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An affectionate journey through the seasons of life, from a royal residence to a home of our own

🌿 Some houses shelter us from the elements. Others become part of our very existence, silently gathering our laughter, our dreams, our sorrows, and the countless little moments that make a lifetime.

🦚 I. When Peacocks Came Calling

There was a time when peacocks visited our kitchen balcony, and the morning sun, filtering through the dense foliage of ancient mango trees, awakened us to the melodious conversation of birds. Our home stood amidst sprawling grounds, where nature appeared to have been granted permanent residence and civilisation was permitted to enter only on the condition that it did not disturb the peace.

We lived in an old, palatial estate in Indore, a legacy of the Holkar dynasty. Once a royal guest house, it stood across the road from the magnificent Manik Bagh Palace, retaining something of the dignity and leisurely grandeur of an age when men built houses not merely to live in, but to leave behind.

The State Bank of India had provided us with this official residence. The historic estate, now serving as a training centre and institutional facility, was then our little kingdom.

And what a kingdom it was!

The peacocks came and went with the air of hereditary landlords inspecting their ancestral property. The birds held their morning assemblies in the mango trees, apparently discussing matters of considerable importance. Occasionally, a squirrel would dart across the balcony, seemingly late for an appointment of which nobody else had been informed.

Nature, in her infinite generosity, had bestowed upon us a home where the changing seasons announced themselves not through calendars but through flowers, foliage, birdsong and the fragrance of the earth.

Yet, for all its splendour, it was not our own.

An official residence, however magnificent, is rather like a borrowed crown. One may wear it with considerable pleasure, but sooner or later, one must return it to its rightful owner.

And the time had come for us to look beyond those stately walls.

🌸 II. The Search for a Little Kingdom

It was twenty-five years ago, around this very season, when Lord Ganesha was being welcomed into homes and preparations for Navratri were filling the air with devotion and festivity.

Our son was growing up. The years of childhood were giving way to the more demanding years of higher education. He needed a good educational centre, and his mother needed to be with him.

As for me, I belonged to that wandering tribe known as bank officers with transferable jobs. Our employers, in their infinite wisdom, believed that periodic geographical displacement was essential for our professional development.

A permanent home had therefore become something more than a pleasant idea. It was a necessity.

And where better to put down our roots than Indore?

The city had already won our affection with its rich heritage, pleasant weather, excellent educational institutions, medical facilities and, not least, its extraordinary devotion to the culinary arts.

Indore is a city where food is not merely consumed; it is celebrated. A man may come here seeking education, employment or medical treatment, but he is quite likely to stay for the poha, jalebi, kachori and the irresistible temptations of Sarafa.

We imagined our son pursuing his studies, his mother presiding over a peaceful household, and myself returning from my occasional professional wanderings to a place that would always be ours.

A little kingdom, perhaps, without peacocks or royal connections, but with a front door to which we alone would hold the key.

There is something profoundly reassuring about the thought of having one’s own home.

The Buddha taught that all conditioned things are impermanent. Yet, we ordinary mortals continue to seek a little permanence amidst the ceaseless flow of existence.

Perhaps a home is our gentle rebellion against impermanence.

Or perhaps it is simply a place where we can leave our slippers without worrying that somebody will transfer us the following morning!

🏡 III. Suniket: A Beautiful Name, A Beautiful Dream

Our search eventually brought us to a modern residential complex still under construction.

Only two buildings were approaching completion. Three more were destined to rise in the years ahead. The surroundings were rather desolate, with construction materials scattered about and the promise of future splendour still largely entrusted to the imagination.

But we saw possibilities.

There was a small, aesthetically designed swimming pool, a charming waterfall cascading against a marble backdrop, and a picturesque little park in front of the apartments.

The three together lent the place an almost idyllic appearance.

The waterfall whispered of distant mountains, the swimming pool reflected the heavens, and the little park seemed to promise pleasant evenings beneath the open sky.

We fell in love with the place.

The apartment we chose was on the fourth floor, neither too close to the earth nor unreasonably near the heavens.

A well-wisher, evidently unimpressed by our architectural ambitions, remarked that we were destined to live like Trishanku, suspended between heaven and earth.

“Neither the ground belongs to you, nor the rooftop!”

There was considerable truth in his observation. But then, who among us really owns the earth beneath our feet or the sky above our heads?

We are all, in a sense, Trishankus, suspended between our earthly attachments and our heavenly aspirations.

Our apartment complex bore the beautiful name Suniket.

In Sanskrit, su signifies goodness, beauty and auspiciousness, while niket means a home or dwelling.

A beautiful home. An auspicious abode.

What more could one desire?

We imagined a harmonious little community where neighbours would become friends, children would grow up together, festivals would be celebrated with affection, and the passage of time would only deepen our bonds.

It was, perhaps, a utopian dream.

But every home begins with a dream, and every dream deserves its little measure of innocence.

Towards the end of that year, we finally moved into our new abode.

🪔 IV. The First Inhabitants of Our Little Paradise

We were the only family in the entire building.

Imagine that!

An entire apartment block, with its corridors, staircases and silent doorways, all to ourselves.

The building stood like a grand hotel that had opened its doors before the guests had arrived.

In the adjacent building, another family had moved in almost simultaneously. Thus began our little civilisation.

There was no crowd, no clamour, and certainly no difficulty remembering the names of our neighbours.

Gradually, more families arrived.

A new household here, another there. A child appeared on a balcony. A familiar face greeted us in the lift. The evening air began to carry the cheerful sounds of children playing.

Within a short time, we had grown into a little community of eight or ten families.

We visited one another on weekends. Conversations flowed over cups of tea, friendships blossomed without formal introductions, and children moved freely from one home to another.

There was a delightful informality about everything.

Nobody needed an appointment to visit a neighbour. Nobody was required to submit an application to organise a festival. And nobody, as far as I remember, considered it necessary to establish a committee to decide whether children should be allowed to laugh.

We were neighbours by circumstance and friends by choice.

Looking back, I realise that our greatest luxury was not the swimming pool, the waterfall or even the spacious surroundings.

It was the ease with which we belonged to one another.

🎨 V. The Festivals of Innocence

If there is one treasure that remains untouched by the passage of these twenty-five years, it is the memory of our early festivals.

We were a small community, but our enthusiasm could have put a considerably larger congregation to shame.

The children were our chief organisers, creative directors, decorators and, occasionally, our self-appointed disciplinary authorities.

The parents were assigned the relatively modest responsibilities of providing funds, refreshments, encouragement and unconditional approval.

And what glorious celebrations they were!

🌈 Holi: When Mischief Was a Virtue

Holi arrived with clouds of colour, shrieks of laughter and the occasional conspiracy involving buckets of water.

The children took their responsibilities seriously. No unsuspecting parent was permitted to remain dry, and no respectable white kurta was allowed to retain its original colour.

There was innocent mischief, spontaneous laughter and that delightful abandonment of social formality which only Holi can inspire.

By the end of the day, everyone looked remarkably alike, proving that equality can sometimes be achieved more effectively with gulal than with philosophical discourse.

🌺 Ganesh Chaturthi: The Divine Guest

Lord Ganesha arrived amidst flowers, devotion and the irresistible fragrance of modaks and laddoos.

Our celebrations were simple, graceful and deeply affectionate.

The children arranged the decorations and participated in the prayers with an earnestness that would have delighted the gods themselves.

There was something profoundly moving about those little hands folded before the deity, those innocent faces illuminated by the lamps, and the collective voices rising in prayer.

One felt that Lord Ganesha, who is particularly fond of children and sweets, must have been rather pleased with our arrangements.

💃 Navratri: Nine Nights of Joy

Navratri brought with it music, devotion, colourful attire and the irresistible rhythm of garba.

Our modest campus became a little festival ground.

The children danced with boundless energy, while the elders attempted to match their enthusiasm, occasionally discovering that their knees entertained rather different opinions.

Yet nobody cared about perfect steps or flawless performances.

The joy lay in dancing together, in the laughter that followed an unexpected turn, and in the beautiful feeling that the entire community was one extended family.

🏹 Dussehra: Our Very Own Ravana

Dussehra was an occasion for extraordinary enterprise.

The children joined hands to construct their very own Ravana.

There were consultations, disagreements, ingenious improvisations and occasional disputes about the appropriate dimensions of the demon king.

Ravana, who had once ruled the mighty kingdom of Lanka, now found himself at the mercy of a committee of schoolchildren.

His ten heads were assembled with great enthusiasm, though their proportions sometimes suggested that the royal sculptor had been distracted.

But our little Ravana stood proudly, and his eventual destruction was greeted with thunderous applause.

The triumph of good over evil had seldom been celebrated with such innocent delight.

🪔 Diwali: A Thousand Little Lights

And then came Diwali, the grandest celebration of all.

Our little world sparkled with lamps and colourful lights. Children appeared in their finest kurta-pyjamas, looking like miniature princes and princesses.

Diyas glowed along the balconies and doorways. Crackers announced the festivities, and the irresistible fragrance of besan chakki and kaju katli drifted from one household to another.

We exchanged sweets, greetings and affectionate visits.

There was no competition to produce the most elaborate decorations or the most extravagant celebrations.

Each household contributed its little share of light, and together we created something infinitely more beautiful than any one family could have achieved alone.

Those were the days when festivals were not events to be managed but occasions to be lived.

We had little in the way of elaborate infrastructure, but an abundance of affection.

We were few, but our hearts were full.

🌳 VI. When Wisdom Arrived with a Committee

For several years, our little community flourished without the blessings of a formal residents’ welfare society.

We looked after our own welfare, contributed our own money, made our own arrangements and settled our occasional differences with a little conversation and, when necessary, an additional cup of tea.

Life was uncomplicated.

Then, as all civilisations must eventually discover, the age of administration dawned upon us.

A residents’ welfare society was constituted.

The money remained ours, of course. The only difference was that somebody else now looked after our welfare with it!

In the fullness of time, we also discovered the remarkable wisdom of George Orwell’s observation in Animal Farm:

“All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.”

Our charming little swimming pool disappeared.

The beautiful waterfall, which had once cascaded against its marble backdrop, fell silent forever.

And the picturesque park, where we had imagined generations of children playing beneath the evening sky, also vanished.

All three had succumbed to the collective wisdom of those entrusted with our welfare.

One must admire the extraordinary powers of modern administration. It can make a waterfall disappear without a drought, eliminate a swimming pool without an earthquake, and transform a garden without waiting for the changing seasons.

Perhaps the great philosophers were right when they warned us against excessive attachment to worldly possessions.

Our swimming pool, waterfall and park have certainly provided us with practical lessons in impermanence.

Still, I confess that my spiritual advancement has not yet reached the stage where I can contemplate their disappearance without an occasional sigh!

🍂 VII. The Children Who Grew Up and Flew Away

Meanwhile, life continued its quiet, inexorable journey.

The little children who had once chased one another through the campus began to grow taller.

Their bicycles gave way to scooters, their schoolbags to college books, and their innocent conversations to the increasingly mysterious language of adolescence.

The boys who had once constructed Ravana began constructing their own futures. The girls who had danced through the nights of Navratri set out to discover the wider world.

One by one, they left their childhood homes.

Some departed for higher education, others for employment, and still others to establish homes and families of their own.

Our son, too, grew up and followed the path that life had prepared for him.

The children who had once filled our evenings with laughter were now scattered across distant cities and countries, pursuing their dreams beneath unfamiliar skies.

Such is the beautiful and painful privilege of parenthood.

We spend years teaching our children to stand on their own feet, and when they finally walk away, we find ourselves gazing after them with a strange mixture of pride and longing.

The nest must eventually grow quiet so that the birds may learn to fly.

Yet, in the mysterious geography of memory, those children have never really left.

They are still there, racing through the corridors, planning their next celebration, arguing over the height of Ravana, and laughing beneath the Diwali lights.

Sometimes, in the stillness of an evening, I can almost hear them.

Memory is a strange magician. It can summon an entire generation of children into an empty courtyard and restore, for one fleeting moment, the vanished music of a bygone age.

🌅 VIII. Twenty-Five Years Later

A quarter of a century has passed.

Our little residential colony, once inhabited by a handful of adventurous families, has grown into a thriving community of more than a hundred households spread across five buildings.

The once-deserted corridors are alive with activity. New generations of children have arrived, bringing with them fresh laughter, new friendships and their own delightful mischief.

The festivals have grown grander. The celebrations are more elaborate, the gatherings larger, and the enthusiasm no less infectious.

“More the merrier,” one might say.

And there is much to be said for it.

A flourishing community is a living organism. It grows, changes, renews itself and finds fresh expressions of collective happiness.

Yet, as the years have passed, we have gradually withdrawn a little from the bustle.

Age has its own preferences.

There was a time when we could spend an entire evening visiting friends, organising celebrations and participating in every conceivable social activity.

Now, a quiet morning of yoga, a little meditation, an absorbing book and a peaceful evening together often hold greater appeal.

We still enjoy meeting people, exchanging pleasantries and participating in the life of our community.

But we have discovered that being sociable and being perpetually social are two entirely different occupations.

The former enriches life; the latter can occasionally exhaust it.

The years have also taught us to appreciate the gentle companionship of silence.

A quiet cup of tea shared with one’s life partner, a favourite passage from an old book, the soft glow of the morning sun, or a few moments spent in meditation can contain a happiness that no grand celebration can quite reproduce.

Perhaps this is the natural progression of life.

In youth, we seek happiness in the world around us. As the years advance, we begin to discover it in the world within.

🕊️ IX. The Golden Arithmetic of Life

When I look back upon our twenty-five years at Suniket, I am reminded of a simple truth that has become increasingly precious to me.

Less is more.

Our earliest years here were not marked by extravagant celebrations, elaborate arrangements or an abundance of facilities.

We had a handful of neighbours, a few enthusiastic children, a modest little park, a swimming pool, a waterfall and a shared willingness to make life beautiful.

That was enough.

Our friendships were not measured by the number of people attending our gatherings, nor was our happiness determined by the grandeur of our celebrations.

We belonged to one another without possessing one another.

We celebrated without competing.

We contributed without calculating.

And we enjoyed the simple pleasures of community life without needing elaborate rules to govern every little expression of joy.

The passage of time has taught me that happiness has very little to do with the number of things we possess and a great deal to do with the affection with which we share them.

A few genuine friendships may enrich our lives more than a hundred acquaintances.

A simple celebration filled with love may leave behind more enduring memories than the most magnificent spectacle.

And a quiet evening spent in contentment may be worth more than an entire calendar crowded with social engagements.

The ancient Indian sages understood this long before modern civilisation discovered the vocabulary of minimalism.

Contentment is not the absence of ambition or the rejection of life’s pleasures. It is the wisdom to recognise when we have enough.

And enough, I have discovered, is a wonderfully liberating word.

🌺 X. The Home That Time Built

Sometimes, I close my eyes and travel back to that auspicious season twenty-five years ago.

I see our little family standing before an unfinished apartment building, imagining a future that had not yet taken shape.

I see the sparkling swimming pool, the waterfall tumbling against its marble background, and the little park waiting patiently for the arrival of children.

I see our first neighbours, our first celebrations, our little Ravana, the colourful clouds of Holi, and the countless diyas illuminating our first Diwali together.

And then, somewhere in that procession of memories, I see the peacocks of our old royal residence.

They are still wandering through the mango trees, calling out from a distant balcony, as though inviting us to return to a world that exists now only in memory.

The river of life has carried us a long way from those enchanted mornings.

It has flowed past palaces and apartments, through the valleys of parenthood, across the plains of friendship, and into the quieter landscapes of advancing years.

Along the way, it has gathered laughter and tears, companionship and separation, fulfilment and longing.

And it continues to flow.

Our home, which began as a dream in an unfinished building, has become the repository of a quarter-century of living.

Its walls have witnessed our son’s growing years, our family celebrations, our little triumphs and our private sorrows. Its windows have opened upon countless sunrises, and its rooms have sheltered the changing seasons of our lives.

Suniket has lived up to its beautiful name.

It has been our auspicious abode.

And although the waterfall has fallen silent, the swimming pool has disappeared, and the little park survives only in our memories, the happiness they once brought us remains.

For the loveliest things in life do not always endure in their physical form.

They live on in the heart.

And when nostalgia comes calling, as it invariably does at this time of the year, I find myself humming that immortal melody:

🎶 “Koi lauta de mere beete hue din…”

Who will bring back those bygone days?

Nobody, of course.

Nor, perhaps, should anybody.

For life must move forward, children must grow up, communities must evolve, and the river must continue its journey towards the vast ocean.

But if I were granted one little wish, I would ask to return, just for an evening, to our little Suniket of twenty-five years ago.

To sit beside the waterfall, watch the children playing in the park, exchange a few words with our neighbours, and wait for the lamps to be lit as dusk gently settles upon our little world.

No grand celebrations. No elaborate arrangements. No committees.

Just a few families, a handful of children, and an abundance of happiness.

Less was more.

And what a beautiful abundance that little less contained!

🌿🪷🌿