Well, honestly, I never thought this place would affect me this much. So much that the very news of its demolition would bring tears to the brim and sting the heart. These words are not exaggerated. I am honestly feeling this.
My first visit to this place was when I was in 8th grade. My brother took me there after a quiz. I distinctly remember that the others had suggested going to some other place. My brother replied, "I want to take this fellow to Garden." I got all excited in wait for an open garden with cold breeze and lawn. I was quite disappointed to see a hotel at
the corner of the road, forming an arc. The insides were bright yellow; nothing to do with the walls, just the lamps. The other side was white; again, nothing to do with the walls, just the lights. Well, one thing that was true was that it was in the open. No small doors or tiny entrances with watchmen to open the doors for you. Anyone could walk in and spend their time. One wouldn't expect such an ambiance at a garden. Garden was a gritty place, no doubt, but it was still neat and tidy. The people over there were people from various parts of society; poor, not-so-poor, moderately rich, quite rich and so on. People would have all sorts of courses; main course, starter, desserts and so on. People kept coming in, going out or just stood by the tables having a nice chat about the day, busting stress, having a laugh. No one cared about how loud one was or how big a group was. Garden was something entirely new; something I had never experienced before. That day, when I went to that place for the first time, I had lost all interest in eating there once my 'garden' bubble had burst. My brother though, ordered what he and the others wanted: Samosas. Nice, triangular, onion samosas. How could I resist? So, I dared to bite. It was one of the best explosion of flavours in my mouth. The samosa was filled with onion and peas and something else. But the best part was that as I swallowed it, I could taste a tinge of butter. Till today, it remains a mystery. Whomever I ask about the butter, they said they tasted nothing of that sorts. But, I did. Or maybe, I just got the taste wrong. Anyway, it was delicious. One of the people present in that group said, "You've got him here. Why don't you let him taste Osmania biscuits?" I began forming another bubble around me, that the biscuits would be really amazing. They turned out to be the same salt biscuits my school provided as snacks. The bubble burst again. I was pursued into tasting the biscuit. When the biscuits were almost over, I decided to nibble and I was proved wrong again! The biscuits were salty, but, they left a sweet taste when you swallowed them. Another mystery no one ever solved. After that day, I would quiz every Saturday. But, it was only once I had gone to that place again, to introduce those delicious samosas to my mother. I bought one big packet of those things, which he wrapped into an old newspaper. Today, he still uses old newspaper to wrap the food. How many people still do that?
The next time I had gone to that place was when I joined this Oratory session, in 11th grade, that took place right after the quiz. Curse the exams, I had to stay away from the quiz for one long year. Lots of things changed at the quiz. The oratory session was altogether new. However, after the oratory session, one of my friends over there suggested Garden. How could I even refuse? The heart longed for that place I once visited with my brother, that place with mysteriously delicious food, that place with an unusual ambiance and atmosphere,but, I was also scared to see any form of change in it. I have no idea how it survived, but even after two long years, the place did not change one tiny bit. It was still yellow and white, still nothing to do with the walls, it was still open, it was still a hangout place and it still had that diversity. These were the days during which I made memories with Garden. Garden almost became this metaphorical person, this friend I, along with the oratory session guys, would visit every week to have fun and vent off all the heat from the week. It was the time my acquaintance with one of my best friends grew and for this, being one of the reasons, Garden will always be a memorable place. Inside the oratory sessions, we were serious chaps discussing various topics with passion and tension. Right after that, in Garden, we were all juveniles discussing Batman and the Joker, Star Wars, Watchmen, that latest movie, that one person, some old joke, something very light and lovely.
When I used to go to Garden every Saturday, there would be this frail, old man sitting outside near the stairs, wearing a full-hand shirt, a dark coloured trouser, sandals and spectacles. He used to sell handkerchiefs of different colours and sizes. He would just sit there, waiting patiently for a customer, looking at the road and every passerby. I used to observe him when he was not looking. He would just be looking towards the road. Now and then, an eager customer would stop to look at the cloth he wanted to sell. It was hard for him to sell. Every Saturday, I would see him with the same number of hand-kerchiefs, same design and colour, as the past week. One day, I wasn't take it anymore. I walked up to him and bought two big hand-kerchiefs, along with a friend. They were big and yellow, with black design on them. The material was slightly coarse, but good nonetheless. I got two for twenty rupees. He had a look of gratitude in his eyes. The point was not to buy hand-kerchiefs, but, to buy from him, pay him, help him. The look of gratitude was enough. This continued for some weeks. Then it became on and off. If anyone asks me where I had bought all my hand-kerchiefs, I'll tell them about this old man who sat outside Garden. Soon, it was time for another break because of my 12th grade Board exams. I went back to Garden 4 months later. The handkerchief man disappeared. There's no knowing where he went off to. One more mystery.
My food at Garden changed from samosa to cream buns. They had the most amazing cream buns! One big loaf of bread stuffed with cream and topped with coconut gratings. The taste was magical! Even with so much cream, the sweetness was just right. It was cheap and filling. I remember the person who would sit at the cash-counter. His physical structure would make him seem cowardly. But the look he bore on his face had the strength of an ox warning people not to mess with him. He dealt really quickly. Pay him the cash and you'd have your order, along with the change, in front of you the next second. That man had his own panache.
Garden was a unique place that did not understand discrimination. I have met and seen so many people at Garden, so many different people that each one of them showed a a slice of life I could make a story out of. Garden may not have been that open lawn I had imagined, but it definitely was a place with lots of life and fruits of variety. Garden will always be The Garden.
Now that I have heard of its demolition, all I can think of is all the memories people are not going to be making, all the memories just remaining as memories that won't come back into reality in that yellow-white place, I can see all those people losing that hangout place, losing that place where they used to come for spending some time alone or with a group, I can see the loss of a food-haven for those who really couldn't afford much. I can only see loss of something very valuable. It does not matter if they would rebuild it or relocate it because it's just not the same yellow-white place at the corner of the road where I first went with my brother.
The loss of every friend is sad. How can I not feel sad for this one?
Bye, Garden...
My first visit to this place was when I was in 8th grade. My brother took me there after a quiz. I distinctly remember that the others had suggested going to some other place. My brother replied, "I want to take this fellow to Garden." I got all excited in wait for an open garden with cold breeze and lawn. I was quite disappointed to see a hotel at
the corner of the road, forming an arc. The insides were bright yellow; nothing to do with the walls, just the lamps. The other side was white; again, nothing to do with the walls, just the lights. Well, one thing that was true was that it was in the open. No small doors or tiny entrances with watchmen to open the doors for you. Anyone could walk in and spend their time. One wouldn't expect such an ambiance at a garden. Garden was a gritty place, no doubt, but it was still neat and tidy. The people over there were people from various parts of society; poor, not-so-poor, moderately rich, quite rich and so on. People would have all sorts of courses; main course, starter, desserts and so on. People kept coming in, going out or just stood by the tables having a nice chat about the day, busting stress, having a laugh. No one cared about how loud one was or how big a group was. Garden was something entirely new; something I had never experienced before. That day, when I went to that place for the first time, I had lost all interest in eating there once my 'garden' bubble had burst. My brother though, ordered what he and the others wanted: Samosas. Nice, triangular, onion samosas. How could I resist? So, I dared to bite. It was one of the best explosion of flavours in my mouth. The samosa was filled with onion and peas and something else. But the best part was that as I swallowed it, I could taste a tinge of butter. Till today, it remains a mystery. Whomever I ask about the butter, they said they tasted nothing of that sorts. But, I did. Or maybe, I just got the taste wrong. Anyway, it was delicious. One of the people present in that group said, "You've got him here. Why don't you let him taste Osmania biscuits?" I began forming another bubble around me, that the biscuits would be really amazing. They turned out to be the same salt biscuits my school provided as snacks. The bubble burst again. I was pursued into tasting the biscuit. When the biscuits were almost over, I decided to nibble and I was proved wrong again! The biscuits were salty, but, they left a sweet taste when you swallowed them. Another mystery no one ever solved. After that day, I would quiz every Saturday. But, it was only once I had gone to that place again, to introduce those delicious samosas to my mother. I bought one big packet of those things, which he wrapped into an old newspaper. Today, he still uses old newspaper to wrap the food. How many people still do that? The next time I had gone to that place was when I joined this Oratory session, in 11th grade, that took place right after the quiz. Curse the exams, I had to stay away from the quiz for one long year. Lots of things changed at the quiz. The oratory session was altogether new. However, after the oratory session, one of my friends over there suggested Garden. How could I even refuse? The heart longed for that place I once visited with my brother, that place with mysteriously delicious food, that place with an unusual ambiance and atmosphere,but, I was also scared to see any form of change in it. I have no idea how it survived, but even after two long years, the place did not change one tiny bit. It was still yellow and white, still nothing to do with the walls, it was still open, it was still a hangout place and it still had that diversity. These were the days during which I made memories with Garden. Garden almost became this metaphorical person, this friend I, along with the oratory session guys, would visit every week to have fun and vent off all the heat from the week. It was the time my acquaintance with one of my best friends grew and for this, being one of the reasons, Garden will always be a memorable place. Inside the oratory sessions, we were serious chaps discussing various topics with passion and tension. Right after that, in Garden, we were all juveniles discussing Batman and the Joker, Star Wars, Watchmen, that latest movie, that one person, some old joke, something very light and lovely.
When I used to go to Garden every Saturday, there would be this frail, old man sitting outside near the stairs, wearing a full-hand shirt, a dark coloured trouser, sandals and spectacles. He used to sell handkerchiefs of different colours and sizes. He would just sit there, waiting patiently for a customer, looking at the road and every passerby. I used to observe him when he was not looking. He would just be looking towards the road. Now and then, an eager customer would stop to look at the cloth he wanted to sell. It was hard for him to sell. Every Saturday, I would see him with the same number of hand-kerchiefs, same design and colour, as the past week. One day, I wasn't take it anymore. I walked up to him and bought two big hand-kerchiefs, along with a friend. They were big and yellow, with black design on them. The material was slightly coarse, but good nonetheless. I got two for twenty rupees. He had a look of gratitude in his eyes. The point was not to buy hand-kerchiefs, but, to buy from him, pay him, help him. The look of gratitude was enough. This continued for some weeks. Then it became on and off. If anyone asks me where I had bought all my hand-kerchiefs, I'll tell them about this old man who sat outside Garden. Soon, it was time for another break because of my 12th grade Board exams. I went back to Garden 4 months later. The handkerchief man disappeared. There's no knowing where he went off to. One more mystery.
My food at Garden changed from samosa to cream buns. They had the most amazing cream buns! One big loaf of bread stuffed with cream and topped with coconut gratings. The taste was magical! Even with so much cream, the sweetness was just right. It was cheap and filling. I remember the person who would sit at the cash-counter. His physical structure would make him seem cowardly. But the look he bore on his face had the strength of an ox warning people not to mess with him. He dealt really quickly. Pay him the cash and you'd have your order, along with the change, in front of you the next second. That man had his own panache.
Garden was a unique place that did not understand discrimination. I have met and seen so many people at Garden, so many different people that each one of them showed a a slice of life I could make a story out of. Garden may not have been that open lawn I had imagined, but it definitely was a place with lots of life and fruits of variety. Garden will always be The Garden.
Now that I have heard of its demolition, all I can think of is all the memories people are not going to be making, all the memories just remaining as memories that won't come back into reality in that yellow-white place, I can see all those people losing that hangout place, losing that place where they used to come for spending some time alone or with a group, I can see the loss of a food-haven for those who really couldn't afford much. I can only see loss of something very valuable. It does not matter if they would rebuild it or relocate it because it's just not the same yellow-white place at the corner of the road where I first went with my brother.
The loss of every friend is sad. How can I not feel sad for this one?
Bye, Garden...
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