A recent, long overdue visit to my maternal ancestral home, created lasting impressions of a reassuring warmth, unrivalled by the numerous modern homes of relatives and friends we visit every year, each vying with the other in the plushness of their interiors and the splendour of their facades.
It was the first time I was taking my own family to the house I was brought to soon after birth and I could sense the excitement of the children as they looked forward to finally visit the place that had figured prominently in my numerous childhood anecdotes.
Pausing outside the gate to stand and stare, it was just as I remembered and I noticed how it still retained an irresistible old world charm, standing out amongst the trendy, fashionable houses that had sprung up in place of the old ones in the neighbourhood. Once inside, slowly savouring the ambience of each room, I recognised several familiar pieces of furniture from the past, lending distinct character to the decor whilst intermingling easily with contemporary facilities.
My uncle and his family, who had inherited the house, had maintained it immaculately, leaving the traditional style of the house largely unchanged, thus preserving the wealth of memories it holds and giving it that unique feeling of an immensely welcoming coziness.
In each room, events that had occurred there in the past seemed to come alive — all of us kids crowding around the radio and singing loudly as it belted out popular songs of that time, my grandmother taking out her best china from the wooden cupboard next to the kitchen, the deafening sound of the rains as we chatted late into the nights and so on.
Entering the pantry, I was surprised that I still remembered that heady smell of a mixture of flour, cakes, sweets and other things that my grandmother kept under lock and key, away from our prying eyes. Standing in my favourite small room in the corner, overlooking the front gate, I recalled watching the street vendors as they passed by, shouting out their wares. The most vivid memory among them was that of a man who came by twice a month, balancing a metal box on his head which contained a tempting assortment of cookies, pastries and other baked goods that had us children crowding around him to buy them.
Upstairs, though two new rooms had been added, I was relieved to find a large part of the veranda still retained. My children soon started running around and playing there just like my cousins and I had done in the evenings of summers spent at the house, often interrupting our games to peer down through the chimney to ask my mother and aunts whether it was time to come down for the milk and snacks they were busy preparing.
That night, I was serenaded into sweet slumber, cocooned in the security of fond memories that continued to play on my mind. Every nook and cranny seemed to have some experience from the past to share, taking me into a journey through the happy childhood days spent there and filling me with a rejuvenating serenity.
The next morning, sitting down for breakfast with my kids, parents and extended family, it seemed just like one of those leisurely meals we used to have in the past, always accompanied by lengthy discussions. I realised that we were adding yet another precious memory to the treasure trove that existed in the family home, created over the generations.
The chance to reconnect with the happiness and innocence of my childhood was definitely, one of the most fulfilling journeys I had experienced and having my own family to share it with added to the charm of the visit. Certainly, preserving these old family homes will prove to be an invaluable link to our past, providing the perfect anchor, even as we continue to race into the future.
— Fyna Ashwath is a writer based in Dubai.
