Bilaspur
Perhaps the few readers I was able to coerce into have gotten used to my irregular posting or are thankful I am not writing for almost two months now, or knew I was busy and did not have the time/leisure/frame of mind to actively blog, even though I always followed up on the blogs I have on Google Reader all these two months but the last two-and-a-half weeks I was off the internet. However, it would be untrue if I concur my friends and attribute lack of time or energy as the reason for non-blogging—I had all the time in the world while at work if not at home, and my computer had uninterrupted incoming flow of energy—the reason is plain laziness. I could even have composed some blogs during my two-weeks stay at Bilaspur and half-a-week travel by rail summing up to-and-fro; in fact I had wanted to draft some from the scene of crime and post later, but couldn't do away with the pleasant afternoon siestas in front of coolers, something you don't get to relish in Bangalore.
Coolers are not the only thing I miss. Visiting my grandma's house brought up memories of childhood, when Mom and sisters and I used to spend our entire summer vacations there—year after year, till I entered college eight years ago. It was the first time after that that I visited the place again, and I could get nostalgic everyday remembering myself sitting bleary-eyed in mornings in the large foyer opening to the aangan, pull-ups at the rod in the foyer, perching at the staircase in the aangan with my summer-vacation-homework, afternoon naps at the room on the first floor, solving Hindi crosswords in archived newspapers, flying kites on the terrace which was accessible only through a wooden ladder I was always afraid of climbing—everything was so fun, and seems so distant now. We would wait for Maama to return from office and take us out to Company Garden and snacks at ICH. I would join my cousins in shopping for the daily needs at Shanichari. The other Maamas and families would visit us on weekends from nearby cities, and we would play cards late into the night; I remember often more than 10 people playing on three decks, and almost an equal number queued up for their turn.
Everyone had visited this time also, but then almost everyone, including I, was busy with my sister's marriage, and we had moved to another, bigger house the latter part of my stay. However, I couldn't help getting emotional every time I visited the 70-year old house to get some stuff. Old constructions always excite me, and this was one I had spent quite some beautiful summers in. The house is located in Juna Bilaspur, Juna being the Chattisgarhi word for old. Its like the Purani Dilli, with all the rush and crowd. And the entire locality has those old constructions, most of them with khaprail tile roofs, which adds to my liking. Then there is the Arpa river which brims up only in monsoons, but the river bed, and one of the many bridges one has to cross to go to the other part of the city, provide a picturesque landscape. I so much missed carrying my camera around in all the rush. It would have been infeasible stopping at the roadside taking pictures when I had so many people to coordinate with and so many arrangements to be taken care of.
Anyways, this was a welcome change away from the click-and-touch world I live in otherwise. I had to get my hands dirty, and go back to the real world where you need to literally sweat out to get things done, and the todo is not a list of online sites you need to visit. Bilaspur is quite different a city than the bigger ones like Bangalore and Delhi, although it has changed considerably in the past eight years I couldn't pay an annual tribute to it. The roads, the marketplaces, new apartments and constructions, malls and hangouts, increased traffic, the new place in the administrative map it has got—there has been a complete metamorphosis, and I cannot do full justice to it unless I put it off for another post.
