Now and Here-

“… Now and Here is all that matters, Now and Here.”
The Bhimtal monsoons had not been kind to the words etched on that gate post. They had partly obliterated the word carved just above that line. And the lichens growing deep into the wood were working at that.

“That’s interesting, Now and Here is all that matters, Now and Here”. I read slowly savoring each word.

“I told you” said my mother. As if a few words carved on a gatepost justified her dragging me here. But it was my monthly obligatory weekend trip to Bhimtal and the alternative of staying at home and teaching the fat beagle to “Stay” was hardly conducive, so I really had no option except to vociferously express my displeasure at being dragged to meet the “Old Folks”.

I have no problem with old people. I mean I will join their senile ranks some day, but this socializing, I do not quite enjoy. Oh, I do understand it is Mum’s way of spending her time here. Ever since Dad passed on, she has taken to socializing in a huge way. Every weekend is spent in what I uncharitably call going from “house to house” visiting with her new found friends in this place. It is strange how she has got to know all these retired people in this almost hill station so well- probably better than people she used to know in Nainital, where we lived when Dad was around. It is harmless, just irksome when I am expected to go around with her to these places. At least here in this place I would not get bored.

The drive way, rather the mud track that led to the old house was flanked by trees and bushes threatening to grow over the “road”. It led to a clearing flanked by Himalayan firs- never cheery trees even in bright sunshine- with an overcast sky they looked almost sinister. At the first glance the house looked like it was dark green. Closer investigation showed its walls and roof over grown with English ivy. The flowerbeds near the entrance had some variety of lily threatening to grow through the fissures in the porch floor.

Our knocks echoed through the house. A bent little old lady opened the door.
“Come in, it’s so nice to see you” she said ushering us into an ancient living room through a sun verandah with broken panes. I settled down into an old fabric covered chair that must have been comfortable in its heyday on the late nineteen thirties. My mother got into an equally old but far ricketier rocking chair.
The old lady settled down on a nondescript mound of things (or was it a very shapeless chair?) by what must have been the fireplace. The light from the window sparkled off her silver hair making her look rather other-worldly.

“Ramesh some tea” she quavered.

An equally ancient servitor (you could not call him anything else, maybe purana khidmutgar) came in, stood by the door, looked at us and then hobbled down to the kitchen.
There was an air of general falling apart to the place.
Yellowed news papers lay in neat piles lined up against the far wall. The window, had yellowing lace curtains over the panes. The flowers in the vase over the mantelpiece probably used to be marigolds in another life. An old “sampler”, the kind the nuns in convent would make us learn our crocheting on hung over the mantelpiece. From time to time a scratchy noise came from the chimney, and a little shower of ancient soot feel down.

“It’s the mice” she said. “After the cat died, they are all over. I cannot replace Kitty, Mishraji loved her so much.”

My mother said something about how pets were like family and ancient Rameshji creaked in with the tea.
It was surprisingly good. I said as much.

“Mishraji always loved Lopchu. We used to get it from Assam directly those days. When we first moved here, a peon used to mail it to us from the tea gardens – now I get the local one”.

I sipped my lopchu. I must have looked towards the news papers, for she said
“I see you looking at those. I want to make a scrap book”

“Of newspaper clippings” I asked, mystified.

“Yes, Mishraji wanted to get original copies of news of note”
“Like Indira Gandhi’s assassination” I tried to think of the oldest news the newspapers could have carried. Even that was twenty five years ago.

“Like the moon landing.”

“Are they that old?”

“Yes, some are from the 1950s- we always got the Times of India. Mishraji’s elder brother used to write a column for it at times. Nowadays Manju and Anju have both switched to the Hindustan Times.”

“They are my daughters” she explained. “Live in Delhi. They come here for the festivals, but not in the rains- it gets so inconvenient for them. And in the winter it is too cold for their kids here.”

“I work in Delhi” I said.

“Your mummy was telling me. She said she gets lonely, but I told her, children are like the river. It flows on. The banks remain where they are.”

“But she comes here once a month” Mum is always loyal if nothing else.

“Yes, its so nice. Mishraji always asked Sunil to come here for the weekend. Sunil, my son, he was in Calcutta, now he is in the USA. His son used to like coming to Bhimtal. But he has his SATs. I guess we will see them next year".

“Aunty aren’t you going to the US, sometime? ” My Mother stepped in.

“Beta, I don’t like that flight. It is just so long. Very bad for my arthritis. Then the weather there, it is just so strange. Too hot for me. They live in Dallas. And then who will look after this place”

She waved her arms at the disarray around her.

“With me here, it gets like this, imagine how Ramesh lets it slip when I am away.”

“You could get someone younger to help him”

“He has been with us for forty years now. And he cannot adjust with anyone else. Mishraji made me promise that I would keep him at his terms.”

“But…” I started, then stopped. What was the use?

The conversation moved on, with more of Mishraji references. Then there was a lull. I needed to ask her about what had struck me about the place in the beginning..

“Mrs. Mishra” I started pointedly avoiding my mother’s hissed “Naniji”.

“What is the name of your house? I found the line on the gate very interesting.”

“Erehwon” she said.

“Erehwon, like the novel?”

“Yes, Mishraji used to like it a lot”

“The novel?”

“No, the word.”

“But what does it mean” Mum interjected.

“Just reverse it, he used to say”

“That’s nowhere,” Said Mum.

“He used to say, it was Now, Here. Now and here, the only time and place that matter” she said happily. “And he was so right, its only now that actually matters. Now and here. I remember when we had built this place- he had said, we will carve Erehwon on the gate and then the line under it. Like a riddle. And for fifty years, whenever anyone has come here, they always ask the same thing. It is just so interesting. Erehwon. Now and Here. Mishraji knew a lot of things.”

*****
Later, as we wended our way back home before the heavy rain came back- back to the house called “Vartman” I asked my mother, if she would like to spend a few weeks with me in Delhi away from the new portrait she was painting of my father.

NB: Though this story is set in Bhimtal- and Erehwon and Vartman are the names of real houses there, this is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.