The Arrival

After changing buses in Jalandhar, I arrived in the small city of Adampur where I met my cousin. The exact lineage of our relationship is best left unexplained for it invokes complex visualizations that bring together my mother’s uncle from her fathers side’s brother; I lose the connection after this point. Traveling to the village at dusk, my senses attempted to absorb all that it could. The last time I was in Punjab was three years back and needless to say there were some changes.

“Another visitor” I remarked after seeing a young man wearing a track suit, with short and heavily gelled hair. As I wondered where he was visiting from, and his attempts to showcase his foreign experience, my cousin informed me that the man was but another local. Taking a double take at the man I was shocked for he seemed to have emerged from another country and did not fit with the surroundings of the farming village. My cousin explained that a dearth of time and lack of work has meant that the youth emulate abroad for it is considered cosmopolitan. We both laughed for now I seemed more Indian than a local.

As I reached the village and drove through the galis, (small walking space that separates houses) the first thing I noticed was the keen eyes thrust upon me. These were the eyes of expectations, curiosity, and hope that the denizens shared. Soon they would go home and among friends and there would be talk and discussions about the new person that had arrived in the village. I waved to some of them that I remembered from my previous trip. As for the houses in the village, they oscillate between one of complete neglect to modern houses that have undergone facelifts and being turned into a display of wealth.

There are certain things that are unique to the area; large antique wooden doors, the red bricks, the sandstone floors, the courtyard walls take you back to the era when the older generations lived. I meet my family and walk into my room that once belonged to my grandfather. Displayed on the ledge beside his bed where his personal belongings; the medal he received for service to the country, his pictures, and the small book of verses that he used to pray from. As I walked in the room heavy with nostalgia and sat on his bed, I wondered about the life he lived and the hardships he endured. The moment was fleeting as afternoon tea was ready and there was a lot to catch up on. He remains in my thoughts.