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The old kitchen in Gagret still stands where it did when my father was growing up there. It is a small house in itself and stands to the side, a bit neglected, only its hooks being used to hang some hose pipes. Several niches stand empty except one, where someone has placed a small terra cotta pot. The copper gutter is covered with light green patina as one side hangs lower than the other off the side of the roof and the building's whitewash has worn off on the lower portions of the walls so that the underlying red bricks show through. My favorite parts of the kitchen are the old wooden doors. These double doors have opened and closed countless times as women have ducked in and out of them at dawn before the house woke up and after everyone had gone to bed. In one corner water was kept for drinking. The cold, cold water that came from the well sat in huge clay pots that the women carried balanced on their heads. Here in the cool room, the refreshing water sat, waiting to be enjoyed by the family and to be refilled by the women. Nearby existed a small room; the best place to enjoy a cold bath in the heat of summers. The largest room was the cooking space. A smooth earthen floor was swept everyday or re-made when necessary. The hearth in the middle had cooked countless meals and here the women gathered, let their chuneys drop, and were able to relax in the company of each other. Now it is used mainly for storage-my uncle's old hookah sits in a corner, huge copper pots stacked one upon another, and a plastic container full of old rusted keys, once tied to a various saris.

< -- Structures like this are reminiscent of another time.

The house itself is relatively new. The brothers had it built about ten years ago when one of them had a dream that his father was angry that it falling down. Now a house with marble floors and airy windows sits here, perfectly constructed so that it is hot in the summers and cold in the winters. As a result, the verandah is the ideal place to relax. The room downstairs is all that exists of the old house, and of course the kitchen, which is a separate entity in itself. An out of place smattering of concrete separates the two buildings as well as a pathway that leads to the back patio. I remember walking down the path with only the illumination of a hanging lantern as the lizards skipped up and down the walls-in my mind, they existed only to scare me.

On vacation, I was seven years old when the old house still existed; not only physically, but also when it was thick with life. The old attic space, nonexistent now, was where my favorite uncle once took me to show me tools, objects, and furniture from another time. I don't remember specifically what they were, only that I loved that my ancestors had used them, touched them once.

The temple near our home -- >

During those days, my main past time was to follow my cousin Bunti didi around everywhere she went. Usually she was at the well or in the kitchen, but sometimes she sat with the others inside chatting. My gum chewing and incessant blabbing in a very Texan American English may have driven her crazy, but if so, she never let me know. Instead she patiently sat by the hearth with me by her side, our eyes tearing from the smoke of the fire.

Still in the new house there are remnants of the past. Dignified British chairs and a chest of drawers from another era patiently sit as my grandfathers great grand children open and slam the delicate drawers. Once filled with things only adults were allowed near, they were now compartments used for classify a child's treasure: rocks in one, peanut shells in another, a broken plastic gun lying amidst secret slips of paper. Everything here in Gagret has changed from the time when I was little and came here on vacation, and certainly from the days when my father planned his mischief. I can hardly imagine what those days were like, though I hear many wonderful stories of that time. These stories are mainly from the boys side-lots of fun, rambling around the village, sneaking around, the usual kid's stuff. And though the women too have sweet memories of Gagret, I know their lives were filled with constant work and rules to abide by. Curious looks always ended with eyes quickly cast to the ground under a duputta already draped in front of a face.

It's easy for me to romanticize a time that has little bearing on my daily life. Everyone loves to talk about Gagret-the fun we had, the people who made it home, our village past. We all romanticize it to an extent, and for our relatives living in America, the Gagret of decades ago is India to them. And strangely enough, the India of today is like a hazy past. As for myself, sometimes I'd like to go back to those times, but only as an invisible tourist. Seeing relatives who died before I was born, like the grandparents I never met, my parents when they were children, seeing the old ways of living life here. But to live? I'll be content to sit on the roof of the new house hearing the busy sounds of the bazaar in the distance. From here I can see the washing machine that sits in the room where cold water used to be stored, the shelves now used for odds and ends. Scooters roar up the paths that once had only seen calloused bare feet, and TVs blare from cool concrete rooms. Maybe it's a little discouraging, but I console myself-at least the birds still come to the kitchen roof to peck at the extra chapattis the women have thrown up to them from where they stand below.

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