Long drives…
I thought highly of myself as someone who loved Ambarnath immensely. I still love the place for its smell, for its people, for the sounds, for all the greenery that makes a complete home. People argue that it is far off from where the ‘sights’ are and from the place that the money is. I agree, but I choose to be stubborn in this case. I will not mind travelling for two hours to get to those ‘rich’ places till Ambarnath ceases to be such a beautiful place. Such a time, I fervently hope, shall never come.
I thought I was Ambarnath’s greatest fan – a self-congratulation in mirth. But a friend who came to meet me recently pulled me down to ground level. Travelling for fun with a break from racking his brains at BITS Pilani, he had come to Ambarnath after 6 long years, a place where he had spent half of his school days. He then had to shift school, after his father’s demise.
After a brief lunch at my place, we set out to smell the air that he had smelt before he left. We walked to the place where his building used to be. He sensed something and stood stiff on the road a few hundred metres away. I sensed his uneasiness as he panned his eyes across a swank, new complex that has now replaced his home. We walk towards it silently. Rickshaws croak by, mercilessly. At the entrance of the building, we see a uniformed guard coming towards us. He waved his lathi in an irritated gesture. My friend caught his eye and I stood by, bemused. The watchman had stopped glaring and was smiling. They shook hands. My friend asked him if he recognized him. The watchman said he remembered the face but had forgotten his name. The mild wetness stood testimony to the gentle reunion. The watchman says “Jao ghum ke ao.” We walk the place with him explaining things to me, pointing out places were they would play cricket and pointing to a high wall, which he had to painfully climb to retrieve lost rubber balls. I don’t say anything; just looking on, not want to break his trance.
We then walk along a tarred road, talking about our memories in school. We brought out the tiffin stories.
We come to a set of old wooden cottages, in ruins now. Barbed wire fences and iron gates with rusty locks guard the houses that look like the official residence of a forest ranger! They were guesthouses of the DMC (Dharamsi Morarji Chemicals), my friend informs me. A few dogs bark fiercely as we step into the private area. I am scared, armed with the premonition that all dogs are my enemies and want to bite me. My friend tells me, there is nothing to worry. Seriously, his confidence amazes me. That old place looks so genuinely eerie that it will put any RGV set to shame. He scoffs as I tell him that.
We walk out to the main road. He keeps asking me if I am getting bored of this tour. I tell him that I am enjoying every moment of it. He probably thinks I am just being polite.
He tells me he wants to tour Ambarnath in a rickshaw. I think he’s kidding. Not fazed by my response or the lack of it, he walks over to a rickshaw wallah and states his wish. He makes a face and declines straight. Then as we approach another driver, this man, probably overpowered by the idea of quick hefty cash hails us back. He says it will cost a hundred and fifty rupees. My friend agrees. I let my jaw drop to whatever level it wants to. I just cannot imagine anyone paying for a tour of Ambarnath! The reality sunk in and became a grin on my face as the journey began.
We let the rickshaw halt near our school. My friend wanted to go into the school. But he just stood outside and looked at the classrooms where we had sat together, years ago. We walked towards the playground. We laughed at the fun we had during the PT periods. We would be let off onto the ground to play football. Halfway through the game, we would be exhausted and rest on the wall of the cemetery nearby, looking at the graves and poking fun at the ones who were too spooked to join us on the wall. I asked him if he remembered where we used to urinate and pointed out to the foliage behind the goalpost. On an impulse, we jumped out together and did just what we used to do during those days.
Life in a hostel had caught up with him and he was on his fourth cigarette by now. He asks me if I abused smoke or drinks. I declined, said I had tried but had quit.
The tour that lasted for two long hours spanned my friend’s life as a school kid to a teenager who lost his father early. He took me to places in Ambarnath I had never seen before. He pointed out to old rooftops he had climbed as a child, helping his father lay cable TV connections. He visits his aunt’s place and comes back misty eyed. He seems much more quieter now. He lets me into it. His aunt cried as soon as he appeared before her. She had recognized him through all these years. He was touched.
He drops me at the station and heads off to meet a few other relatives. He will soon catch the train to Mumbai, to meet friends he made in his college. But then he’ll carry with him memories- some sweet, some tender and bitter. A vision of a house that is no longer there, of a childhood that is gone in the narrow gullies of Kohojgaon in Ambarnath west.
My friend, my classmate from kindergarten to class seven did me lot of good by visiting me. He gave me an insight into the place that I now love much more. And then, he gave me my best auto rickshaw ride ever!
