Memoirs of Bokaro

Etched with the ink of nostalgia there is a place that still holds my childhood deep within its womb, despite the fact that I was born somewhere else. The place is like a dormant dream to me, much like a vision that cannot be spun with the string of words how much ever I give it a try. It is something that comes to me only with my eyes closed, something that is forever carved on the canvas of my mind, about which no Google could tell you except for the Power Plant stations, because with all its fascinating nuances that make it, it was mine, and mine alone.

The place as people call it is Bokaro Thermal and it lies somewhere within the present state of Jharkhand.

My father got his initial posting there on his first job, much before I was born. It was where my parents stayed while I stayed back at Durgapur with my grandparents. I used to visit them at Bokaro, on every vacation and since then it turned into my “Land of Holidays”, a solace from the drudgery of school, exams and tuition classes.

There was indeed so much to adore about Bokaro Thermal that the list goes on and on and on.

I loved my Hindi-speaking mates who occupied whole of those days and the never ending delightful games we played from morning till dusk.

I loved pedaling on my tri-cycle to and fro, pacing all through the long corridor of our dormitory.

I loved the three-storied yellow staff quarters with green doors and windows.

I loved the flavor of the sweet made out of fried cream that still retains fresh in my mouth.

I loved the ride by those autos that carried us from the station and the joy on reaching home after a five hours journey by the shaktipunj Express, the one and only long distance train that stopped at the BTPS station during those days.

I loved the smoke ejecting out of tall chimneys of the power plants that devoured the entire sky in one gulp.

I loved the tiny lights from the distant houses that twinkled after dark.

I loved the whistle of the trains loud and clear with the crawling in of nocturnal silence.

I loved the sirens at dawn heralding a new day, beckoning people back to their work.

I loved the Durga Pujas even when it had an essence not quite familiar of Bengal.

I loved the slopes, the ups and downs and the ruggedness of the Chhotanagpur plateau.

Every part of it appeared so thrilling, so mesmerizing and so intriguing even when there was nothing much to be intrigued about, in fact. They were as ordinary as anything else.

My father got transferred back to Durgapur when I was in my fifth standard and that was the last piece of memory I cling on to so far much like a cherished photograph. All our old acquaintances had already abandoned the place gradually and moved somewhere else because it had little to offer in terms of materialistic pursuits except for its charm and serenity.

Since then, it seemed like an era long lost and long forgotten somewhere within the intricacies of growing up.

Today when I talk to my dad about revisiting the place, he dismisses me as being out of my mind. After all what was so amusing about this land that still connects to me with its un-severed umbilical cord, he would never understand.

I fear, after almost a decade and a two of living apart, would the place still feel the same for me now? What if it refuses to recognize me?