Where the Heart Was

I wrote this piece recently for a Writers group that I belong to. After some debate with myself, decided to share it with my world.

When I was just a little boy my parents moved into the apartment where I went on to spend seventeen years of my growing up life. With four older sisters, one of who got married when I was five, we were previously crammed into a modest two bedroom place of which I remember very little. My biggest memory of the older flat is running into our household help who was carrying a pot of hot water and having it spilled on me one morning. Something I would much rather forget.

The new apartment was large with four bedrooms, three baths, three balconies, a formal dining room and even a room for storing ’stuff’. The entire place had Italian tiles laid out on the floor which made it always look shiny and new. The bathrooms had granite walls and one of them was large enough to be a bedroom. Each time we had a new visitor, my dad would give them a tour of the 2400 square foot rental, with probably the same kind of pride as the owner.

It was always a very busy household with a revolving door of relatives who would come to stay for a while, whether it was for business or pleasure. Additionally there were friends of my sisters and mine that would drop by to hang out. I don’t think it was because of the apartment size - it was more because my mother was much more welcoming than the other mothers. The refrigerator was always packed with jugs full of summery drinks, refreshing lemonade, mango milk shake, bael sharbat etc., and varieties of sweets to satisfy a family of sugar lovers. A supply of snacks would keep coming from the kitchen, whenever there were people over, which was pretty much most of the time. A busy household it was for sure.

More than a hundred people were invited to my 10th birthday, which was celebrated right in that apartment. I had recently turned the corner from a long and serious illness and my parents were in the mood to party. The place was completely packed with people, an enormous cake had been ordered from my favorite bakery, Flury’s, and my bedspread was completely covered with presents. The excitement of opening those wrapped gifts, most of which were books, was the part I recollect most vividly. I also remember one of my uncles asking if it was my birthday or my wedding that was being celebrated!

In all the years that we lived there, my family saw both good times and rough times. Many years of affluence were followed by some years of struggle. We went from owning two cars, two drivers to using public transportation. Household help became minimal, the sister just older than me began working and I was tutoring school children while in college. I remember the stress that my parents were going through but I don’t remember us being unhappy. While eating at restaurants came to a stop, there was always food at the table. Looking back, I think it taught me many lessons that helped me get through life as a stronger person.

Over the course of my existence I’ve lived in eight different ‘homes’ but it’s the one I grew up in, the one in New Alipore, Calcutta, that must have made the biggest impact on me. I say ‘must have’ because that is the only place I dream about on a regular basis. Not the apartments I rented in Chicago, the house I owned in Naperville, Illinois, the pre-war apartment I loved in New York City or the penthouse that I’ve now rented out in Bangalore. It’s not as if I miss the place or even think about it, but more often than not, its the set for my dream theater.

Four years ago I went back to 617 ‘O’ Block, which is now occupied by a childhood friend and his family. The entire time that I was there I felt a strong sense of discomfort. I haven’t figured out if it was due to my friend intruding into my memories or if I still felt a sense of ownership for a space that was no longer mine. When they moved into the flat, they inherited a trunk with some possessions from our lives. Crazy about rock music from a very early age, there was a stack of LP records that I was so happy to see but had no clue what I could do with them. The biggest treasure in that trunk however, was a graduation photo of my mother, which I was sure had been lost.

Last year I passed by the building again but didn’t stop. The exteriors looked like they had been recently painted. I asked the taxi driver to slow down a little as I kept looking back until it was no longer in my line of vision. No there was no feeling of melancholy, no moistening of the eyes and no lump in the throat. That apartment was no longer home but it’s memories would be mine forever.

Someone I met recently asked where home was for me.

I thought about it for a second and replied, “it’s wherever I am at the moment”.

The Memory Bank

It was about 2:30 in the afternoon when I started making my way to the New Alipore branch of the State Bank of India. Even though it was cloudy and I was afraid that I might get caught in the rain during my 20-minute walk, I nevertheless decided to take a chance. I was on my way to make a deposit for my dad at the afternoon branch of the bank and in spite of so many years having gone by, I still remember the day as if it was yesterday.

New Alipore is one of the nicest residential neighborhoods of Calcutta and I was lucky to have grown up there. On two ends of it were two bridges, one was the Kaat pul translated from Bengali to ‘wooden bridge’ that was basically a short cut for the walking population to go towards Tollygunj. The other end had the more majestic Majerhat Bridge , bustling with traffic connecting New Alipore to the centre of the city.

Although the kaat pul was replaced with a safer concrete bridge while I was still very young, the name stayed.

To get from one end of New Alipore to the other, it was at least a 30-minute walk if you were a brisk-walker, which I have always been. The portion from where I lived to the bank, which was right by the big bridge, was a very pleasant walk on well-maintained tree-lined streets with broad sidewalks. On the way were a few ‘general’ stores which generally sold most things you would need on a day-to-day basis, my favorite Chinese restaurant called Kowloon, a Yoga school and some fast-food places that served a smattering of American and Indian fare.

Considering that I had left at 2:30, I expected to be at the bank by 2:50. Figured it would take me about five minutes to make the deposit and I would be home by 3:15. This is a little game I've always played. Timed my activities and tried to be on the dot!

It wasn't very busy at the bank. There were a couple of people ahead of me in line and the five minutes I had estimated for being there, would in all probability be just right. I handed over the cash to the teller and waited for him to finish counting it and hand me back my receipt. As he reached out to give it to me, I heard gunshots and saw four men in masks entering the bank, holding guns commanding everyone to stay where they were. A few moments later one of them, a tall, well built guy came over, shoved me aside and barked at the teller to hand over all the cash. One of his accomplice’s was at the next window. Another robber was going around making people stand against the wall with their hands up in the air while the fourth was in the Manager’s office holding a gun to his head, obviously asking for the keys to the vault. I also noticed an unmasked puny man with them, walking with the manager moments later towards the vault.

I remember being completely calm through the entire incident, very sure that they wouldn’t harm me or anyone else. Unless of course we tried to be heroes and as I looked around, I didn’t see anyone that fit the part. I also remember being terribly excited that I was witnessing a bank robbery and was almost licking my chops about the fact that I had such a great story to tell. And nobody I knew could possibly top this one!

Probably all of three or four minutes would have passed when we heard police sirens. A few seconds later, we saw the four masked men, running out of the bank with their bags. I wondered where the little guy was and found out later that the manager, a true hero, had managed to lock him in the vault. The other four had escaped and suddenly the bank was full of cops.

The rest of the story isn’t very interesting. Everyone that had witnessed the incident had to stay back and was questioned. The entire process took several hours. This was before the age of cell phones and for some reason we weren’t allowed to use the phones at the bank to make any calls. I knew that my folks would be worrying but there was nothing I could do. The grapevine in the neighborhood was very strong and before long my mother heard about the robbery. She in turn immediately called my dad at work, who rushed home. Soon neighbors and relatives heard that I, the only son of my parents, the apple of their eye, who had me after giving birth to four girls, was in the bank when it was robbed. Was I hurt? Was I safe? Was I alive? Some close friends and relatives came over to provide my parents with moral support. My dad and uncle stationed themselves as close to the bank as they were allowed to.

Finally at about 7:30 pm, we were allowed to leave. I came out and saw my dad standing by the car, the obvious relief on his face as he spotted me walking towards him. I was welcomed at home by my mother who was in tears and hoards of other people who were acting as if I had come out of some near-death experience. I seriously couldn’t understand what the fuss was all about. Those few bank robbery minutes were some of the most exciting minutes of my life. I couldn’t believe my luck when I was witnessing the incident.

I may have been an extra, a nobody in the crowd scene but for me it was the role of a lifetime!