THE PROCESS

A STORY

One evening, was like any other. The skies, a heavy blue-black. As the day slowly faded into the sea on the horizon, and dusk settled in, white tube lights illuminated the house, a yellow lamp and incense were lit, attracting and repelling a host of buzzing insects louder than the ceiling fan and the murmur of the television. As the lizards scurried on the wall, frogs croaked in the courtyard, dogs barked in the distance—a whiff of kane fish curry and boiled rice floated in with the warm, humid air. My uncle wistfully recalled his childhood, his life, as he stepped out for his daily walk, a routine. On his way, he noticed an old woman he had never seen before, ambling her way up the staircase of the neighbouring house, to the terrace. The land had been sold; soon, he would leave his ancestral home behind. To be demolished.

This evening was like any other. The neighbouring house, the only other house in the vicinity, having been transformed into a bar and restaurant, accommodated a variety of flavours and emotions—now abuzz with laughter overpowering old Kannada tunes on the radio and a cricket match on the television. The smell of alcohol combined with chicken sukka, marwai gassi and rice rotti floated in the warm, humid air. The land had been acquired; soon, they would leave this ancestral home behind. To be demolished.

Or, perhaps this evening, was unlike any other. A few attempts later, if memory did not fail her, she intended yet again to return to her home. After a long journey, as the light faded at the close of day and lights came on at the beginning of night, alone, she arrived limp and frail, knowing it to be her home. She slowly ambled her way up the staircase to the terrace of what was now a bar and restaurant, abuzz with flavours and emotions. This land had now been inherited, occupied, transformed, sold, acquired; perhaps, this was her last visit. Before her home is demolished.

The uncle is returning home after his walk. As he draws closer, a cacophony of faint voices overpowers loud laughter, old Kannada tunes and the cricket match. He looks in its direction, up the staircase of the neighbouring house, at a small crowd of people gathered around the old woman. Curious. Enquiring. Bothered. Wondering: Name? Address? Identity?

This is my land… this here, is my home… I live here… I belong here! This belongs to me!

From the crowd of people, the uncle and another man, having lived in the neighbourhood longer than the others, leaned in to take a closer look at the agitated old woman. She looked up, straight at them. In that moment, a nod, a knowing smile. In that moment, the weight of recognition; a recollection; a remembrance; an evocation; a rememory—freezing, as humid air closed in.

It was in 1992, twenty five years before this evening, that she had passed away in her bedroom under the very terrace. Having lived in a hostile society, a life of trials and tribulations, childless: she was angry, defiant, spiteful, resenting, sorrowful, alone; holding onto reality through the little she was left with. Like for countless others, her home was like a shell that respired, held, broke; a space of desire, dreams, comfort, security, consolation, devotion; a place of feelings, emotions, confinement, solitude, belonging—that she perhaps promised to return to. And so she has, over the years, numerous times—through conversations, community stories, family histories, personal recollections, bodies. She is returning through me to you, as I write and you read this account. She will, again and again and again, to her place of remembrance and imagination.

The ancestral homes now stand obliterated—a link, a refuge, an emotion, an association, an origin, an identity, erased. In the day, the land is inhabited by tall, dry wilderness; at night, spectres consume traces of memory.

The nights will follow the days, and the days will follow the nights.

~ Shalmali Shetty