TWO COURTYARDS

and life in between these

My earliest memory of my grandparent’s home in Pune goes back to when I was five.

Coming here to meet extended family was a biannual ritual during school breaks. The house was a cosy cluster of rooms sandwiched within two courtyards that served as pools of light tenderly holding together the built spaces that lay in between.

A sketch from memory of the lower floor of the house with the two courtyards

The front courtyard was many things - a pocket of sky, a transition space to the washing place and the bathing areas of the house, a parking space for bicycles, and a connector to the steep stone stairway that led to the upper floor. Commonly known as the ‘baada’ ( बाडा) a term that means enclosure in marathi, this liminal space of arrival was a buffer between the noisy world outside and the quiet house beyond.

Mornings saw a flurry of activity in the courtyard, marked by the clunking sound of the heavy chain-ring bolts on the bathroom doors, the starting of the wood-fired water boiler, the shuffling of feet and calling of goodbyes as family members left for work. Later in the day, as sunshine poured in, kids ran in and out, vendors and acquaintances dropped by, and conversations were exchanged whilst attending to household chores.

By noon, the aromas from the kitchen filled the courtyard, announcing meals that included flatbreads, rice and curries. Afternoons in the courtyard were quiet and peaceful as the family retired for a short siesta before activity resumed in the evening over cups of tea and calls for the maghrib prayers.

Cousins enjoying mangoes on the stairs emerging from the front courtyard

The rear courtyard, in comparison, was a more private and tranquil nook, serving as a hideout for us kids to play around in the day and for grown ups to relax in the evenings. Partly shaded by a small mulberry tree, and sheltered from the world by high walls, this microcosm was where memories were shaped and free play was enjoyed with abandon. Here, we jumped, climbed, ran and chased each other, intermittently clamouring around the mulberry tree to pick and feast on the deep-purple, juicy fruit.

During Diwali, we put aside our childish squabbles to build miniature clay forts in the rear courtyard. Studded with maratha warriors and oil lamps, these hand crafted models were a tradition to recreate the legends of local history. Weddings and family gatherings transformed the space into an open kitchen with a traditional cook or भटियारा invited to conjure up large pots of aromatic biryani and delicately fragrant sweet rice.

Summers passed, seasons changed and calendars turned pages to announce the arrival of new years. My grandparents crossed the threshold to the other world in quick succession. As their funeral bier lay in the front courtyard, a sea of people, family and friends poured in to pay their last respects, turning the house, from courtyard to courtyard, into one seamless island of mourning.

My grandparents and parents pose for a picture on the stairway

Visits to Pune became less frequent as vacations got occupied with tuition classes and summer jobs. The house continued to buzz with the murmur of daily activity, though the mulberry tree missed the children playing around it. The city was changing as tall buildings rose around the house, and a proposed road-widening threatened to take away a chunk of the plot, reducing the entrance courtyard significantly. At the turn of the century the house was vacated and replaced by a new owner and a new commercial building, in tune with the development of the neighbourhood.

A new world was emerging, in which, the two courtyards and the life in-between could not find relevance.

Even today, when I close my eyes, I remember the muted fragrance of the delicate pink blossoms of the madhumalti creeper draped around the entranceway, the metallic clink of the front gate as we eagerly entered the courtyard, and the cool touch of the worn-out Shahabad stone floor, as I hastily removed my footwear and raced inside to meet my cousins.

Courtyards, a prominent feature in traditional houses in many parts of India (and beyond), serve as the heartbeat of a home. Not only do they connect the enclosed to the open, and the private to the public, but also the earth to the sky, and the present to the past.

And yet, courtyards find no place in the urban house design, which is centred around sterile enclosed spaces, separated by walls and doors, connected to utilities and services, and equipped with fancy gadgets and trending finishes.

I sometimes wonder what the night sky would look like if one lay down in the courtyard in my grandmother’s home? Which stars and constellations would it frame in different times of the year? What cloud formations would pass over these voids? Which birds would sing their tunes in the mulberry tree?

Sadly, the answer to these, I will never know.

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