I remember sometimes back in 2001 driving to my maternal Grandmother's (boba) home that it rained. It had rained so heavily that I lost the address to my only grandmother and found Rumi. In my mind, that faint picture of me in the middle of the road crying my eyes out is still fresh. The streets smelled of new conflict as the television has just sparked the news of military attack. They were out of curd and Kashmiris don’t like to have rice without curd. I was asked to buy a packet when I took a wrong turn and got forever lost.
Not that I had a weak memory or I had deliberately missed a lane to her house. But it was raining heavily. I remember the house still. Its rustic maroonish gate with a bronze handle had roses growing on the side of it. It looked like a wedding house but only that there lived two oldies- my maternal grandmother and grandfather with my uncle who was still young. The gate opened to a huge garden, bageecha with dried grey frog’s camaflouging the muddy grassroots with their color. The only way to recognize them was the eyes which could bulge out. The entrance would be a pure, classic K- verandah with two stairs leading to the kitchen smelling of Yakhni and other traditional cuisines one could think of. The very first memories of rain come from there. I remember boba serving us two cups of nun chai one for me and my mother and later for my aunt who accompanied us for a short visit. My grandfather as always sat in his own room with the desk full of newspapers and ink nibs which he liked to collect in his free time.
The house would smell of a special kind of itr and when it would rain it would smell of Bobaji's kohl which she had bought from Nepal after his son my mother’s brother shifted there. As a child I was fascinated with the kitchen only. The large jars with tight lids closed had a lot of nuts and other items in store which always made me hungry even if I want. That day I remember vividly the petrichor was so high that I almost fainted with the smell of the Itr as they say- there is always a limit.
As the day passed we were served lunch. The copper plates were inscribed by the names of my grandparents and they were in Urdu. Boba had cooked for us tomato puree with Kashmiri Chaman (paneer), Mutton and Rogan Josh. I don’t remember what my mother fed me but I remember having asked for more. As soon as we were in the middle of our lunch my grandfather who loved to have curd asked for curd. It was missing. And boba screamed ' haye kya goam'. 'Oh no, we don't have curd'.
In a minute I was ordered to buy curd from the nearest market and I remember buying the pack accurately. It was like a task for me. A) I didn't know the area. B) I was growing up enough to take market responsibilities.
The mind also wanders at the thought why me? Why did they chose me to get the curd? Anyway, it kept raining the whole day that day. And as it is I took that wrong turn. I slipped into another lane where I was not required to be. The mohalla was strange. Firstly it had water everywhere and the houses looked too similar to each other. In this search of my grandmother home I entered into a house where I began to search for boba. Boba the name is a traditional Kashmiri name given to grandmothers or anyone elder in their age. I entered with a hope that I would find my Boba and as curious I was too get back she would be curious to receive me too. But that didn’t happen. I met a boba but she was a different boba. Her name was Rumi. And as Darwaish I kept looking at her recalling my grandmothers’ face. I failed. She wasn’t my boba. Terror, Horror, Fear had stuck me and I remember crying her name with utmost pain of trauma listening to the strange family who accused Rumi for infidelity. I met Rumi that day. Not the philosopher Maulana Rumi but the Rumi I had never thought of meeting. The power of names as they call it had exposed Rumi. In a moment in that rain I had thought I lost my family. In a moment another was accused of Infidelity. In a moment on the other side of the story my family thought I was dead. What all can happen in a moment? A moment of rain, as I remember it rained the whole day that day.
I kept looking and crying for my boba. My appeals were dismissed. As a first standard kid I didn’t had a chance to explain how my boba looked like. They all look the same in their traditional attires. But my Boba she had a distinct smell. Her shireen (a sweet traditional toffee) flavored her body. Meeting her felt like entering into Dargah just decorated with rose petals and shireens. All lost. Soon after I was kicked out I found myself in the middle of the road. It was a four ways. I was crying. The sky wept so did I. Continuously. For this Rumi was of no use. It was already 6pm. I had gone out at 10 am. My mother would be half crazy I thought to myself when amidst this confusion I saw my aunt at a distance. She was crying and it rained. She was drenched too. In a minute I saw my whole family coming and hugging me close enough that I could feel the warmth even today. That night I was lost and I was found. Like in a school, there is a lost and found property. That rainy day, I found a Rumi and myself and a promise of never being lost again.
