Nani Jan ka Aangan

The first four blooms in my Jasmine plant brought a strange sense of calm this morning. A night that was laced with nightmares, waking me up every few minutes and an extremely early morning on a Sunday which could have been avoided sleeping cozily till 9, became blurred with the beauty and fragrance of the white flowers. I had been checking every morning for the last four days, waiting for the delicate buds to uncurl and give birth to one of my favourite local flowers. They take me back to where the story started from - nani jan ka aangan. I remember the little girl gazing open-mouthed at the frangipani tree right outside, the clear blue skies, the friendly Christian neighbours talking outside the gate. I remember the sunny afternoons when everyone would be asleep but that girl would stay up during the warm afternoons, carefully filling up her smock with the white blossoms strewn on the pakka farash of the courtyard. The rows of evergreens on two wrought-iron stands, the Quaid-e-Azam look-alike (in her opinion) grandfather keeping an eye on her from the verandah out of sheer over-protectiveness , the house sparrows chirping gaily and often perching skeptically on the edge of the wall and the Jasmine bush! Oh the Jasmine bush! The delicate ivory blooms, the heavenly fragrance, the divinity! Her world was so complete - phool, chiyya, Tadoo, ghar! Chiyya being the birds she was friends with, Tadoo the Godforsaken nickname given to her which she did not find very flattering later. All those wonderful people who doted on her, left one by one. Some gave in to sickness, some to old age and others just to relieve themselves of the pains that life inflicted upon them. She often wondered, how is it that this particular family saw more death than many others she knew. But then she was told that it was only a select few who are so dear to God that God likes them with Himself on the skies, so she was content knowing the fact that her loved ones who were gone, were happy with God, in a special place.
Nani's aangan had a special meaning to her. It was her playground, her adventure park, her happy place. There was always so much to do in that square piece of land: setting traps for the sparrows, setting them free after a few minutes of triumphant pleasure; running after the occasional frog, then shrieking hysterically when it would leap near her foot; lying flat on her back watching birds fly past, playing hopscotch on a crude hand-drawn chalk grid and making garlands. Yes, every evening she would pick Jasmine flowers from the bush that now reached the upper floor, and carefully run a needle through them, turning them into a fragrant gajra for nani. Nani was a petite figure, always wrapped in a pristine cotton sari and a neat plait. She once roamed the aangan keeping it immaculate as herself. Now confined to her takhat and a wheelchair, she still had an authoritative air about her. She was a nani straight out of a storybook , with her paandan and takhat with white chandnis and gao takyas (bolsters). And then she had countless stories to tell. The first brush with koh qaaf ka jaadoogar, alif laila, uran qaaleen, and the likes was all due to nani. And then there were fact-based (according to her) tales of pacchal peirees a.k.a. churails, that chased either her or her friends or some cousin back in India. She was born in Gorakhpur, a name that fascinated the little girl till she finally got to visit the little town at the age of seven, maybe eight. To say she remembered vaguely would not be correct. She remembered most of it. The cycle-rikshaws, the pigs roaming around, the Hindu and Sikh girls from the mohalla whom she had befriended. And when it would rain, which was almost everyday as the trip had been taken during the monsoon season, the girls in the neighbourhood would arrange for a huge swing on one of the trees. The swing could accommodate about half a dozen girls in one go. Her mother's aunt, nani's sister, owned the fields right behind the house. Often she would accompany pappal nani as she chose to call her for some odd reason. The monkeys that used to sit on the walls, visiting frequently because of the guava tree in pappal nani's aangan were never forgotten. And so the little girl's story went on from one nani's aangan to another nani's aangan till one day she grew too big to be playing in either of them. She did however reminiscence often and dared to share her romantic associations with aangans with the only one who would understand.
The rest remained in her memories, her dreams, her heart, and perhaps another heart that shared her passion for ties with the past...