A Fresh Bout Of Remembrance

Sometimes, when I have nothing much at hand, and my eyes start staring into empty space, the mind maunders in the labyrinthine streets and alleys of the past. My past is so full of Shillong, that any reflection must of necessity be dominated by memories of that place. Today, I ponder over the various reasons why Shillong should occupy that exalted position in my remembrance, knowing as these travel-worn feet have trodden so many roads and lanes and pathways that at least some of my sojourns abroad might have deserved a bit of the fondness which has so completely been impounded by my place of birth. But yet, the reasons are many, and compelling.

Society, as I knew it in Shillong, for instance, I have not known anywhere else. That natural, spontaneous and uninhibited commingling of diverse minds and tastes could only have been possible in the Shillong of yore. Why? I don't have the answer, but that's what it is (or was). No household was allowed to hibernate in solitude and gloom; no person can possibly walk a mile without being greeted and chatted to, umpteen times on the way; no celebration could have happened without EVERY member of the neighborhood taking part in it. When I think what unseen force drove us to be so gregarious, I cannot see it, rather, I can only see it work. Coming home from school and gobbling my food with frenetic haste, the thought never ever crossed my mind that there might not be anyone available to play with when I rushed out of my home. That anxiety never existed for me. Once out on the road, or in the yard, others of my ilk started to appear as if by magic. Dul calling out from behind the close-cropped hedges of the Dutta compound, with Dipu preparing the playthings for a busy afternoon; Bayu and Piklu emerging from the sylvan precincts of Nashpati Bagan and inquiring whether the carrom match from yesterday will continue today; Tamal looking about for a partner to go to Batti Bazar; if nothing, play seven stones with the little girls, Rinku and Sweety. Mother had never an idle moment, with some friend either from Bisnupur or Upper Laban or from the neighborhood visiting her for an afternoon chat and tea - confabulations that stretched close to the time Deuta was expected back from office. Even the kongs from the Lloong compound sometimes came by and conversed with her in a Hindi which broke into a thousand pieces while speaking and distorted beyond recognition. Deuta would never be found at home in the evening hours, whiling away his time at the tailoring in Batti Bazar discussing Teer, or in Assam Club playing cards or at one of our neighbor's places, chiefly Mr Dutta or Mr Roy or Mr Dam.

Since the day I was born, up until the day I quit Shillong, I had known no weather but the one that was benign and soothing; knew no street other than the quiet lanes and roads of that town; and had never ever considered that such comforts, delightful as they might have been, were but rare gifts bestowed only upon Shillong. 

As it often happens, reflections such as the present one makes me fly on the wings of remembrance, and trace that trodden path again which passes through Shillong and abroad, in the vast sea of Time

Cut to Guwahati. To a neighborhood of complicated minds, thinking about who might be thinking about him or her; who might be from this or that caste, or such and such religion; who deserves a louder and a more frequent "hello" than the others; and whom to invite and whom not to for parties. The sight of eyes being deliberately averted for no reason, and querulous personalities ruling the roost became commonplace. So, why shouldn't I remember Shillong for solace?

Cut to Gurukul Road, Ahmedabad. And my unsuspecting eyes enjoying the view of Garba during Navratri are met by a glaring pair belonging to a man whose features had become nondescript due to puckering up in anger. "Su che??" He demanded, advancing menacingly. I was taken aback. My friends later told me that the man suspected that I was ogling at the girls. Oh!! For the things Shillong did not teach me!!

Cut to CST Road, Kurla (W), Bombay - ONGC Colony, Gannon Dunkerly Building. The neighbors couldn't care less who I was, or if anything was the matter with me. On one occasion, I overheard someone say, "someone from the Northeast" and on another, a complaint that bachelors "spoil the environment" of the society. And I realise what a folly it was to take that convivial society of my past for granted.

Cut to Roopnagar, Bandra (E). I introduce myself to my next door neighbor. "Hello sir, how do you do? I have just moved in next door". Something like a growl of protestation emanated, probably at being disturbed in his siesta. "Aap jo bhi ho, secretary se milo" and slammed the door in my face. I wish I stayed back in my friendly neighborhood in Laban

Cut to Balkum, Thane. Cut to Kashimira village. Cut to Mira Road - and I am taught the art of boarding and alighting from Virar and Bhayandar Locals without losing a hand or a leg or an eye, and also that women in Bombay can be tougher than men in pushing and shoving. I recall the peaceful streets of Shillong for succour.

Cut to the Gulf of Persia. I see the sun in its most malevolent avatar. I inhale all the dust that I missed inhaling during my 24 years in Shillong. Shillong seems like a dream now.

Now I am back in Guwahati. Do I want to revert to the place which gave me nothing but happiness? Will I find my old companion the same, or has she too been a victim of cruel change? I wouldn't risk an unfavorable outcome of my quest, for there is more than a wistful heart at stake: there is a treasure trove of memories, which, the farther it recedes, the brighter it shines, and I will it to remain that way