Dada’s Adda

The corner in Dada’s house has a simple book rack fixed on a wall. Made of just over half a foot wide planks nailed firmly together, the square book rack mounted at the level of a window sill is as tall as a child in his early teens. The books well arranged according to their size are placed above an old newspaper on each shelf. Most of them are dressed in translucent clothing made of plastic, the rest are dressed in brown with their names on the side. They are of all kind no racism or classicism here. Right from Sunil Gavaskar’s “Sunny Days” to The Nancy and the Hardy. Tin-tin, Archie, Panchatantra and Chandoba, they all are here. Nani Palkhivala sits in one corner with “We the Nation” while Tukaram finds place for him in the other, in between is all the grammar, prose and the encyclopedia. While the science tricks them all the art challenges the science. There is all the drama and the mellow-drama. On the wall adjacent to this “installation” is another installation. A simple shelve is mounted here on which are the Gods, some “framed” the others breathing free, and a lamp which sometimes burns and at times not. This is the adda where I have spent hours and hours of my life.

Getting to this Adda is never easy though, Dada my uncle lived right next to my grannies house. Every time I go there, my first visit to dada’s house during my period of stay is always a mental trauma. I am scared of my first encounter with him but he is the one I am so madly waiting to meet. And always half of the time is spent in deciding what would be the best time to reoccupy my adda in the house.

Dada’s house has a long veranda on the ground floor with plants forming its railing on one side and two long backless benches placed against the wall on the other. On this wall are windows closed most of the time or have curtains drawn on them. In the center is a dark brown door, which is like a “Buland Darvaza” of a fortress which I have to break open. Ringing the bell I wait for the doors to be opened. Inside is the living room where I feel no one lives. It has a few sofas and a television, a fan mounted on the ceiling made in wood. The sudden transition form the bright tropical outdoors to the indoors makes this room perceived even darker. I briskly cross the room making no gestures of helloing anyone there at all towards the stairs hidden behind the door. The single flight of steps with the risers as high as the treads have red cement flooring on it. The flight of steps just about three feet wide is enclosed by walls on all sides. Ascending these steps is like a journey to light. I love this transition.

Having walked up the steps, a door -always open - takes me to the true family space. In this space is my adda in a corner. This long room is placed exactly above the spaces I dared to cross. The ceiling on which the fan was mounted is the flooring on which I walk now. The wall in front has a series of doors opening on to a long balcony which brings in soothing defused light. On the right are three beds arranged in a “C” formation. Behind the bed is a desk with a music set and drawers filled with all type of music. The walls have posters and exercising equipments and everything you want to have. Every person occupying this room has personalized his own space. On the right are two cane chairs and stools with a low table in the center. Sitting here I gaze at the book rack. Deciding who I should play with today or just watch them conversing among themselves. From one of the doors emerges Dada. I am not at all scared of him now and we continue talking mostly silent for hours and hours. Dada goes on with has witty jokes in between and I keep listening.

The corner books shop at Barista I find too open. The People tree book store resembles more of this place. Is there any learning for us here?