A love letter to my Home

Home is simple, unscathed by the maddening pace of hustle that the modern world demands of us. My home is where where people still know me as my father’s daughter, where I am everybody’s daughter- the neighbors, the cleaning lady, the laundry lady, the bangle seller, the shop owner around the corner.

When they see me after ages, instead of asking how well I am doing in my professional life, they ask-‘Beti Khush ho?’ (Are you happy my child?)

Home is a cluster of unplastered brick houses, no high-rises. It is wide-open rooftops welcoming you to bask in the warm and fuzzy winter sun, hearing the chatter of neighbourhood aunties as they discuss their recipes and all the latest mohalla gossip. Home is sun-drying Okra and Bitter gourd. It is where pickles are made at home and fermented in big clay pots.?

Home is where bright-coloured kites fly high, pigeons are bred, and people feed flesh to Kites (the predatory birds) from their rooftops, an eerie custom with a compassionate purpose. It is where intense debates on world politics and governance happen over chai and paan stalls. Home is the sound of the watchman’s whistle guarding your street at midnight. Often in the dead silence of the night, when one pays close attention, you can hear the echo of the ‘ding ding ding’ followed by the announcement of the late night train departing the railway station.?

Home is where we sleep in the aangan (courtyard) under the midnight blue starlit sky, caressed by the white noise of the air cooler. It is where you wake up with the sound of bells tied at the collars of the buffaloes pulling carts to load sand and cattle fodder before dawn from the Ramganga river and fields located at the city's edge.

Home is the smoke emanating from the Hukkah of the grandfather who lives next door. Home is where everybody knows everybody. It is a small world where generations have been living in the same homes, doing the same businesses. It is where a simple family gathering means dinner for 80 people.?

Home is the buzzing sound of wires amidst the quiet and stillness of the early morning. Artisans covered in soot head to toe, the noise of buff coming from the Karkhanas as they enhance the beauty of brass handicrafts. It is the sound of the call to prayer from mosques and the ringing of temple bells altogether. Home is narrow alleys, hand-pulled rickshaws, early morning farmers market, calls of peddlers selling fruit, naankhatai and all things nice after the Friday prayer.

Home is the redolent air of the famous crossroad, that smells like an exotic fusion of roses, attar, ubtan and henna.

It is the mouthwatering aroma of smoky kebabs. Home is the roll of the eye on the first bite of Biryani and Haleem. It is where people wake up early to eat that special Imarti with Rabri before it's all sold out.?

Home is unplugging, a respite from the overwhelming interaction with technology. It is where people have time. Where it is ok to visit people, even on weekdays. It is where evening tea is often served with freshly fried Samosas and Jalebis from that one famous shop that has been there since forever.

It is where you see men standing, sitting, chilling midday and people-watching. It is where any special meals are always shared with relatives and neighbours. Home is Moradabad.

My dear home town, despite all of your flaws, you are my favourite place in the whole world. Your bazaar, your alleys, your people and your vibe are all so sweetly familiar that I often wake up in the morning craving for it all. You are what I am made of and where my forefathers come from. You are old, plain and boring. You don't change much, but that’s your beauty. You anchor and ground me. You help me take a break from the incessant, automated routine that life has become, and make me feel like a human. When life goes at the pace of a supersonic jet, I often reminisce about your simplicity and slow pace.?

When I think of you, I strongly resonate with Prasoon Joshi’s description of Delhi-6- “Rehna tu, hai jaisa tu. Thoda sa dard tu, thoda sukoon” translated- “Stay the way you are. A fraction of melancholy, a fraction of peace.”?