that their ends met, that included feeding and educating five kids with limited income and scarce resources and surviving in the whole process. The tunnel has deformed, one of the walls has bulged and the wooden plank holding the ceiling has cracked under the weight of the first floor. It is a dangerous place to stand under. Some day it might just cave in and block access to the 'wada', if the 'wada' itself does not cave in that is. As I move forward, I see two elderly women sitting on the patio, pasting misri (tobacco powder) to their teeth. It is almost a ritual to do so before the sun sets. Dad waves his hand and asks them about their health. They look confused through their thick glasses as they cannot figure out who I am.
"Dhakta mulga haa mazha". Dad screams so that they can hear him properly. I watch them nod their heads in unison as if everything is crystal clear now. I go upstairs, the wooden staircase was recently replaced by a metal one, it is so far the strongest element in the entire complex, but for safety reasons, only one person can use the entire flight of stairs at a time. The wada can be classified into four major structures. North - the tunnel, South - bathrooms, then East and West 'wings' which has 'Kholis'. Dad joins me soon, we open the locked door of our house. The name plate 'B. S. Jadhav' proudly stamped on one of the edges of the door. We keep all the things that we brought for the ritual tomorrow in the quiet and tiny room which played the role of both kitchen and bedroom. It is my grandmother's thirteenth day after she passed away. In that silence -which has replaced the chatter and chaos of five kids and parents and neighbors- I feel at peace, just like it feels in the shrine of a temple. The cracked walls, chipped paint and broken wooden roof does little to forget the days it has seen once. All the departed are now in peace.
Ajinkya's grandfather sits on the bed which has been lying next to our room for years. Ajinkya's 'Ajoba' has been sitting on the same bed for years as well, I have been watching him smile at me since the time we shifted to Pune in 1993. A tall, fair man with a handsome face and nice curvy moustache which almost makes him look like a British soldier. He recognizes me instantly and beckons me to join him. With a curious but ever-smiling face he pats his shaky hand on the bed asking me to sit.
"Vay kaay", he shouts. His voice and vision is clear. "Sahavvis", I say. Then I realize that I need to speak up since he can't hear properly. I shout 'twenty six' in his ears again and then he begins.
"I am 86", he pauses "I have met with gruesome accidents seven times in my life", he shows the figure seven using his fingers, "It was in 1957 when I had the most dangerous one. Akhkhi bus angavar padli" (The whole bus fell on me).Driver mahanala 'gela haa manoos' (driver said that this man is gone -dead). I had presumed that this is going to be a boring conversation, but with this statement, my curiosity suddenly increased.
"But I rose and started walking on my own feet within a year." He stares into my eyes, after a long pause again, he shouts "Ichcha pahije (we just need to have will power). I had broken one side of the rib-cage and one leg." He puts his shaking fingers on my chest showing exactly what part was broken.
"But I rose and started walking on my own feet within a year." He stares into my eyes, after a long pause again, he shouts "Ichcha pahije (we just need to have will power). I had broken one side of the rib-cage and one leg." He puts his shaking fingers on my chest showing exactly what part was broken.
He raises his shaky hand and requests me for a handshake. I oblige. Suddenly he clamps my hand so hard that I have to agree that he is still strong. He starts laughing. 'Ahe ki nahi ajun taakat ?' (Ain't I the strongest one still ?)
Dad joins us briefly as he waits for the pandal guy to show up. 'Athanne, Ek rupaya, don, paach ani mag saat', (50 paise, 1 rupee, 2, 5 and then 7 Rupees) baffled, I look at Ajoba wondering if he is having some visions or if he is doing the thing that old people do: talking to themselves. 'Hya kholi cha bhaada', He pauses with his gleaming eyes staring at me allowing me to sink in. "Maalakala 3 kholya"(3 rooms for the owner). The wada used to have twenty families, now it is only four left who have chosen to stay. That too only the older people. Their children have moved out. Laxmibai, his wife, comes out of the room. Wearing a nav-vari saree , a thick red 'bindi' and a thick gold mangalsutra around her neck, she has the looks of the perfect granny in her early eighties. Most of her siblings and people of her age group have left the world for good. She is short, but stands tall amidst the absence of all her friends, her kids and grand-kids and the recently deceased bestie: my grandma !
I cant help but notice how old people manage to have a smile on their face.
"Chandu retire zhala magchya varshi", she shouts as well. Chandrakant, Ajinkya's father, retired today (31st May) from service last year. She updates Indar, my dad, with this information. Chandu shifted to a flat far away from the wada long ago.
"Satraa Hazaar pension ahe" (17000 pension he gets), Ajoba says proudly.
I wonder what stops their kids from taking their parents to their new homes.
"Amhala jamat nahi re te, daar lavla ki sagla jag banda jhalyasaarkha vaatata, wada baraay"
"Amhala jamat nahi re te, daar lavla ki sagla jag banda jhalyasaarkha vaatata, wada baraay"
(We cannot adjust to the flats, it is like the whole world ends when the door closes, wada is better). As if she just read my mind, Laxmibai clarifies with a smile. No wonder this wada now looks like an asylum for the old.
"Shiklaa kaa ?". Ajoba questions dismissing his wife's subject for conversation.
"Ho, kamala jaato ata". I reply. After a long pause, he asks. "Payment kiti ??". I cook up some imaginary number so as to not make it look overwhelming for him. I make sure it matches his son's pension.
He starts muttering something, his moustache amplifying the movement of his lips.
"Kaanadi yete kaa ?" (Can you speak Kannada). I nod saying just a little. "Bangalore la hoto na deed varsha, thodi kalte" (I understand a little, was in Bengaluru for one and a half year).
"Maansaani phirla pahije".(People must travel) He shouts again. He goes on, "Punjab, Kashmir, Keral, sagla phirloy. Sipoy jhalyawar firava lagaycha". Suddenly, all the pieces fit together: his curvy moustache, his slim build, trembling hands but stable eyes, strong heart and a good general knowledge are all attributed to the fact that he was once a soldier in the Indian Army. He can speak Punjabi, Kannada and Telugu as well.
All these old men and women are full of energy and enthusiasm, helping me and my dad and the other guy. A few minutes ago, they didn't know who I was! For those ten-fifteen minutes, the wada comes alive. I wonder how it must have been when the rent was just seven rupees !
What makes a good home ? I ponder. The vibes that come out of the damp walls, broken and tilted floors and leaking roofs are so easily dismissed by the energy of these old people. All determined to give their departed neighbor a good farewell !
The pandal is fixed, the floor is spick-and-span, the things needed for rituals kept inside B.S. Jadhav's Kitchen/Bedroom. We are all set to leave.
"Rahu de re, taalaa nako lavus, amhi ahot" Laxmibai stops my dad when he takes the key out for locking it. My dad locks it anyway, 'I dont trust the rats at night' he says.
'Haaa', Laxmibai cant agree more. All the while Ajinkya's ajoba's eyes are locked on to me.
"Yeto mi" I wave my hand and depart. He does not reply, but maintains that stare and the smile.
At the entrance of the wada, I stop and look back. On the first floor, I see him fallen on the ground struggling to get up, his wife pulling him up so that he can reach the bathroom and relieve himself. Both succeed !
"So his legs tremble as well" I say to myself and leave.
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