Was meant to be an interim address for me when I first heard of the place. Somewhere where I would park my bags before I packed off for my husband’s house in Sarita Vihar.
But it turned out to be the venue for my wedding, the place where both my kids were born, where my husband and I wove seemingly impossible dreams, where I first claimed a piece of property to call my own and the place which beckoned to me as home when I travelled across continents. It was the ‘mayka’ I created for myself. The place where I housed my parents in their old age.
When I first set foot in Charmwood Village in 1994, what immediately struck me was that it seemed to be a piece of heaven tucked away behind the hustle, bustle and dustle( my word for dust, truckfulls and wagonloads of dust) of Badarpur and Pehladpur. The white villas leapt out at you. The temperature dropped a couple of degrees. What was not white was green and red. It was a wonderful time of the year. Charmwood Village was spanking new. It was beautiful but quite inaccessible by public transport.
As luck would have it, we got thrown out of our Sarita Vihar apartment by a cantankerous landlord and came back to call Charmwood our home. 2 kids and 3 apartment moves later, under the gentle and obstinate persuasion of Babai, we bought the apartment in Mayfair Apartments. That was just a little less than 10 years ago. It was the first place where we did not get into each other’s way too much. My parents and us. We lived in that apartment for less than 2 years before we, the Dasguptas left for the United States. And became forever homeless, rootless, agonized wandering souls.
But Ameeth, I and the kids loved that apartment. Though I hated Delhi, our souls lived there. Isha always boasted about her ‘beeeg’ house in Delhi to her US friends. Indeed Charmwood was most definitely more charming than our Woodbridge apartment. I quietly dreamt of laying out marble flooring, a modular kitchen and more modern bathroom fittings. When I left my country all that was on my bucket list was, pay off for this apartment and take up a teaching job in the hills of Himachal Pradesh. And write. This was my only investment and insurance for the future. Nothing else.
My life since then is a testimony to how we humans complicate our lives in the effort to simplify it. But that is altogether another story. This piece is about Charmwood.
About the charming memories it holds for us. The wedding in the lawns by the villas; Getting my first born with his ‘I know this funny secret about you’ look home.;And getting him home again after his open heart surgery. Conceiving his sibling and losing it; his dancing around the Lohri fire with the sheer joy of having his mom back. Somewhere there is a picture of him, slightly older, somersaulting in the Sterling Apartment lawns because I came home 30 minutes sooner. Somewhere, in the Sterling lawns is a mango sapling planted by my father. Nahida trying to patiently feed Arijit lunch in the lawns and declaring, ‘Ranjana, I like your son.’ There is the memory of bringing home Isha. Isha pottering around in her little lehenga all round the house. Isha and Arijit setting off to find their parents while we sat on the bench in the dark lawn watching them suddenly howl with terror and race inside in fear of some unknown demon.
One wonderful winter vacation in the Mayfair apartment. I spent all my time cuddled in the TV room with the kids watching cartoons and eating junk food with them before we left for our Goa trip. There is this memory of the time I had my first slipped disc and was lying in my new wrought iron bed in Mayfair while Arijit declared to Isha. ‘She has broken her back. You know what this means? She will be home with us for a long time! :) ’
Memories of a surprise birthday party thrown for Ameeth. Another earlier memory where I filled the house with rajanigandha stalks and put on the ‘Happy Birthday’ cassette. And all those wonderful outsourced parties for the kids, with themed balloons, magicians and trampolines.
Happy place Charmwood. Even when the charm wore away. It held all these memories in that square footage of area. It held older memories of happier times of my in laws, my grandparents. All these came tumbling out of boxes, left long unopened. Diaries, sketches, letters, dreams.
How sad it is to pack up a house. How impossible it is to pack up the place the house has built in your mind and in your heart.
Au revoir Charmwood. Welcome to the happy place in my heart!
But it turned out to be the venue for my wedding, the place where both my kids were born, where my husband and I wove seemingly impossible dreams, where I first claimed a piece of property to call my own and the place which beckoned to me as home when I travelled across continents. It was the ‘mayka’ I created for myself. The place where I housed my parents in their old age.
When I first set foot in Charmwood Village in 1994, what immediately struck me was that it seemed to be a piece of heaven tucked away behind the hustle, bustle and dustle( my word for dust, truckfulls and wagonloads of dust) of Badarpur and Pehladpur. The white villas leapt out at you. The temperature dropped a couple of degrees. What was not white was green and red. It was a wonderful time of the year. Charmwood Village was spanking new. It was beautiful but quite inaccessible by public transport.
As luck would have it, we got thrown out of our Sarita Vihar apartment by a cantankerous landlord and came back to call Charmwood our home. 2 kids and 3 apartment moves later, under the gentle and obstinate persuasion of Babai, we bought the apartment in Mayfair Apartments. That was just a little less than 10 years ago. It was the first place where we did not get into each other’s way too much. My parents and us. We lived in that apartment for less than 2 years before we, the Dasguptas left for the United States. And became forever homeless, rootless, agonized wandering souls.
But Ameeth, I and the kids loved that apartment. Though I hated Delhi, our souls lived there. Isha always boasted about her ‘beeeg’ house in Delhi to her US friends. Indeed Charmwood was most definitely more charming than our Woodbridge apartment. I quietly dreamt of laying out marble flooring, a modular kitchen and more modern bathroom fittings. When I left my country all that was on my bucket list was, pay off for this apartment and take up a teaching job in the hills of Himachal Pradesh. And write. This was my only investment and insurance for the future. Nothing else.
My life since then is a testimony to how we humans complicate our lives in the effort to simplify it. But that is altogether another story. This piece is about Charmwood.
About the charming memories it holds for us. The wedding in the lawns by the villas; Getting my first born with his ‘I know this funny secret about you’ look home.;And getting him home again after his open heart surgery. Conceiving his sibling and losing it; his dancing around the Lohri fire with the sheer joy of having his mom back. Somewhere there is a picture of him, slightly older, somersaulting in the Sterling Apartment lawns because I came home 30 minutes sooner. Somewhere, in the Sterling lawns is a mango sapling planted by my father. Nahida trying to patiently feed Arijit lunch in the lawns and declaring, ‘Ranjana, I like your son.’ There is the memory of bringing home Isha. Isha pottering around in her little lehenga all round the house. Isha and Arijit setting off to find their parents while we sat on the bench in the dark lawn watching them suddenly howl with terror and race inside in fear of some unknown demon.
One wonderful winter vacation in the Mayfair apartment. I spent all my time cuddled in the TV room with the kids watching cartoons and eating junk food with them before we left for our Goa trip. There is this memory of the time I had my first slipped disc and was lying in my new wrought iron bed in Mayfair while Arijit declared to Isha. ‘She has broken her back. You know what this means? She will be home with us for a long time! :) ’
Memories of a surprise birthday party thrown for Ameeth. Another earlier memory where I filled the house with rajanigandha stalks and put on the ‘Happy Birthday’ cassette. And all those wonderful outsourced parties for the kids, with themed balloons, magicians and trampolines.
Happy place Charmwood. Even when the charm wore away. It held all these memories in that square footage of area. It held older memories of happier times of my in laws, my grandparents. All these came tumbling out of boxes, left long unopened. Diaries, sketches, letters, dreams.
How sad it is to pack up a house. How impossible it is to pack up the place the house has built in your mind and in your heart.
Au revoir Charmwood. Welcome to the happy place in my heart!
2 comments:
This so resonated with me. I have always believed that a home is not just where we reside but where our memories stay too. The walls absorb our joys. They share our pain. They witness our triumphs and trials... You brought this out so beautifully in your post Ranjana. I remember sitting on the bench in the lawn with Arijit, watching him jump from the dining table to the sofa, remember this short flying visits to Charmwood when I visited Delhi and of course that little longer visit to your Mayfair Apartment with Sunil and Anu. Charmwood will always hold a special place in your hearts!
This so resonated with me. I have always believed that a home is not just where we reside but where our memories stay too. The walls absorb our joys. They share our pain. They witness our triumphs and trials... You brought this out so beautifully in your post Ranjana. I remember sitting on the bench in the lawn with Arijit, watching him jump from the dining table to the sofa, remember this short flying visits to Charmwood when I visited Delhi and of course that little longer visit to your Mayfair Apartment with Sunil and Anu. Charmwood will always hold a special place in your hearts!
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