Postcards from Past Homes – Part I

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could send letters to our future addresses? I’m sure it would. But we can’t. No matter how much we extend ourselves to grasp it the future flits away from us like a dollar bill blown by the wind. However we can do it the other way round. Send ourselves postcards from our places of the past. The past. The pile of boxes and suitcases filled with stuff we have deemed to be not immediately useful but ultimately cherish-able. For all this hubbub about the benefits of living in the moment, nothing compares to looking at old forgotten photos and reliving memories from another time.

Sukhdev Vihar, New Delhi

The earliest address I am articulately conscious of is Sukhdev Vihar, New Delhi. The second floor flat of the third building in a row of 12. The buildings were white originally, one can only imagine. Through years of the Delhi smog and corrosion by acidic rain the plaster had undergone a change to off-white and peeled off in places leaving a mottled black and beige appearance. After walking up three mosaic flights of stairs one arrived at the door made of metal mesh and tough iron grill. The many plastic switch door bells that we had during the years made a wide variety of noises. Some made a loud and happy ting-tong, some an old fashioned rrrringgg, others a panicky zzrrrrrrr. The one thing they had in common was that they all rang all the time. 4 different domestic helpers, the vegetable guy, the fruit dude, the postman, the newspaper guy, neighbor’s kid, members of my family returning from work and school. Sometimes due to cheap manufacturing and overuse the rrriing over time would turn into zzzrrrr until finally the door bell would choke to its death and all you heard was a hollow click when you held down the switch. I spent 18 years odd in this establishment. Lovingly decorated by my mother with the finest Indian handicraft, woven cushion covers and custom made wooden furniture. At peak occupancy we had 5 people living in this 2 bedroom 1.5 bath place. My sister and I would sleep on the bunk beds while our grandmother slept demurely and lightly on a bed that my mother had expertly crafted to slide underneath the bed on wheels. It came with a comfortable mattress that was just large enough to fit my grandma’s fragile frame. My father kept pigeons in the balcony. One of them had black and peacock green feathers and a white crown. Her peers slowly abandoned her either through untimely death or random departure. Eventually she took to mingling with the locals and became some kind of tramp. The whole block became her home eventually but for the most part she stuck around in our balcony for easy food, shelter and mates.

University Houses, Madison WI

My father’s boss, an esteemed professor of the life sciences had given us old bicycles that his children had abandoned when they went away to college. One of them was a Schwinn sports bike of sleek frame and lightening speed. I zoomed this machine around the sunny summer sidewalks of the University Houses in Madison, WI. We’d arrived their by embarking on a Delta aircraft that took us through Frankfurt to the international airport in Cincinnati and then a TWA plane to Milwaukee. My father greeted us at the Milwaukee airport after a 3 hour drive from Madison. With my father was a Chinese gentleman with a wide grin who had kindly driven my father in his car. The duplex apartment at University Houses had a plenitude of space, illumination and treats in the fridge. The houses were made of exposed brick with stone facades and white pillars at the entrance.  They were built with brown sloping roofs for the 8 month winter. It was during my life in this house that I picked up a strong American accent, put on at least 20 pounds, made my first and only African American friend and learnt how to play basketball. The community was a collection of academic folk from across the world. Our neighbors were Polish with two sons, Pyotrekh and Marec (Peter and Mark). Pyotrekh was a blonde haired kid with cheeks as red as apples and a shrill voice. Marec was a sullen looking kid with a pale face who was a kind of hesitant bully. Once my father told him he’d call the police on him and Marec let out the most heart wrenching wail which sent my father running back into the house lest he be arrested for harassing a child.

Morgens Hall (Left), University of Cincinnati, OH

11 years later a strange twist of fate brought me back to Cincinnati, OH. This time alone. The flight was a contrast from the last one I had taken into this city. The last time I was with my mother and sister and gleeful at the unlimited amounts of Coca Cola and nifty in-flight headphones. Now I was alone, had spent the flight in a paralyzing panic because I had discovered my immigration papers might be not complete. I was picked up from the airport by two Indian guys. Complete strangers to me whose only reason for doing me this favor was that I was Indian and had contacted the Indian Student Association by email about a ride from the airport. This taught me my first lesson about the importance of sticking together. The dorm room on the 8th floor of the Howard J. Morgens Residence Hall on Scioto Street was equipped with two twin beds which we had arranged in L shape with a desk between them. My roommate, a guy from Tamil Nadu pursuing his PhD in Chemistry was a portrait of idealism. He revered his culture but often held forth on the various ways Indians bring shame upon themselves. He was a light sleeper so I ran a long telephone chord into the bathroom, sat on the floor and spoke in hushed whispers to my family and girlfriend who I missed desperately. Soon I discovered another place on campus that would end up being my home for the next six months. The computer lab at the newly constructed Engineering Research Center. At the time, the glass doors operated through magnetic key cards and the dim glow of the computer consoles seemed corporate and other worldly to me. The comforting hum of the air-conditioner kept me there for hours and hours. I attended classes and then came back to the lab. I worked and studied with no track of time taking breaks to get on Yahoo messenger to video chat with India. I completed the first two quarters with straight A+’s all set to dive into the hunt for summer internships but in the meantime, there had been yet another unexpected change in plans.

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