Jogapur

Back to old roots. Upheld by sturdy pillars. And by the sacrifices of some, to whom I will be eternally grateful. There must have been people who would have opened the same drawers I did in the last hundred years, and their touch remains. The anticipation of looking into every room of the humongous number of them - each leading to the other - for a treasure trove.There must have been kids who would have tried out the khadau, like I did; maybe with the elation of putting on grown up footwear. But the awe that was there, it was the same. The huge ornate mirrors that could tell the story of the vanity and the artfulness and the beauty and the diffidence of a century worth of lives that somehow are all connected with me. The ancient portico that bore imprints of harsh British rulings, and where my Achchi nani must haved ruled as Lady of the House when they were gone. The relics, the carvings, the feel of the life lived in this place makes me wonder why anyone would not want to be a historian. The sprawling aangan, the sprawling lawns, the sprawling fields and the sprawling house; they draw me there. Maybe its the ghosts of my forefathers calling me, maybe its the appeal in the antiquity of the house, maybe its the seclusion. All I know is that someday, I will be back.