I was born in a small town in Assam called Dhubri. Assam, for those who came in late, is a state that lies to the east of India. While it is flanked by other states on nearly every side, it does border Bangladesh in one corner. That makes Assam a very culturally diverse state. Most Indians that I have met and known have no clear identification with that part of the country – they think it is green and beautiful (which it is) and that people there don’t resemble mainland Indians at all; others are confused about whether civilization exists at all east of Bengal, and if all of us living there are hunter-gatherers foraging in dense jungles. I wish I was exaggerating, but I am not.

I do not remember much of Dhubri, of course. Years later, when I was in school – I believe I was twelve – my mother decided that I should go back and see the place of my birth. We took a bus to the town (a Night Super, as they are called in my part of the world) and stayed there for a few days. The first thing that came to my attention when we got down from the bus was a damp, festering, woody odor. “Matchsticks”, my mother said. “I remember this, it used to be the same so many years ago.” Dhubri is home to the North-East’s only matchstick factory – or was, because ITC closed down their WIMCO factory in 1997, a year or two after I visited it. I crinkled my nose all the way as we boarded a rickshaw. “How do people live with this smell?”, I wondered. By the time it was afternoon, it hardly bothered me anymore. The smell was a part of the town, just like the Sylheti-tinged Axomiya and Bangla in the streets, the bustle of the hand-cart pullers and the ramshackle buses, the tinkling of bicycle and rickshaw bells.

We stayed in the home where my parents lived when I was born, which was very interesting. The landlord still recognized my mother, and there was a lot of laughter, some teary eyes. Old stories came tumbling out later, in the evenings — how my mother would ration money from my father’s meager sub-inspector salary, and how those savings paid off when he had to go visit his family one fine day. How my mother nearly died of tetanus a year before I was born. How some other house in the neighborhood that my parents nearly rented turned out to be haunted, and the newlyweds were rescued from their predicament by this kindly man who took them in, even though he was suspicious of policemen. We met the current tenants of the small, one-bedroom-attached-kitchen place that my parents lived in, the house that had welcomed me from the hospital. I tried to think if I had any memories of the place, an unconscious recognition among the shadowy corners; a chord struck by some angle of the sunlight streaming through the bright windows. I tried to imagine a couple beginning their life together in a place away from their support systems. I now wonder if it was harder for them to move from one end of a state to another than it was for my sister and I to move continents. We have Skype and Whatsapp, they did not have a telephone back then.

We traveled a lot when I was young. It was mostly because my father’s work caused him to be transferred every few years to a remote village, or if we were lucky, a small town. A flood of names of places – Runikhata and Kathaltoli; Hailakandi and Patharkandi; Kokrajhar and Karimganj. They were all based around the lower part of Assam, referred to as the Barak valley. We edged closer to the heartland of Assam when we moved to Tezpur in 1986, and finally, to Guwahati. Most of my mother’s side of the family had moved there by then, including my maternal grandparents. This was when my parents decided that enough was enough, and never mind future transfers, we would stay put in the city, for the sake of everyone’s sanity – most notably our school-work. That was 1988 – I had been rootless for the first 9 years of my life.

You have to understand that rootlessness means different things to different people. Maybe “rootless” is too strong a word to use. For me, at that early stage in my life, it meant that the faces around me, the neighbors, the didis and uncles and kakus, the kids in the neighborhood would all change, all of them would be replaced by an entirely fresh set every few months, and that we all have to be ready to say our good-byes any time, with a fair chance that we would never see them again. I knew that the houses we lived in were not ours; and that how a place was and how friendly it felt was a function of luck and governmental caprice. Some of the names and faces blur into each other now, others have distinct after-images that remain in my brain.

One of the after-effects of growing up in the Barak valley was that my cousins, whom I met every year during summer or winter vacations, were befuddled by the two of us, my sister and I. The Nepali side of the family, who were still in Digboi found it strange that we did not speak their tongue, while the Axomiya cousins in Guwahati found our Bangla-tinged accents hilarious. My sister’s primary language, for the longest time, was Bangla – that was what the little girls who were part-time nannies spoke, as did the neighbors. It took me a while, later in life, to understand and unlearn the Bengali-influenced intonation in my spoken Axomiya.

My earliest tangible memories, though,  are of Hailakandi. I remember that the house we lived in, a government quarter, was quite big. I cannot remember any of the rooms, or what was in the house, or what it looked like. The clearest mental picture I have is that of my father leading me gently, holding my tricycle with one hand and my hand with the other, across a narrow piece of wood that connected the backyard of the house to the main road. I have vague recollections of riding said tricycle – and feeling very happy with myself. My mother tells me that there used to be a neighbor’s son who would come visit me every now and then, cause considerable mayhem among my toys because he was a few months older, and then leave me crying. I do not recollect any of those (no doubt) traumatic episodes.

My most enduring Hailakandi memory remains that of being woken up by my father one morning. I remember that I had a hurried breakfast, and that I was happy, giddily so, because I was going to see my mother after a long time. Did we take a rickshaw that morning? I have no idea. If I did, then I am sure we weren’t alone – the street urchins would run after rickshaws and jump on them from behind, taking joyrides on them. They would put their feet on the rear axle and hold on to the sides, laughing and hollering until they got bored, or the rickshaw puller or the passenger yelled at them, or something bad happened. This is what I saw one day – one of these adventurers caught his foot on the gear-and-chain of the rickshaw, and it bled terribly. There was a lot of howling (the kid) and yelling (everybody else). Obviously, that did not deter future joyride enthusiasts, but did make me want to never attempt this in the future.

But this is the lasting memory from that day – my father pointing at a sleeping baby through glass. “That is your little sister”, he said. Maybe I turned my head to the side to look at her more carefully, thinking she looked just like a doll. “Where did you get her from?”, I asked. “God left her for us under a kosupaat“, my father replied.  For the longest time, I believed that to be true, and every time I saw a kosu patch near the side of the road, I would wonder if there was a baby left under the greenery, waiting to be found.

Where the walls are alive with the sound of music.

If you have never been to Granada, a city in the south of Spain, you should head there. Not because I say so, but because it is a fabulous city that is oozing with history and romance, and was one of the centers of civilization a millennium ago. But also because I say so.

If you have never been to Granada, you should know that it is just as beautiful as Sevilla, three hours to the west. But I have friends and family in Sevilla, and I fear my recommendation will be tainted by the wonderful experience that comes with being there in the company of loved ones, so I will not ask you to go there. Go to Granada instead. Go there in the spring, or in the summer.

But wait. Before you go to Granada, you should do some homework first. Read up a bit about Moorish Spain –  specifically, about the most famous architectural remnant of that era.

At Granada, in 1248, Muhammad ibn al-Ahmar (1232–73) ordered the erection of Spain’s most famous edifice, the Alhambra—i.e., “the red.” The chosen site was a mountain crag bounded by deep ravines, and looking down upon two rivers, the Darro and the Genil. The emir found there a fortress, the Alcazaba, dating from the ninth century; he added to it, built the great outer walls of the Alhambra and the earlier of its palaces, and left everywhere his modest motto: “There is no conqueror but Allah.” The immense structure has been repeatedly extended and repaired, by Christians as well as Moors. Charles V added his own palace in square Renaissance style, solemn, incongruous, and incomplete. Following the principles of military architecture as developed in Eastern Islam, the unknown architect designed the enclosure first as a fortress capable of holding 40,000 men.

(Excerpt from The Age of Faith :Volume 4 of The Story of Civilization, Will and Ariel Durant)

So yes, the Alhambra. If you do not book tickets in advance, you will probably be in for a shock when you turn up at the gates. There will be lines, and you will probably not get in if you stand in line after 10 AM in the morning. You could do the right thing, and book tickets in advance and waltz right in, like I did the first time I went there in 2011 (or rather, as Pablo did. That man is an organizational wonder). But should you choose to be adventurous – and I heartily recommend it – walk to the gates of the Alhambra at 6 in the morning. You will see the streets in a new light – pun intended – and you will also notice the unique design of the street-lamps, brazenly modern compared to the city’s vibe. You will also see a name you did not think to associate with the place – the writer Washington Irving, who wrote his famous Tales of the Alhambra way back when, and made the place even more famous than it was. There is a fountain in his honor and a beautiful bronze statue, on which time has woven a respectable green patina.

My recommendation is to spend about 6 hours in the Alhambra. Visit the Generalife gardens first. It’s a good warm-up for what is to come, and there is nothing like walking through flowers in bloom accompanied by the sounds of water gargling through fountains and stairways (yes, water stairways). The Palace of Carlos V, with its museum comes next. When I was there in 2011, there was an MC Escher exhibit that took nearly an hour of my time – Escher’s work was apparently inspired by the intricate mathematically-precise patterns in the Alhambra. This time, the museum showcased the work of Andalusian artist Carmen Laffon, whose smoky landscape and still-life painting gave me goosebumps. Also take the time to go to some of the bath-houses and the cathedral. Take a fifteen minute break. And then go inside the Palace of the Nazaries.

The more luxurious taste of the next two centuries gradually transformed this fortress into a congeries of halls and palaces, nearly all distinguished by unsurpassed delicacy of floral or geometrical decoration, carved or stamped in colored stucco, brick, or stone. In the Court of the Myrtles a pool reflects the foliage and the fretted portico. Behind it rises the battlemented Tower of Comares, where the besieged thought to find a last and impregnable redoubt. Within the tower is the ornate Hall of the Ambassadors; here the emirs of Granada sat enthroned, while foreign emissaries marveled at the art and wealth of the tiny kingdom; here Charles V, looking out from a balcony window upon the gardens, groves, and stream below, mused, “How ill-fated the man who lost all this!” In the main courtyard, the Patio de los Leones, a dozen ungainly marble lions guard a majestic alabaster fountain; the slender columns and flowered capitals of the surrounding arcade, the stalactite archivolts, the Kufic lettering, the time-subdued tints of the filigree arabesques, make this the masterpiece of the Morisco style.

(Excerpt from The Age of Faith :Volume 4 of The Story of Civilization, Will and Ariel Durant)

To say that the Nazaries palace is stunning is an understatement. It is an Orientalist’s wet dream, the ornamental outpouring of a civilization at its peak, a period where conquest was replaced by consolidation and decoration. One might argue (and the Durants make a mention of this) that the Moors went beyond elegance to excess, but why should one complain against beauty that has lasted centuries? Against precise geometric patterns that manage to give us weak knees and purified souls even in this day and age? I have to admit that I went a little crazy over the arabesque designs.

The palaces deserve at least a few hours of your time. From various points around the courtyards and corridors, you see vistas of the city, red and white lego blocks clustered all along the horizon. But the lighting is bad, and your pictures will probably come out over-saturated. The best panoramic views of the city are seen from the western fortifications, called the Alcazaba. There, atop the Torre Quebrada and the Torre del Homenaje, you get an inkling of how the defenders of this fortress and its 40000 inhabitants kept a close watch on the land surrounding it.

Later in the evening, you should think about walking through the maze of streets and alleys that weave through buildings ancient and modern. Orange trees cast magical shadows on red tiles, and as you turn into random alleys, it feels like being transported into a different century. The sound of running water is everywhere, not the petulant glug of sewers or the furious energy of a river; what you hear in Granada is the murmur of fountains, a gentle gurgle that calms you down, and asks you to drink in the sights without worrying about missed schedules. Occasionally, you peek through the grilles of gates, and sniff at the smell of oranges wafting through well-manicured gardens. A cat saunters fearlessly across the street, pauses and stares at you, indignant at your intrusion into its neighborhood. Every now and then, you pass by clusters of tourists, a multitude of tongues and camera models immersed in and creating worlds of their own. There are times when you may have to flatten yourself against a door to let a brash, overconfident vehicle pass you by – seeing a chariot or two would not be surprising, but these are our familiar beasts of iron and smoke, both buses and cars. Take care, because Moorish bathhouses and medieval villas remain frozen in time and semi-hidden throughout these streets, and most of them are free to enter and gasp at. If you look closely at the tiles, you will find them covered with saplings – there is silent life everywhere, in Granada.

When it is dark, and you are back in the modern part of the city, walk over to this bar called Poe’s. It’s run by a British guy and his Spanish wife, and they serve a free tapa with every drink you order. Try all 9 items on the food menu. By the time you are done, there is a happy buzz in your head, though you realize that the day is over and it will be time to leave soon. But you will be back. Oh, you will be back.

A view to remember