the doors (with apologies to jim morrison, of whose existence i was unaware till early adulthood)

 

i was born and formed in the verdant by lanes of shivaji park in mumbai. where every street was a path to glory (with apologies to jeff a). shivaji park is just aft of the suburban border. so i am legitimately a townie. there are multiple types of townies, but that’s another blog.

shivaji park couldn’t decide whether it was utterly middle class, or middle class going on slightly upper middle class. “go west, young man” was the mantra in my knicker days, when every young person in the forementioned by lanes was expected to fly off towards the sun, not unlike icarus. that flight was expected to deposit the young, just-out-of-college person in the acme of academe, aka america. no one worth his or her salt (forgive me but i can’t handle pronouns) thought of any other life choice.

in my street, every building had at least one person spending in dollars. they were all gifted with bulging foreheads, laser focus, and a burning desire to shorten their names from makarand to mak, or mark. the makarands made their mark with degrees that had more alphabets than meta. then, got into that safest of professions – tenured professorships – and proceeded to scrape off everything remotely shivaji park from their skin and soul.

unlike most houses around the park, our house was a tiny one room + kitchen. what is called a “studio” in today’s real estate patois. it was to port of the building entrance and faced the stern of the building opposite us. not quite a view, but then who wanted a view when shivaji park in all its glory was just abaft the building wall.

this space was where my parents made a home for their 3 children. and any number of family who visited, from places near and far. it was bright, resonated with laughter, bulged to breaking point with books, redolent with the smell of good food for which my mother was known.

from this house, my parents got their children educated, and encouraged me to dream beyond the three steps leading into the family room. being directionally challenged, i decided to go northwest instead of west. to france. and from france on a journey that took me to 12 countries and a life and career that has had many highlights (yet another blog)

in the early years of the 21^st century, the parentage and baggage including their last-born moved to a bigger house. in the ‘burbs of Mumbai. across the rubicon, verily. the house was three times the size of the shivaji park house. my parents had their own bedroom. and didn’t have to share the bathroom with the neighbours. this house is a testament to their quiet desire and tenacity to do better with the cards they were dealt with.

i didn’t go back to the shivaji park house. but the “studio” architecture didn’t leave me. by default or divine design, i ended up living in studio sized apartments wherever I dropped anchor. i only coped because the mind had been broadened by vilayet.

a score and two years after I left the shivaji park house, i went back. the house is empty, its walls tired and cracked with age. the entire building looks like methuselah on his last legs.

i felt as empty as the house. nothing stirred inside, nothing choked me up. what I did feel was wonder that the parentage and siblings made this somewhat grotty space sparkling and vibrant. and how all of us dared to dream and made those dreams come true.

it’s never the size of the house. it’s the size of the dreams you carry out of it.