That Quarter, Pune (1985–1989)
This small two-room quarter in Pune does not look like much today. Its walls have aged, the paint has dulled, and the door seems tired of opening and closing. It feels as if, after we left, it did not allow anyone else to inhabit it—as if it waited for us to return, like a sincere beloved. Yet between 1985 and 1989, this was not merely a structure; it was a universe—our universe. Those were my formative years, a crucial phase of my school life, when the foundations of who I would become were quietly being laid.
That door opened into our living room—spare in furniture but rich in life. A charpoy, two wooden chairs, a coffee table, a few flower pots (my father was fond of them), and a black-and-white television made up the space. Most evenings, the room glittered with laughter and conversation. My father’s friendly nature ensured a steady stream of visitors, and the house often felt larger than its dimensions.
The adjacent room was bigger and far more versatile. It was was our bedroom, study room, and resting place—our shared retreat. The doors of both rooms opened into a reasonably spacious veranda. On one side were the bathroom and lavatory; on the other, the kitchen—functional, familiar, and always lively with my mother’s culinary skills.
The large backyard was lovingly turned into a garden by my parents. Modest yet generous, it held four trees like four elders in a family: mango, guava, gular, and sharifa. Each had its own season, temperament, and way of enchanting us. The mango taught patience, the guava abundance, the gular silence, and the sharifa unexpected sweetness. I did not know then that I was growing alongside them, quietly building memories that would outlast seasons.
That backyard became my private stadium. I played cricket there through long afternoons—alone. No applause, no teammates, no scores to settle. Just a bat, a ball, and unending conversations with myself. Perhaps that solitude trained me early—to stay with myself, to imagine, to persist without witnesses; to prepare, to plan, to create, to introspect, and to evolve.
Those two rooms shaped more than my daily routine; they shaped my inner geography. Dreams learned to remain small yet stubborn there. Failures learned to sit quietly in corners. Even hope learned not to announce itself. Life was not dramatic in that quarter—but it was steadily, profoundly formative.
Looking at this photograph now, I realise the house did not merely give me comfort; it gave me direction. It made no promises, yet it prepared me for everything. What I am today has many addresses, but this one remains foundational. It taught a child to dream—and to work patiently toward shaping those dreams.
This one stayed—and perhaps, will stay forever.
©Gaurav Sharma Lakhi
#Pune #childhood #home #memories
Well described 👏 👌
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