My favourite lanes.

I wanted to call this post ‘Down Memory Lane’.
But then I would have had to kill myself.

I have a weird relationship with roads.
Some I love, passionately.
Some I hate, with a passion.
I even dream of walking down the ones I love.
(Yes, weird.)

The first road I got to walk alone,
was in Baroda, in Wadi Bhatwada.
(Sounds very Seven Pillars of Wisdom-ish, doesn’t it?)
At 5, I was finally permitted to the bus-stop alone.

As soon as I left home, there was a timber yard to the left.
To me, all that wood was a jungle.
And I would start making up a jungle story.
To last me till the bus-stop.
(On the right was the owners’ house.
Rather huge with rather too many inhabitants.)

After the yard came a row of small shops.
One with an old, fat lady who used to sell curd
from a large, earthenware pot lashed with thick hemp rope.
I always remember that shop with a few women outside.
Alongside curd, I think she scooped out some acidic gossip as well.

Before her shop, was her son’s.
Which was a seasonal shop.
So in January, he sold kites.
In March he sold gulal.
In Oct-Nov, he sold firecrackers.
Was always a lovely shop to ogle into.
And in January, to shop in.

[My mum used to make me wear hats.
And some bizarre stretchlon clothes
which no one else seemed able to procure.
(Maybe, no one else wanted it.)
So ‘Baba’ walking down the road was entertainment.
School days weren’t any better.
My tie and blazer (only on specific, deplorably hot days)
always caused much amusement.]

By the time the kite-seller and his mother
had been integrated into my jungle story,
there came a fairly large house.
Which had a boy my age, often seen
crapping on the pavement.
He would smile at me (or at stretchlon).
Baba would walk around him, holding his breath.
(One still wasn’t allowed to cross the road.)

To the right was a ‘pol’.
In Gujarat, especially in the older enclaves,
men who practised a trade, stayed together.
So it’s like a residential, artisans’ guild.

Homes face each other.
And balconies on the first floor, almost touch each other.
No windows in the rear.
And since they share walls, most have none on the sides as well.
Thus they continue down the lane.
With merry, side lanes as well.
The last house in each lane shuts off the lane.
Forming a cul-de-sac.
At the entrance, they have a huge arch,
with a massive wooden door with metal plates.

Each ‘pol’ therefore, is a fortress.
Once they seal the door, you can’t enter.
And once you are inside, the only way to exit
is the barred entrance.
The lanes are also just bout one horse wide.
Sensible, careful folk.

Coming back to the ‘pol’ on my road,
I never ever went in.
And I have not a clue what trade they plied.
But those heavily carved wooden balconies and doors,
and that giant door I never saw shut,
added many princes and witches to my jungle story.

A little ahead, was a T junction.
One took a left there.
On the left, immediately, was the Royal Enfield Garage.
(Ah yes, that led to one lifelong fascination.)

Next to it was a bakery.
In the evenings, if one was lucky,
one got a glimpse of the ovens being opened,
to pull out the assorted breads and biscuits within.
They opened to an angry roar.
And inside, deep within you could see wicked tongues of flame.
And on Sunday, as merciless, cassocked shepherds made me repent
my sins of the week with unholy glee, the oven sprang to mind.
Cheap bastards.

Otherwise, the bakery was heaven.
In the evenings, after a long day at math
and much exertion on the playing fields of Rosary HS,
the smell of fresh bread sent digestive juices
cascading down the ileum.

Then came the massive, green playground on the left.
Which one was allowed to gaze at
from the balcony of the apartment.
But playing there, was prohibited.

Opposite that was a row of tiny homes.
Very colonial, in my memory.
I used to think that ‘groundsmen’ used to live in them.

Once I had checked on the several cricket teams
on the ground, there came a huge wall with a wicket gate on the right.
One stepped through it and entered the Geeta Vidyamandir campus.
Their uniform was a cream shirt combined with brown pants.
Before I could get out of the school compound, I had to pass a temple.
Where, like the GVS boys, I would bow outside.

Once I passed through the school’s main gate,
I would be out on the main road.
Which was my bus-stop.

There, waiting impatiently, would be my school-mates.
Then, till our white-and-grey bus came along, we would amuse ourselves.
Playing marbles, French cricket and the like.
On rainy days, we huddled in our raincoats.
Along the steps of the shops there.
And played book-cricket.
(A couple of times we got into fights with the GVS boys.
‘Angrez suer’ was often the cause.
Of course, we ended up with bruises.
We were in front of their school, right?)

Once we were in the bus, the games would continue.
But I, like a dog (without the drool), would hang onto the window.
And watch the passing sights.
Posters of Mithun’s movie, Surakshaa, which ran for long,
are a fond, faint memory.
If it was raining and the shutters were down,
I would finish off my jungle story.
Otherwise which, it was finished on the return walk home.

I will most probably dream about this road tonight.
And sometime, I’ll tell you about another.
The road that led from Velankulam to my grandad’s house.