Mehta House - A House of Memories

A House of Memories

- Rajeeva Nayan Pathak 

Time, they say, leaves no footprints—but memory does. Like the soft scent of incense that lingers long after the flame has died, some places wrap themselves around your soul and never let go. One such place lives within me—not merely as bricks and stone, but as a temple of memories, where devotion, affection, scents, flavours, and moments echo with life.

It was the year 1976. I was a child with long hair, eyes wide open to the world, and a heart unburdened by time. My Fufaji, a gentle and devout soul, served as the priest in a Jain temple—an elegant structure, solemn yet full of life. The temple stood atop a grand building, its two wings separated yet connected by a shared sky. I remember moving freely between the two parts across the roof, the city watching silently below. There was joy in that freedom, the kind one only knows as a child.

One rainy day, the mountain replica of Lord Parswanath needed to be lit. The floor was wet, slick with rainwater, and I slipped. In that split second between falling and being caught, time froze. Then came the comforting arms of Tuntun Uncle, who lifted me gently and carried me to our room—what we called the second floor, though it sat above the seventh-floor roof that we considered the base. It was not just a gesture of care—it was the kind of love that becomes sacred in one’s life.

I used to sleep on the mezzanine floor with my Fua and Fufaji—a cosy space tucked between storeys like a secret. The nights were warm, not just because of the blankets, but because of the presence of those who cared deeply. I was the only child there, and every moment felt like a blessing meant solely for me.

I watched my first movie on television there—Jeevan Mrityu. The song “Aisa sundar sapna apna jeevan hoga …” still sings softly in my mind, like a breeze from a forgotten spring.

From that same home, my father once took me to Menoka Cinema Hall to watch Haathi Mere Saathi. I remember how enormous the elephants seemed on screen and how safe I felt, holding my father’s hand.

There was charm in the ordinary. Milk came in glass bottles—cold, creamy, and pure. Bread was fresh and soft. My Fufaji would bring them from the ground floor shops, always with a quiet smile. The aroma of chandan and kesar floated in the temple air, mixing with the sweetness of prasadam and the murmurs of devotion. The fragrance still lingers—not around me, but within me.

The OTIS lift was my secret adventure. As the only child enjoying its slow, metallic glide, I felt like I was riding a wonder of the modern world.

In 1996, I returned to Kolkata—not as a boy, but as a man. I lived there for a few years, and the house—still full of memories—welcomed me again. My Tauji had become the priest by then. I coached the daughter of the building’s owner, Mr Mehta, a dignified gentleman who later succumbed to mouth cancer. His humility and grace left an imprint on my heart.

The ground floor stalls offered more than food—they offered comfort. Samosas, idlis, dhoklas, dosas—each bite carried a fragment of belonging. Tauji would often prepare ghughni, and we would enjoy it with muri, dalmot, and sarson tel. Simple food. Deep joy.

Later, my cousin Pankaj served as the priest. My visits became less frequent, but every time I returned, the building whispered to me. It spoke in the language of memory—a language no longer spoken aloud, but deeply understood.

Now, after many years, my brother sent me a photograph he took from his phone on the way to an examination centre. A single image—but it opened a floodgate.

Today, Fufaji, Tuntun Uncle, Mr Mehta, and cousin Pankaj—all have departed this world. But their voices, their gestures, their kindness live on. I see them in memories. I hear them in silence. I feel them in the scent of incense and in the light that filters through temple corridors.

As I gaze at this photo now, a quiet truth emerges: places don’t hold memories—people do. And when people leave, the memory remains not just in our minds, but in the very fabric of our being. Time moves in one direction, but memory walks backwards, gently placing our feet on moments long gone. Perhaps life is not a straight journey from birth to death, but a spiral—where we keep returning to the same emotions, the same fragrances, the same corners of love, until we learn what they were meant to teach. The temple still stands. The rooms are quieter. But within me, every corner echoes with laughter, learning, care, and a child's wonder. The ones who are gone have not truly left—they’ve simply become part of the silence that now speaks more deeply than words. In remembering them, I remember myself. And that, perhaps, is the soul’s way of praying.

***Jai Hind***