This house holds within itself stories of 24 people who used to live here. Some of them passed away peacefully in different continents, some in the same premises breathed their last, and the ones alive, which makes the majority of the next generation, left it, to pursue and explore their destinies elsewhere.
I tried to purchase houses several times, but despite the best intentions and the money, I was never able to find one.
Since I passed the age of 40, wisdom has dawned on me many times. In my quest to heal my grief, I sat with the complexities of grief that enveloped me, trying every possible method to make sense of my loss, understand it and eventually accept it.
Acceptance continues to be the most challenging part, and I believe it is still a work in progress.
I belong here;
After a meandering of several years, I finally came back to where I belong, or perhaps ,this is what I want to believe for now.
This morning, when I was upstairs on the terrace, soaking in my share of sunshine, the surroundings looked new, clean, and so alien. Instead of feeling satisfied with the month-long project I have been involved in,I felt a deep sense of loss!
The old corners, the connection, the subtle hint of a memory every time I would pass through a particular place, everything is gone, I only see fresh walls, neat, clean and smelling of strong paint.
My heart yelled, I want my old home back!
It was the year 1990. During the foundation ceremony of the house, a vast gathering was called; relatives, acquaintances and distant relatives made it to the event,the album had everyone except me.
I am nowhere and do not feature in any of the pictures; shyly tucked away in my grandma’s room, I was lost in my own world, oblivious to the event and the activities.
My mother was cross with me for my absence and not showing up in any pictures, and then, in the winter of November 1990, we moved into our house.
35 years later.
Today, November 2025, the house stands with very few residents, including me, coming a full circle from an oblivious eight-year-old to a 44-year-old totally invested in the renovation of the house, which has been running for a month.
This house stands witness to countless events and gatherings, accommodating people in every nook and corner despite its limitations, from weddings of our own to weddings of kith and kin of distant relatives who lacked the means for a lavish wedding hall; it offered each a generous embrace.
Wailing of newborns to silent tears in the depths of the night, it holds in its rich history moments of joy, from funerals to farewells, including the complicated emotions of conflict and reunions among its members.
The archives of it lie in the deep recesses of the cracked walls, though sealed and repaired, I’m sure they are rich with a repository of collections that includes both paltry and lofty moments.
1942 holds a lot of significance in the history of India. The year when the Indian struggle for Independence took form of Quit India Movement. It was the same year my Grandfather (Maternal) purchased an 1 acre of land, and this land, on which my house stands today, was part of the backyard.
1985, lost in my play with cousins in the orchard, if the ball happens to cross the boundaries and go across this patch of land filled with wild thorny shrubs and bushes, no one dared to cross it, even if it meant the ball was well within the sight at an arms length.
The backyard patch was wide, a home to stray dogs, and a huge, deep well (bawli) at the far end corner. It was a muth ki bawli ( a deep well without boundaries) , with spooky stories of a djinn that occupies it only at night,I wonder where he stayed during the day time .
As night befalls this patch of land looked more dark and uninviting, beyond the bawli and shrubs where the boundaries of the backyard ended,a pond(Talaab) deep enough to kill someone who cannot swim stood with radiating water, reflecting the night sky with bright stars and occassionally the full moon, and at the other end of it, a shamshanghat (Hindu graveyard and a cremation ground).
Scared of the dark ,but curious to explore the night sky, I would always stand at the edge and try to catch a glimpse of the setting Sun amidst the thorny bushes.
November 1990– We moved into our house.
November 2025 ,I stand in the Balcony capturing the beautiful sunset in the small water body which cannto be totally dismissed as a pond nor be called one. The shamshanghat is still there and offer a clear view of the cremation from the balcony and I end up learning more about life as I witness the end to it.
My House holds within it stories, emotions, and memories, and today, despite being freshly painted, though it may have lost its old look yet very gracefully and generously it continues to hold space for the grieving me and the empty spaces as it has been for the past three decades.
Thank you for taking the time to read my story
Warmly,
Mehnaz Amjad