I am an outcast from the entire ‘community’ system, not by choice but by default. To be more accurate, I don’t really have a community setup around me to be a part of it. I am not religious; hence I do not take part in any of the customs, which by default of birth everybody else does. Except in my case my parents figured all the mayhem around them was due to religions, or more accurately community clashes. Twenty years down the line, the situation remains the same and I understand their point of view, through their progenies they wanted to see a new breed come into existence wherein their only creed would be derived from love of the human race. Thus I don’t have a surname.

So I used to be in the North of India as a child, to be precise till I was about 9 years old. My dad being in a government service has to cope with transfers, and so I landed up leading the next 8 years in Chennai- down south. I lost contact with my relatives, I lost fluency with Punjabi (when I left the north I had still been in the stage where I was only picking up the language) and became an alien to my own family. I used to believe Nathanpur (my maternal grandparents home) to be my home, no matter where I went I always came back to it. It was a huge Haveli, sort of like a fortress, with innumerable number of rooms, many lavishly decorated, with servants all around, sort of like a palace almost. There was a water tank within it that functioned as a swimming pool for all of us,leading onto the servant quarters. Huge spaces, three families within. Winters would find everyone out on charpai’s (beds- made of ropes tied together, supported by a wooden frame) basking in the warmth of the sun. Two huge dogs. In the summers Darji (my grand father) would get swings tied up in the veranda’s, I would always go behind him asking for khati meethi goli’s (as i grew up i learnt these to be vitamins!) and he would always call me his Beeba Putar (beloved son – it's a habit of sardar’s to refer to their children using the male gender). This whole haveli was surrounded by sugarcane fields, all owned by my Darji. A ten minute walk through the fields took us to the orchard, that’s the point my mama used to always turn back from.

I went there twice during my Chennai stay. I could not go when Darji passed away, was having my boards exams if I remember correctly. Went back two years ago, I couldn’t even recognise it. The old mud road had been replaced by the regular roads characteristic of our towns and cities- tar, not too smooth, not too rough, tar. As far my sight could go, there were square shaped brick houses. Bricks and tar. No sugarcane fields, no orchards, no Darji. Family feuds, natural occurrence when rich brats, who’ve never had to really work, get a chance at getting more money. More walls. The brothers sold everything, the haveli remains. There’s a highway being built right next to it, people will be able to access Dehradun so much more easily now…they call it development- more tar in place of absolute heaven. I sat at the same window sill where I used to sit and watch the bullock carts roll by as mum and my Beeji (grandmom) chatted in the kitchen…only this time I had turned away my face from the family because they were expressing their happiness at having disposed off all of the fields. That’s when I realized that this place never was mine to have taken the liberty of considering this as my home. All because my mom had been a daughter and not a son in the family, wonder if the reverse would have made any difference.


I never belonged in Chennai. The contrast between the south and the north of India is tremendous, almost like two different countries. Came back, loved to hear people speak in Hindi, loved to hear the little boys with their dholkies (drums) come and play inside the busses, loved to finally understand the comments boys made when they were ‘line marofying’ – everything will change but the breed of road side Romeos will never perish!

We don’t celebrate any festival. All days are the same for us. Remember we’re not religious, and considering all festivals being a by-product of religions, there is no time of the year when we really celebrate. I came to north, looking for a home; only to realize that there was no such thing as home, no such community that I really belong to.

So here I am, my only religion being work. My dad worked right through the week, so that is all I know that one has to do in life. Nothing else really matters. And so I live my life.

Started writing this because today there was a kirtan being organised by my masi (mum’s sister) as it is Darji’s death anniversary today. I couldn’t go for it as at the last moment we were called in by the college for sessions to prepare us for the upcoming placements. I thought I would still make it in time, missed mama by like 15 minutes. Felt so terrible. I've just never been there for you Darji...don’t know Punjabi, cut my hair, sat and watched as the world you made was molested and torn away. Just the same, I hope you knew I always loved you; I always wanted to talk to you more, to know you better…