Dehradun, the small Indian hill-station where my paternal grandparents lived, was one of my childhood havens. Many long weekends in my childhood were spent sitting in our red family car as my father drove us from the bustling city of Delhi up to the mountains. At the time, Dehradun was relatively untouched, a small little haven. Neighboring town Mussoorie was home to popular and affluent schools but Dehradun itself was a little, charming retirement community. Aside from my grandparents, some other members of my father’s family were nearby and each trip was spent by my sister and I being spoilt by an elder in one way or another.
My Dada-Dadi’s home was a large bungalow with, what seemed like at the time, a never-ending driveway up to the entrance. There were gravel stones from the towering gate right up to the steps leading up to the verandah. My Dada Ji, a lanky, 6"3 bald and pale man, was the only person who wasn’t dwarfed by the black gate. My memory about the visits to their home get hazier as the years pass but some things I see now and then jolt nostalgia that I never paid attention to.
Bougainvillea adorned one of the walls surrounding the home. According to what I remember, the flowers were very close to some of the fruit trees my grandparents had. I remember standing by these bougainvillea, posing for photographers, some awkward and some cute. My sister and I were instructed to stand by the bright magenta flowers as the elders would take photographs of us, on their handy-dandy film camera. Somehow, these majestic flowers have revived so many memories associated with that home. As spring (or more like fall) settles into the West Coast, I see bougainvillea decorated around mansions around San Francisco and my heart pangs for the simple times of jalebi eating in the Dehradun sun with my grandparents. Here, the bougainvillea creep up and down walls of homes I can’t enter and people who aren’t family. While the pink of the petals is vibrant as ever, the thorns seem sharper than they did in my childhood.
Dehradun, a hill-station that gained popularity as an escape for the British during colonial times, is only driving distance from Delhi and many summer and winter holidays were spent soaking up grand-parental love and the outdoors. My Dada Ji’s favourite hobby was to take my sister and I to pick up fresh jalebis from the market right before tea-time. We would pile into the little car and drive off every evening, around dusk, sunshine or rain. At the bazaar, he would park the car and we would each hold onto one hand as he artfully made his way through the bazaar to his trusted jalebiwala. Most days, the bazaar was crowded, bustling and overwhelming. Despite being “city-kids”, the bazaar was no place for two little girls and we dutifully hung onto our grandfather as he manoeuvred the crowd. It was a small town back then, every one knew each other and the community was tight-knit. Family friends of my grandparents saw my sister and I grow up, commenting on our height or our new haircuts or if we lost a tooth or had any other seemingly drastic childhood development. Going to the bazaar with the goal of retrieving the jalebis and samosas was normally an extended affair, but we weren’t complaining.
Once we reached his favourite halwai shop, the fun began. Watching the halwai make the jalebis on the spot, sometimes letting us nibble, was always exciting. My Dada ji, who I remember as being a man of few words and unfortunately, who was unwell for most of my life, was a diabetic. For him, our excursion meant a chance to treat us and treat himself using his grandchildren as an excuse. The jalebis would be squeezed out of plastic makeshift cone, into a vat of dark oil and they would suddenly turn from their white batter to a scrumptious orange. They would swirl into large flowers in the vat and the halwai would use his sieve spoon to ensure each inch of the batter was dipped generously into the oil. Afterwards, the giant swirl would be retrieved and dipped into sugar syrup, crystallising and caramelising into something magical. While we didn’t see the process behind the samosas, their smell wafted through the air. The spicy potatoes and peas were carefully but swiftly placed inside soft, flaky pastry, deep fried and crisp triangles were placed inside newspaper bags.
We would return home to a typical environment. A fussing grandmother and mother, a father who was very excited about the snacks and a little dog who welcomed us like we had come back from war. The chai was served in a simple teapot, piping hot. Nearly 20 minutes later, it was a drinkable temperature so it was poured into teacups. By then, the main attraction of samosas and jalebis had been devoured. Guests dropped by for tea very often, not so much as guests but as passersby who couldn’t possible walk by the house without stopping by to pay their respects. We would all sit on the veranda, with Dehradun weather almost always perfect, adults conversing as my sister and I entertained ourselves with the dog or one of the many attractions around the house.
Now when I think of the Dada-Dadi’s home, the inside is blurry. The gravel driveway is prominent, probably because I spent many hours running around and scraping my knees on the surface. I haven’t forgotten the verandah chairs, wired chairs with cushions for comfort. Despite all this, the bright pink and red bougainvillea are seared into my memory. Every season, their blooms made a safe blanket around the home, crawling from the ground to the edge of the wall. The thorns on their stems were only for the bad people, the softness was exclusively for us, their family. Their shedding petals looked like little rubies in the grey gravel, softening the surface. I never asked my grandparents who took care of the flowers . I never asked them what happened to the flowers when they sold the house and left.
No matter what, I hope I’ll have a home one day which can have a bougainvillea blanket as comforting, colorful and protective as Dada-Dadi’s home in Dehradun.
The house was sold a few years after my Dada Ji fell ill and doctors said he probably wouldn’t move back to Dehradun. Dada-Dadi moved closer to their children and to large, well-equipped hospitals. So many memories of him have jaded this one, memories of him forgetting who I was, memories of him in pain and memories of us saying bye to him, always unsure if we’ll see him again. But seeing a thorny bougainvillea blanket engulf a wall or a plate of sizzling jalebis transports me to my fondest memory of my grandfather.
