Nostalgia: First Lancer Road

Today, I discovered that my hair clutcher is a memory object. A regular glance at this mundane, plastic accessory drowned me into a vortex of memories so strong, that the streets, the people and the sights appeared in a tumble of PowerPoint slides. 

First Lancer Road, Masab Tank. My friend and I had bought a few trinkets at a shop there after a heritage walk conducted by Haseeb Jafferi. The shop, with the shimmery bangles, neon blouse pieces and mannequins with stylish wigs, had rubbed some of its garish sparkle on me too. That is why, instead of going for the plain ones which I usually wear, I chose this. The shiny flowers of stone on the clutcher had my heart. "I will wear it when I feel fancy, " I told my friend. 

But the story doesn't start here. It started many many years ago when I used to live as a 'paying guest' in one of the houses there. How do I describe First Lancer? In the initial days, it was an assault on the senses with the prayers from the multiple temples and mosques, the narrow roads on which sewer water ran most of the year, the perpetually crowded A1 Stationery Shop. Humans, vehicles and the occasional cows moved in no particular direction, and as if, to compensate for the mess, jewelry shops displayed their finest glittery faux items at their entrances. Harassment on the streets was a regular affair, and my friend (another one) and I would hold hands and walk after sunset. 

I was more adventurous in daylight though. I remember sitting gingerly on the bench in Nasheman Hotel and having my tea leisurely. The absence of solo women and the stares used to trouble me initially, but slowly, the area and I fell into the comfortable silence that only strangers can enjoy. Threading sessions at the beauty parlour were always followed by grilled chicken from the hole-in-the-wall Dine Hill. 

It was on these streets that I had practised driving my scooter, before going all-out into the bad, mad world of main roads. I remember waiting at a traffic signal for the first time in my life, near Balaji Grand Bazaar. As I turned left with trembling hands, I was almost sure that was my last day on Mother Earth. And then, I became one with the traffic. 

There was a flower seller who used to sit opposite Agra Sweets. He used to have a wicker basket full of red roses, and a few handfuls of jasmine flowers. Every day, I used to buy one rose from him for Re 1. On some days, he used to press some 3-4 roses into my hands, and refused to take extra money. This little, daily exchange used to bring me so much joy. The flowers were fragrant and the seller chacha so kind. Today, after I have failed to spot him for several years, I regret never asking his name. 

I am filled with a strange sense of gratitude for the people who lent me space cheap because I had left a cushy job to become a journalist, or the elderly flower seller who thought I deserved more flowers. All those years, on these streets, I have dreamt, worked, drunk numerous cups of tea, walked kilometers. 

And all through these years in this city, on a street called First Lancer, I hustled and lived.