Six months in Mirzapur
I am writing this because I am afraid I might forget all about it.
Mirzapur is a small town in mid-eastern Uttar Pradesh between Allahbad and Varanasi. It was February of 1987 and my father had just been transferred to Mirzapur. We moved into 'Manavta Nivaas' (Abode of Humanity), the biggest 'haveli' in Mirzapur, newly acquired by the company my father worked for at the time. I remember learning from overheard conversations that the haveli had been owned by a wealthy Sikh family who had fled during the Indira Gandhi riots (1984). Since then it had remained unoccupied. I disliked it immediately. On thousands of square feet of space, stood the eerie looking dungeon of a place, with a humongous coutyard (large enough to hold twenty trucks they said) and an old well in the corner. The high brick walls encolsing the courtyard gave it the feel of a prison. The sudden change of habitat from our comfy apartment in Kanpur and loads of 'colony friends' to the desolate haveli had made me sick. I wondered if there had been any killings there during the riots.
Mirzapur is world-famous for it's carpet industry (I was proud of that when I met my cousins) On either side of Mirzapur on the main highway are two small village-towns, Panki and Barkacha. Father had just bought his first car, a a Fiat Premier of colour 'sahara-dust' (in vougue in those days) and we would frequently go for after-dinner drives to Barkacha in our new car, and have the Gulaab Jamoons that the town was famous for (probably the best Gulab Jamoons I have ever had; sitting on a chaarpai/khaat with a pattal or dona in hand). My father was incharge of the region and we visited a number of places in the area. In the summer we visited the huge NTPC hydroelectric dam at Renukoot and its beautiful Durga Temple.
My entire world was so small. In the daytime I played with my newborn sister and my mother, or sat by the well and did the math sums that father would create for me. The great Haveli was guarded by two watchmen, Lakshminarayan and Mataprasad, who looked as if the'd ascend to the heavens any day. Every evening, one of them would come to Ma and ask her 'Bahujeeeee.... Dabbal roti ayye kya ?' (Shall I get some bread for you?)' It was freakkin hilarious!
I can see myself as a little boy running through that house meaninglessly, my mother yelling at me, and our little family trips, almost like a movie clip playing forth. I just have to close my eyes. Some images are more vivid than others. And some are fading still. In September '87, we moved out of Mirzapur and our world changed forever.
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Mirzapur is a small town in mid-eastern Uttar Pradesh between Allahbad and Varanasi. It was February of 1987 and my father had just been transferred to Mirzapur. We moved into 'Manavta Nivaas' (Abode of Humanity), the biggest 'haveli' in Mirzapur, newly acquired by the company my father worked for at the time. I remember learning from overheard conversations that the haveli had been owned by a wealthy Sikh family who had fled during the Indira Gandhi riots (1984). Since then it had remained unoccupied. I disliked it immediately. On thousands of square feet of space, stood the eerie looking dungeon of a place, with a humongous coutyard (large enough to hold twenty trucks they said) and an old well in the corner. The high brick walls encolsing the courtyard gave it the feel of a prison. The sudden change of habitat from our comfy apartment in Kanpur and loads of 'colony friends' to the desolate haveli had made me sick. I wondered if there had been any killings there during the riots.
Mirzapur is world-famous for it's carpet industry (I was proud of that when I met my cousins) On either side of Mirzapur on the main highway are two small village-towns, Panki and Barkacha. Father had just bought his first car, a a Fiat Premier of colour 'sahara-dust' (in vougue in those days) and we would frequently go for after-dinner drives to Barkacha in our new car, and have the Gulaab Jamoons that the town was famous for (probably the best Gulab Jamoons I have ever had; sitting on a chaarpai/khaat with a pattal or dona in hand). My father was incharge of the region and we visited a number of places in the area. In the summer we visited the huge NTPC hydroelectric dam at Renukoot and its beautiful Durga Temple.
My entire world was so small. In the daytime I played with my newborn sister and my mother, or sat by the well and did the math sums that father would create for me. The great Haveli was guarded by two watchmen, Lakshminarayan and Mataprasad, who looked as if the'd ascend to the heavens any day. Every evening, one of them would come to Ma and ask her 'Bahujeeeee.... Dabbal roti ayye kya ?' (Shall I get some bread for you?)' It was freakkin hilarious!
I can see myself as a little boy running through that house meaninglessly, my mother yelling at me, and our little family trips, almost like a movie clip playing forth. I just have to close my eyes. Some images are more vivid than others. And some are fading still. In September '87, we moved out of Mirzapur and our world changed forever.
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