37. Death of a belief
Prahlad hurriedly lifted the old man and shouted into his face, Mein woh nahin hai. I am not my grandfather. I am Prahlad, the grandson. Still befuddled, now a reasonably small sized crowd came up him, measuring his features with a local legend from old times.
I am Prahlad, he continued moaning, torn
between the forlorn sight which has managed to damaged his childhood imaginations
in a flash and a curious crowd who wanted to pinch his face or touch his feet,
sometime simultaneously. It took a few more minutes before he could be brought
back to his senses and the locals, to theirs. What happened here, I jumped in
to ask.
Pralay sahab, Vidhvansh. The earth opened up. Silently, it ate
everything atop it and then stopped. As long as his size does not grow, we are
okay to live with it. But now, it is fear that rules us. I asked quietly, how
we get to the house.
Taking a circuitous route along the
ammunition dump, Prahlad occasionally remembered some piece of his childhood.
Even in this excuse of a road, he had memories. He had memories everywhere in
this strange netherworld.
Reaching the entrance to the house, it
appeared new. Yes, as if it were newly made. By an Indian - for a Sahab. A
creator with a taste for both the cultures. Yet, I laugh softly. Those Indian
additions were the result of the overt enthusiasm of one or other of Prahlad’s
clan. If the grandfather wouldn’t knock a few walls down, if his father
couldn’t clean all the waste lying strewn and if Prahlad himself wouldn’t have
added a mini-me version of his industrious hands, than I be damned. It was a
house made by them, for them and after they left, was always for them.
In this war-ravaged land, atop a deep
crater stood the house of my dreams. The well and our cricket grounds had gone,
the manager’s even bigger bungalow with its own swimming pool was also gone. Only
our old house stood and a few more houses to its side.
As we gingerly side stepped the mile wide
crater and entered the compound, old memories flooded back. Every coordinate in
the earth, every old tree, everything seemed to be the same. Everything was
perfect. And the house too. It was neatly painted and glancing inside, we could
see all the rooms, devoid of people, but still neat and clean.
‘Sahab, the house was just being
painted for the new officer when the sink hole appeared. Everyone ran and now
no one wants to shift to the house. The locals use it for their evening adda
and clean the premises themselves.’
After more than an hour of peering around
and receiving blessings from an increasing crowd, a shocked Prahlad sat down by
himself. The premises and rooms was being cleaned only towards the front
portion of the building. As Prahlad peered behind, he saw long lines of staff
quarters, crumbled upon themselves and now in complete ruins. It was a war zone
there, only his house remained. I wondered about Rishi and his walk yesterday.
