Edited By : Vrinda Rastogi
Stepping into the desolate expanse, I encountered ancient walls adorned with intricately preserved carvings, embraced by nature’s delicate touch. While appearing as mere ruins to a casual observer, the site whispered a rich narrative to me. It held the tale of a bygone era—a splendid palace where monarchs reveled in opulence and authority. Hidden within the weathered cracks of millennium-old walls, the past unfolded like a clandestine story. Echoes of voices, melodies, and battles resonated through the expansive atmosphere, breathing life into the dilapidated remnants and inviting imagination to dance among the remnants of grandeur.
Born in Kanpur, my roots anchor in the essence of a grand old bungalow that embraced my childhood. Although Gurgaon became the backdrop for the majority of my life since the age of five, the echoes of that Kanpur home linger, imprinting it as my true sanctuary. This majestic abode, a sprawling old-style bungalow adorned with marbled floors and ivory walls, encapsulates my childhood. Its charm unfolds in a beautiful veranda, flanked by a quaint temple and kitchens on either side. A lotus pond sits in the veranda, its walls adorned with fragrant flowers weaving tales of time. A solitary swing, once witness to monsoon joys, still stands as a silent testimony to those moments. An archway leads to my most cherished sanctuary, a secret haven that transcends time. Picture soft, dew-kissed grass underfoot, a canvas painted with flowers boasting hues and fragrances beyond imagination. In the lively symphony of nature, monkeys engage in playful or fierce antics a mystery that perpetually captivates. Every conceivable bird lends its unique cooing melody, turning the air into a harmonious chorus. Amidst this idyllic scene stands an ancient, towering peepal tree, a silent witness to countless tales. Here, time seems to stand still, allowing me to lose myself for hours, gazing at the canvas of vibrant blue skies and indulging in dreams of a simpler life, reminiscent of days gone by. In the symphony of crested creepers and ancient walls, my heart finds solace, making that Kanpur home not just a place but an eternal sanctuary of nostalgic bliss.
A mere five years old when I departed from my childhood home, I vividly remember each room and the tales its storied walls encapsulates of my life. My grandparent’s room, my place of warmth and security where I nestled between them, cocooned in the comfort of their love, dreaming soundly. My parent’s room, a haven for languid afternoons spent beneath the rhythmic dance of curtains stirred by the soft exhale of the fan while I created with my wild imagination what everyone in that house called ‘Art’. The downstairs hall witnessed endless hours of childhood revelry – hide and seek, tag, games now adrift in the nostalgia of youth. Then, the sacred realm of my great grandmother, where annual Diwali pujas unfolded, concluding with the tender touch of her moist kiss on my forehead. In these rooms, time ceased to tick conventionally, weaving a narrative that, like an incomplete book, defines the essence of who I am.
Yet, with the relentless march of time, the metamorphosis of that cherished house unfolded. Its once sturdy walls now bear the scars of age, life not so simple anymore. The ivory wallpaper, once a pristine adornment, peels away from the weathered walls, cracks tracing stories around paintings in the hall. The towering peepal tree, once a symbol of enduring strength, now stands severed, its absence felt in the silence. The swing, a relic of joyous monsoons, hangs solitary, repurposed to cradle drying clothes in every season. To the casual onlooker, it might resemble ruins, but to me, it breathes life into my story, a living testament that speaks, narrating tales of a past much grander than individual existence. In its weathered façade, my house encapsulates the immensity of the past, a repository of memories, echoing with the resonance of time much vaster than the individual, transcending the boundaries of our transient lives.
Perhaps, this fuels my profound passion for the ancient monuments of Delhi. Within their weathered stones, I sense a familiar narrative—an imprisoned storyteller’s soul yearning for a listener. To me, the beauty lies in the ruins, a testament to time’s inexorable impact. Much like the wrinkles on a face, each line etched on the monuments encapsulates a rich history. The allure of hidden places persists as I seek those where the past’s echoes permeate the air, whispering tales into receptive ears. In these remnants, I find a resonance with the tales of my own cherished house—a shared language of time’s imprint, urging me to explore, listen, and unravel the stories woven into the very fabric of our existence.I am still looking for those hidden places where tales of the past echo through the air, whispering stories in my ears.