I went back to India again last month, this time to spend more quality time with family compared to the frenzied three weeks back in September when the sudden wedding of my brother meant running around, trying to squeeze in too much in too little time.

Perhaps the thing that stands out in the India of today, is the frenzied pace with which the world turns there. Delhi was a laid back city when Bombay was considered the happening place, many years ago. Delhi’s interiors were the Mecca for politicians and a lot of cultural stuff. Today Delhi thrives on speed, noise, pollution, continuous construction and yes a lot of cultural activities if you can make your way through the smog and drivers driving in hell. The smells and sounds of India are even more intensely rubbed into your psyche like a cigarette that is stubbed with unnecessary vigor-the smoker’s feet grinding in until the last remnants of his nicotine laced orgy meet their grave in the dusty road. And yet like a smoker addicted to nicotine, India continues to be my addiction.

Jammu has undergone an even greater metamorphosis. Once upon a time, the city of my birth, was a magical city-where people of all religious backgrounds lived together in harmony. I would wake up to the sounds of Allah hu Akbar blending with sounds of cymbals as the Hindu priest chanted hymns, and the sound of drums and keyboards as the Sikh priest sang the shabads in gurmukhi. Those were days when I would grumble-why do they have these loudspeakers-why can’t I sleep just for an extra hour before heading for school. Today in a city that has learnt to discriminate and hate, I yearn to fill that hole in my heart with the divine music that was ambrosia for a young girl-except that she sipped from that nectar not knowing its worth.

The memories of my childhood are lush with reminiscences of what seems to be another era-the overflowing Tawi River where as kids we’d go for a dip as the first rays of the rising sun burst forth across the wide blue expanse of the horizon. The skyline was speckled with hills and historic forts and old temples caressed by brilliant golden rays.

We’d be told to stay close to the banks as the currents were merciless. My grandmother would widen her eyes and whisper-remember that young boy who came for a swim and dared to go against the tide? The river swallowed him. So beware.” The river seemed so mysterious then and we’d wonder at its depth. Were there hidden monsters lurking beneath, we’d ask each other, as we took the first delicious bite of our morning breakfast-scrambled eggs, paratha (wheat pancakes) pickle and delicious mango or cantaloupe slices to cool our tongues that the spicy pickle had left burning for respite. A few days ago I saw the same skyline speckled with multilayered flyovers, high rise buildings, and a Tawi river that was dried to the core, sweeping away with it, all the childhood fantasies, the magical mysteries I could weave so easily in my mind-like cobwebs that had lingered too long.

We drove to the Goddess Mahamaya’s temple atop a mountain. Lore has it that the first king Gulab Singh saw the Goddess in his dream and she asked him to build the temple to honor her and that she would meet him at the place. She did in the form of a little girl. Today that little temple has been rebuilt into a larger monument, as the faith of people around it grew. Walking through cobbled streets laden with swarming ants, cowdung, stray cows, curious monkeys and nervous goats who nevertheless tried to yank the marigold garlands from your hand for an appetizer, I felt an amazing sense of peace. My lungs inhaled the mountain fresh air, and my eyes took in the majestic view of the hills and valleys on one side and that of the old Palace of the King surrounded by tons of buildings that have snaked their ways around the palace today.

I walked through the now heavily congested and much narrower streets of Raghunath bazaar which has all the upscale shops, eateries and the famous Raghunath temple dedicated to Lord Rama. In the old days my grandmother would bring us there every evening and then we’d go and eat at one of the little roadside dhabas-I don’t think any five star hotels can match the delicious food found in these roadside eateries for a fraction of the cost. I learnt to haggle with vendors from my grandmother. It gave me a major kick to have gotten the vendor to bring the prices down. 

This time, as I look at the torn holes in the sweater of the vendor, I haggle still, but let him get away with what I know very well to be an exorbitant price for what I wanted. I tell myself, it’s not that much in dollars. He still tries to look the aggrieved party, but he knows that I know he’s made a killing. I’m less merciful with shopkeepers in the affluent part of town-even my aunts are surprised that I outdid their expertise a couple of times-but it all depends on how desperate they are to sell and how much I want to buy something.

I go to this run down Dogra Art museum. The building is shabby from outside-the people inside can’t believe their eyes that they have a bunch of us wanting to look inside. The guide who has spent perhaps so many days twiddling his thumb, falls over himself in his eagerness to share the little stories, show some special pieces of art from 3-400 years ago. When I volunteer to buy all the cards they have-they scramble and come up with just 3 packets.. “No one comes here..so” says one of them sheepishly. There are some real gems inside that place, gathering dust because who cares about the past anymore? It intensifies my need to keep looking back, to wanting to reconnect, to want to be a child again, to run carefree on paths that were full of innocence, and had not yet created the memories, that were lingering once again, in the air that I was breathing today.

I went to Jaipur-the pink city-my brother has a beautiful farm house in 3 acres of land-open, green, with three dogs, each with its own personality. Shakti, an 11 year old black lab-her name means power-but she limps towards me, her leg stiffened by arthritis-full of love and dignity, welcoming me even though she is meeting me for the first time. Bonzo a golden lab has just turned one-he makes flying leaps at me almost toppling me over as he drools and licks my face-and Bonnie, who is not yet one and wants only to take nips at anything because she is teething- is careful not to bite my hand too hard. I sit in the wee hours of the morning in the lawn outside, massaging her gums, as Bonzo jumps up on the bench and sits behind me, his entire body pressed against my back, his face on the arm of the bench and gives a contented sigh. I find myself surrounded by unconditional love that only a dog can give. Later I walk into the temple my uncle had built. He was my mom’s oldest brother, and passed away suddenly 2 years ago. It was a tough loss, because he was truly the most lovable man in our family and I find myself breaking down and telling him how much I miss him to this day.

I walk down into the prayer room-the dholak, the cymbals are lying there as if he would walk in any moment and begin the prayer session singing in his deep beautiful voice. His favorite help Shankar, and I choke talking about him. Shankar had not left my uncle’s side for years, and today he feels orphaned even though my brother has made sure he continues to stay with us and is well taken care of. I wish I could rewind my life by a few years and spend time with my uncle, laughing and joking. Instead I look at the beautiful artistry of his work-he painted and decorated the prayer room himself. It still reverberates with positive energy and serenity-as if he left a protective aura behind. As if it all flows still the way he wants it.

I visit the old palaces-Amber fort and the city palace which houses so many artifacts donated by the King-the stories of many kings are told through pictures, weapons, clothing and mementos. The king who was an astronomer and a camera ace in the 19th century, the king who was 7 feet 2 inches tall and 4 and a half feet wide and loved to eat. How 9 people sat behind him and in front of him as he sat in the middle of a boat to save it from toppling over. The largest cannon in the world that was used only once and its fear was enough to scare all the king’s enemies from attacking Jaipur.

The Taj Mahal-as majestic in real life as it has seemed in the pictures I have seen of it. I caress the cool white marble of the mausoleum, which has been a symbol of the love emperor Shahjahan had for his queen Mumtaz Mahal. And yet the invisible drops of blood that have washed over the white marble, remain unseen. Thousands of artisans who built the Taj had their hands cut off because Shahjahan didn’t want them replicating the Taj. Do all the great things in life always come with a price? I hope not.

As I stood in line at the security check 2 days ago and thought of the past 3 weeks, I realized that while the India of my childhood has changed because change is the only permanent thing in life- what hasn’t changed is the fact that every step of the way, in these three weeks, my journey was made sweeter by the love of my parents, my sister, my brothers, their wives, their children. The fragrance of that love warms my soul again and again. Seeing the loving faces of my aunts and uncles and brothers, meeting mom’s friend who I haven’t seen for ages, and who tells me possessively-I was in the delivery room with your mother-I have known you since the day you were born” meant a lot. It also meant a lot that coming back in a couple of months, didn’t make me outlive my welcome. ” We didn’t get enough time with you” remained the constant refrain. 

Each time I come home, it’s like slipping my feet into those old comfortable pair of socks that one keeps returning to even after buying a lot of new designer wear. The love that lingers like the fragrance of the Jasmine flowers I loved so much as a child, continues to envelop me in its warm embrace, making my home coming as joyous today as it was in all my yesterdays.

Write to Kavita at opinion@nripulse.com.