The place was picturesque from a distance. Built in the 19th century, the sandstone facade remained untouched allowing it to surrender its grandeur at dusk. Two domed structures at each end of the south side guarded the balconies of the main chambers. The original Indo-Islamic architecture was preserved from the north entrance with its intricate jaal stone gate, arched windows, and floral reliefs flanking the main wooden doors. The two-door access was a towering replica of the original fort-like entryway with a series of symmetrical melon-sized brass knobs accenting the simple wooden frame. Concrete and cement managed to invade the interior of the house after generations of reconstruction. Centrally, a courtyard outlined by a veranda echoed with voices of the past. A step down from the veranda, a garden once flourished intermingling jasmine and rose essence. Now it was diminished to soft desert sand with a few staggered terracotta planters making a feeble attempt to instill life into the semi-abandoned haveli.

Malti sat on the edge of the veranda patiently with her bare cracked feet immersed in the cool sand. She had aged with the house, transforming her role from an ayah to general caretaker, now bearing the burden of holding the immense gate key. The sole resident of a former bustling household, she sat motionless. Adorned with a turmeric-stained crumpled cotton flowing skirt and tattered brown shawl, she waited for his arrival. Without any sign of anticipation, she rested on the mosaic tile of the veranda staring blankly at the wall in front of her. He mentioned that he would return at the end of the monsoon. It had been 2 days since the last rain.

Malti looked away from the paan-stained wall and into her past — 26 years ago. She clearly heard him shouting, “Malti-ma! Malti!” He came running straight through the garden toward the kitchen where she was supervising the other maidservants Meera and Radha in sifting lentils and churning fresh cream for the evening meal. “I got first prize in 2 subjects…math and painting!” Avi pulled the bronze Aladdin lamp trophy with its white marble base out of his overflowing backpack. As a fourth-grade student now, he felt bigger than ever. Malti was expressionless as she looked at his mark sheet. “Hmm. I see that you can still do better.” Malti could only understand the numbers on his sheets as she had barely completed elementary school and could only read in Hindi. All his scores were pristine, but he was just shy of honors in his moral science class — a course that he would question throughout life. Avi was far from phased by her lack of enthusiasm because he knew he would be rewarded in due time with homemade kulfi ice cream swimming in rose syrup. Before she could tell him to change out of his uniform, he raced down the long corridor and slammed the door to his room demanding the attention of his two older cousins.

Malti was jolted by the clanging sound of the wrought iron gate. She knew he had arrived. The iron gates creaked open almost by themselves — welcoming Avi to the ghosts of his past. As much as he tried to ignore the memories of his childhood in the village of Khuri, they kept surfacing and the smell of the damp sand only heightened the queasiness from nostalgia.

Avi had spent the last 14 years in the States building a separate life. He tried to replace the feelings associated with his native land with new strides of the immigrant dream. It was not bitterness or resentment that caused him to suppress his childhood links… but a true longing for a past that could never be reproduced. The buzz of servants and his cousins and uninvited neighbors dropping in for a cup of tea amidst the morning calls of peacocks on the terrace, the vegetable seller repeating his call for the day, cows and water buffalos calling out to their herd… All of this tumultuous hubbub actually brought peace to his inner being. He was infused with a sense of belonging only to be shadowed by the desire to seek a sense of purpose. Avi was the first in his family to venture abroad; he thought this would be the pinnacle of perfection. Lost in the glamour of this illusion, he discovered nothing but the true meaning of loneliness. The urban landscape of his studio apartment in DC was no sanctuary. Residents in his buildings were like drones programmed to hover back and forth from work to home and home to work with absolutely no break in routine. Colleagues at work would perhaps start a shallow conversation, meet up for the happy hour ritual but always leave with the same cold affection. He felt a disconnect from everyone… including his wife, Anna.

Gitanjali Bhagia is a first-generation Indian American. She is not just a dedicated ophthalmologist practicing in Northern Virginia but a storyteller woven from the threads of her own diverse heritage. She finds inspiration in the rich tapestry of her ancestry, especially in the legacy of her beloved grandmother, Vimla Bhagia, whose tales from her family’s home in Rajasthan, India, ignited her imagination from a young age.

Born in Pennsylvania and raised in North Carolina, Gitanjali’s cultural roots
became the fertile soil from which her passion for writing blossomed. Her
frequent visits to Rajasthan not only connected her to her familial history but
also stirred a deep appreciation for the mystique and allure of the Indian
subcontinent.

With her enchantment of the tales whispered by the sands of Rajasthan,
Gitanjali weaves narratives that transport readers to captivating worlds. Her
writing carries the essence of her cross-cultural experiences, inviting readers
to explore the intricate nuances of identity, heritage, and the human
connection.

 

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