I read the word “Gachchi” on my
friend’s FB wall yesterday. Almost immediately, a very funny thing happened. I realized immediately that there was something
very warm, honey-like and familiar about the sound it made in my mind. And I wondered why
it had begun to trigger a jet of memories.
Then, in my head, I heard a
little girl asking me, “Gachchi var kheluya?” (Shall we play on the terrace?)
For the uninitiated, “Gachchi” is
Marathi for “terrace”. And for this post, I will refrain from using the English
equivalent, simply because it will not sound even remotely as magical.
As a kid, I lived on the top
floor of a fairly old building, and two flights of stairs – seventeen steps
exactly – took me to the Gachchi.
It was an ordinary C-shaped
structure, with little blue-green-white-mosaic chips that ran along its
expanse. The parapet walls were about four-feet high, coarse, stone-grey
structures, and at irregular intervals on them, stood old TV antennae, the kind
that had to be adjusted everytime there was a transmission problem.
There was nothing spectacular
about the Gachchi, really. But to me,
the Gachchi was my perennial source of merriment, my wonderland. Back then, I
remember preferring the Gachchi to the playground. Perhaps because I never did
enjoy games that involved too much running around or that came with a set of
rules.
I think I loved the Gachchi so
much because it let me be. If I had a friend with me on a particular day, we
could begin a game of charades or Badminton or ‘House-House’ or Antakshari. If
I did not have company, I would begin making my own stories and enacting them.
There was no one to judge or criticize, and my imagination could be as
freewheeling as it wanted to be.
The Gachchi listened if I wanted
to cry. Or vent out anger. If I wanted to study, it allowed me to. If I needed
to sing myself hoarse, it became my audience.
If I wanted to play a make-believe game, it humoured me. If I wanted to
write, it played the unintrusive companion.
Sometimes, my entire family would
get together, and we would have impromptu potluck dinners on the Gachchi. We
even had a table specially meant for such occasions.
The Gachchi allowed me to
discover the wonders of the night sky. Often at night, my parents and I would
climb up those two flights of stairs, go to the Gachchi, and they would teach
me to identify constellations. Great Bear, Orion and Big Dipper are names I’ve
learnt standing on that Gachchi, tracing and memorizing patterns with my
fingers.
Then, there were the birthday
parties. On those days, the Gachchi would be transformed into a different world
altogether, with armchairs, gaddas, chataayees, lights and balloons.
We left that house in many years
ago, and I have never had a chance to see the Gachchi since. Sometimes, little
snapshots of times spent on the Gachchi appear in my head. Of red chilli
peppers or raw mango strips left out to dry in the warm sunshine. Of the
special blue and white table that patiently stayed put until summoned for a
Gachchi-dinner. Of certain faces that were there during those parties, but are
no more around. Of the night sky that was my blackboard. Of me sitting with my
childhood friends, exchanging schoolgirl chitchat. Of TV antennae that
frequently malfunctioned. Of the water tank that I was bold enough to climb on
top of but too cowardly to come down from.
In a very strange way, I think spotting
one tiny word out of so many, was no mere coincidence. Because even as I list
memory after memory that the word triggered, I realize that I have really,
really, missed an old friend. And I feel a certain calling to go back to the
Gachchi, and relive bits and pieces of the yesteryears.
So many things change over time.
And so many remain just as constant. Perhaps in our quest to deal with the
variables, we forget that the constants are still around. And that they are
waiting for us to re-establish contact. Strange as though it may sound, I think
one such constant just found out a way to reach out to me. And I cannot wait to
do the same!
PS: Did I mention I love discovering magic
in the most random occurrences?
Much Love,
Me.
