Naani Ka Ghar!
By Shoaib Hashmi
It is peculiar that
in our oral culture the object of attention is almost
always the house of the maternal grandmother, the
‘Naani Ka Ghar’, despite the fact that
by convention it is the paternal grandfather’s
house which is the natural abode of the child. To
be sure one can see the motive force behind some
of them; like the bit of doggerel which goes, ‘Naani
ka makaan girnay laga’! Grandma’s house
comes tumbling down...Pow!...Crash!...Boom!
Perhaps it is because most small children are only
occasional visitors to Naani’s house, and
later on remember only the welcome and the nice
things about it. For me the house was inside Mochi
Gate, near the Chowhatta Mufti Baqar; a sprawling
old pile built on both sides of the street, and
also above it. Old residents of the walled city
may recall it as the Chhatee Sabaat Wala Ghar.
That meant it had a large roof area, a fascinating
warren of Mumties and Rounces and sheds. Also, being
Mochi Gate, that meant that in the kite flying season
many a cut kite fell on the roof, and it was grandmother’s
wont to collect them and dump them behind the huge
wooden trunk in one verandah which held the winter
clothes and blankets and lihafs. Whenever, every
month or two, we went visiting, the first order
of business for us kids was to make a beeline for
the Lihaafon Wala Trunk, and go rummaging behind
to get our hands on the kites and string.
It was understood that if Grandma had slipped up
and not gathered enough kites and string to go round,
she would dig into her iron box and fork out the
ready cash, and we would trundle down the four flights
of stair, into the bazaar and replenish supplies
at the magical shop there. It was also understood
that for such purposes, this was Naani’s house
and not Nana’s!
He was a tall man, always dressed in what used to
be called a ‘frock-coat’ worn with ‘shalwaar’,
a walking stick, a pugree of white or silver gray,
and an imposing white beard. That made him rather
a formidable figure, especially if we were being
especially coltish and noisy, a single distant yell
of, bacho, mat bhago would send us scampering to
some safely remote part of the roof. And yet my
enduring memory of him is very different.
Grandfather always ate his lunch in the veranda,
sitting on one of those folding cane easy chairs,
and off a chowkee, which was a small and low table,
about eighteen inches high, because afterwards,
he would simply lean back in the chair and doze
off. He would eat quietly, softly humming to himself,
and taking care never to quite finish the chapatee,
always saving a small piece, about the size of the
rupee coin, an inch and a quarter in diameter.
When the table had been cleared and the plates taken
away, he would crumble the little piece of bread
into little crumbs -- called bhoras -- and spread
them on the table before him; and presently a dozen
or so house sparrows would gather round pecking
at the bhoras and casually sitting on his shoulders
and perching in his pugree. Sometimes if we asked,
he would smile an indulgent smile, place his hand
palm up on the table and put a few bhoras on his
hand -- and the sparrows would climb up unafraid
and eat off the palm.
This is not my attempt at pidram sultan bud, (father
was a king); nor even a hint that I might be descended
from Francis of Assisi. But if you asked me to picture
a moment of utter serenity and peace and tranquility,
even of humanity, the picture is of an old man in
white beard and white pugree dozing in the midday
sun and with sparrows perching on his shoulders
and pecking off his table! I think we have precious
little experience of such moments any more. We could
do with more!
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