Where I’m Still Becoming

Special Mention- English, Writing Contest 2025

By Utkarsha Dhok

City: Nagpur, Maharashtra

Description: This essay reflects on Nagpur not just as a city, but as a repository of memory, longing, and belonging. Through streets, markets, and quiet-dusty corners, the author weaves observation and emotion, revealing how personal life stories shape our perspective of the city. With a subtle gendered lens and her brother’s perspective, it reflects on how diffferently we inhabit, remember, and recall a city as home. Using an engaging narrative style, the author paints a realistic imagery of Nagpur, yet leaves it open to interpretation and personal longing.

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Image Source: Author

Present Day - August 2024

Eshan twisted the stubborn key, and the door creaked open to reveal his grandfather's old

room. Dust particles waltzed in the harsh afternoon light, settling on surfaces untouched for months. In an instant, he was enveloped by the scent of sandalwood incense, mixed with

something deeper, earthier. The scent of cumin and coriander, mingling with the tang of rusty

metal, had woven itself into the fabric of the room, lingering among the dusty utensils.

"Ajoba's room" he murmured quietly as he crossed into the room. He could hear his mother calling from downstairs. "College begins next month na beta? If you want that room, you need to clear it out by then! Keep what's important, and sell the rest!".

At twenty-one, Eshan couldn’t stand the lack of space anymore. Sharing a room with his little sister was pushing him to the edge. This room was his one shot at space, at breathing room. But as he stepped inside, it felt less like a blank slate and more like walking into a time capsule.

Standing at the door, Eshan took in the room. In one corner sat a giant iron kadhai, the kind you only saw at weddings now, dark with age and grease. probably last used when his grandfather was still around. Next to it, a pair of old wooden chairs with hand-carved legs. Then came the rice drums from his childhood, no longer filled with grain but stuffed with sweaters that didn't fit anyone. A rusted fan drooped on its stand, blades stiff and unmoving. The walls were lined with cracked wainscoting and chipped baseboards, paint peeling.

Against the wall, a sagging stack of newspapers and old books leaned in a crooked tower. Yellowed pages with curled edges, brown paper covered school textbooks, and neatly stacked JEE prep guides, all crammed together, like they’d collapse if he even breathed too close. He didn’t need to look twice. He knew he’d never open them again.

He exhaled slowly, the weight of it all settling on his shoulders. This room was a mess. It was suffocating.

"Where do I even start?" Eshan muttered with a sigh, pulling out his phone to document the chaos for his Instagram story. But something stopped him mid-click.

This wasn't content for social media. This was archaeology!

Memory Fragment–2010

“Ajoba, why does your food taste so different from Aai’s?” Eshan asked, tugging at his plate.

“Beta, I cooked out of necessity more than love,” his grandfather replied. “Sunbai, she teaches all day to keep our home running, then still stands at the stove, going toe-to-toe with me on taste.”

Six-year-old Eshan coughed, his small frame jolting. "It’s too strong!" he said, eyes watering.

His grandfather laughed. “Strong? Ofcourse! This masala has thirty-two spices! Each one traveled from a different corner of India to end up in this kitchen. My grandmother used to tell me, Your Tippat Panaji, your great-great-great-grandmother, knew each one by heart, like shloks!” 

“Why so many?”

Ajoba smiled, eyes far away. “I’ll tell you a story. We were weavers once... Halba Koshtis from villages near Wardha. When the cotton mills came to Nagpur in the 1870s, we left our looms and moved to the city. But the mills never provided enough beta, not for everyone, not for long. So our people, both women and men, learned to weave flavor instead of cloth. They cooked for the mill workers, meals strong enough to power twelve-hour shifts. "

The grinder hummed on, steady and slow. “This kadhai,” he said, gesturing to the blackened iron, “has fed thousands...through famines, festivals, and everything in between. Food carries memory, Eshan. And memory carries responsibility.”

Present Day - August 2024

The kadhai proved immovable. Eshan's engineering muscles, toned by casual gym visits, were no match for decades-old cast iron. Frustrated, he remembered the conversation with his father about finding help at Pratap Nagar and Ramnagar Chowk.

The next morning, he took his Activa to the signal where clusters of men squatted on the footpath, waiting. Some read newspapers, others sipped tea from small glasses, all scanning approaching vehicles for signs of work. Eshan had passed this spot countless times without really giving much thoughts.

"Saheb, kaam aahe ka?" A thin man approached, his clothes clean but worn, hands calloused from labor. "Haan, Furniture shifting. Heavy items." After a brief exchange the man joined him on the scooter. As they rode through the narrow lanes, the man broke the silence.

"Maza naav Ravi. Fifteen years working in the city. Ghar kuthay?"

"You're not from Nagpur?"

"From a village near Wardha. Drought hit us hard, so we shifted here. Nagpur’s like that—if you’re ready to work, it lets you in."

They passed Seminary Hills, and Ravi pointed toward the greens. "Morning mein, Saheb log jogging karte. Evening mein families picnic karte. I bring my kids here in their vacation. They run all over the place!"

Back in the room, Ravi proved his worth immediately, lifting the kadhai with practiced ease.

"Your grandfather was in RSS?" he asked, picking up on the bundled newspapers.

"How did you know?"

"These papers, All from Reshimbagh. Plus, the way they're organized, by date, by event."

Together, they began sorting through decades of documentation. Each bundle was tied with jute rope, and each newspaper was carefully dated in his grandfather's handwriting. Headlines jumped out: "Karyakarta Vikas Varga hosts 840 volunteers", "Centenary celebrations at Dr. Hedgewar Smriti Bhavan", "Family Shakha initiative in Ramnagar."

"Your grandfather was quite something," Ravi observed." Look! he wrote notes on every article. Attendance figures, observations about community response. This is not just newspaper reading, this is documentation!"

Eshan found himself pulled into the marginalia of his grandfather's mind. Notes about which Shakhas had good participation, thoughts on community unity, and concerns about youth engagement. It was like reading a parallel history of the city through one man's eyes.

Memory Fragment - 2012

"Ajoba, why did you join RSS?"

His grandfather set down his evening tea and pulled out a photograph. Young men in khaki shorts and white shirts stood in formation, their faces serious but their eyes bright with purpose.

"This was Reshimbagh, 1971" he said, pointing to his younger self. "After Partition, beta, everything was fragmented. Communities, families, and faith in the future. Shakha gave us structure, not just physical discipline, but a mental framework for service."

"But some people say RSS is..."

"People say many things. What matters is what we did. During floods, during famines, during communal tensions. We were there. Dr. Hedgewar taught us that strength without compassion is meaningless." "Did it work?

The old man swept his hand toward the busy street outside the window. “Look around you. Nagpur still opens its arms to everyone—villagers and city folk, people from every caste and community. We celebrate everything here: Marbat with its towering effigies, Eid with biryani and moon sightings, Dhamma Chakra at Deekshabhoomi, Ganpati with Dhol and Visarjan, Christmas with midnight mass and cake. Holi, Pola, Makar Sankranti, Moharram—every festival finds a home here. But it wasn’t just us. It took everyone. Nagpur makes space for anyone willing to add their voice to the chorus. Maybe it worked out even better than we hoped.”

Present Day - August 2024

They carried the items with Ravi's help to prepare for the market trip.

"Saheb, First time selling?" Nandeshwar Bhau asked, The tempo driver Eshan had called to take them to the markets. His face full of wrinkles, and Tempo spotless. Tiny photos of his family took over him, neatly tucked over the glass and behind the meter .

"How did you know?", Eshan asked.

"Aree, it shows" Bhau said, smiling. "The way you're looking at everything like it's valuable. First-time sellers always do that. But market mein sentiment nahi chalta, You have to be practical."

As they drove past the Empress Mall, Ravi gestured toward the glass-fronted building.

"See that?"; he said, his voice softer than usual. "That’s where Empress Mills used to stand back in your Ajoba’s time."

Eshan didn’t say much. He just looked out the window, then gave a small nod. Small conversations continued back and forth between Him, Ravi and Nandeshwar.

They paused at a red light near Futala Lake. The smell seeped in.

"Fish die-off", Bhau said. "Happened a few weeks back. The whole lake turned into a graveyard. You know why?"

Eshan shook his head. "Development without planning. Sewage, construction runoff, extreme heat. NIT, through a private agency, is cleaning the waste on bund and towards the embankment."

He wasn’t sure how, but he knew he couldn’t just look away. The unease clung to him, thick as the stink, doing nothing meant letting the rot spread, and calling it normal.

The light turned green, and the auto pulled forward, so did his thoughts "Now listen carefully", Bhau said, glancing in the rearview mirror, "I'll tell you where to sell what."

"Furniture ke liye, Chor Bazaar best hai", Bhau continued, navigating the increasingly narrow lanes. "But not any day! Saturday only. It's famous by the name Shaniwari Bazaar. People come from all over Vidarbha."

"What else?"

"Brass items? Itwari market. Tuesday and Friday, best rates. Electronics, mobile accessories? Sitabuldi underground market, any day. But be careful, inspect everything properly before buying secondhand."

"And books?"

"Seminary Hills area mein small bookshops hai. Old textbooks, novels, everything. Plus Kasturchand Park area. Sometimes people sell whole libraries when they're relocating."

Bhau's knowledge was encyclopedic and oddly comforting. He understood the city's circulatory system. Where things flowed, where they pooled, where they found new life. Eshan was impressed, almost caught off guard by how much Bhau simply knew, as if he'd been paying attention all along, while Eshan had merely been passing through.

"One important thing", he added as they neared the market, "Never seem desperate. Markets can smell desperation like dogs smell fear. Act like you have options, even when you don't".

Just then, the city opened into Shaniwari Bazaar. Spread across the road opposite Empress Mall, it felt like a temporary city that rose every Saturday and vanished by evening. Vendors laid out their wares on everything from proper stalls to worn bedsheets, creating a democratic marketplace where value was negotiated, not predetermined.

"This chair is nice…mill-era craftsmanship… back when they made things to be beautiful, not just functional', observed a middle-aged woman, scrutinizing the pictures on Eshan’s phone. "But the style is old. Nowadays, people prefer modern furniture."

The bargaining began immediately. Eshan watched prices fluctuate based on his expressions, his clothes, and his obvious inexperience. A lesson in real time economics where supply, demand, and psychology intersected in ways his textbooks had never explained.

By evening, after parting with Nandeshwar and Ravi, Eshan had sold most of the things, though he held onto the old kadhai. No one had offered much. Most buyers only saw scrap metal, too old and too greasy to bother with. But letting them go felt like cutting ties to roots he was only beginning to uncover.

"Smart decision", had said the brass vendor, an elderly woman with sharp eyes and gentle hands. "These pieces carry stories. Modern utensils cook food. The old ones? They cook memories."

On the way back home, he found himself staring at a business card he had found tucked between faded receipts and photos. It led him down a narrow lane in the heart of old Nagpur. He’d come here out of curiosity, nothing more.

'Yuvaraj Saoji", read the hand-painted signboard, weathered.

"Madhukar Rao ka pota hai na tu?" asked the man behind the counter, looking up from his ledger. His hair was white, but his eyes sparkled with recognition. "Mala mahit hota! Same face, same way of standing. Hands in your pockets, just like him."

"How do you know?" Eshan asked, disbelief clear in his voice.

"Arre beta, we started Shakha training together in 1958. Maza naav Vithal. He brought you here plenty of times when you were just a little kid.”

Over cutting chai that burned pleasantly and tarri poha that challenged Eshan's spice tolerance, Vithal painted pictures of a Nagpur that existed in sepia memories.

"Tumchi great-great-great-grandmother, She was a real Kalakar! All the generations know it!" he said, digging into his poha. "She taught neighborhood ladies proper Saoji masala. Thirty-two spices, each one ground fresh. Now, we're carrying their legacy."

The restaurant walls displayed faded photographs. Community events, religious gatherings, and rows of people seated cross-legged, eating from banana leaves spread before them.

"This kadhai you're lugging around", Vithal Kaka said with a chuckle, "Your Ajoba and I used it to cook for over two hundred people during the Marbat festival. Marbat mahiti kay?"

Eshan's blank expression made the old man's eyes widen in theatrical horror. "Arre, What they teach you in college? Marbat is Nagpur's soul ceremony!" Vithal's voice rang out, drawing curious glances from nearby tables. "Every year after Pola, we build giant effigies—Kali Marbat for violence and hatred, Pili Marbat for greed and corruption. Then we burn them outside the city limits, shouting, 'Gheun jaa re Marbat!' (take away all the evil!)".

Eshan squinted, as if searching the back of his mind for something half-remembered. Vithal's voice grew quieter, more thoughtful. "Your Ajoba got it. These festivals... they weren’t just for show. They helped the city breathe. Gave people a way to call out what was haunting them. And maybe feel less alone in it, burning it away!".

Eshan said nothing, simply listening as a calm certainty settled within him. "Marbat aala ki ye shop var, I'll show you mag!" Vithal added with a grin, and Eshan's face lit with eager anticipation.

Outside, the skies turned darker. Eshan slipped the old business card back into his pocket, bent respectfully to touch Vithal's feet, then rose, stepping into the evening, carrying more than he'd arrived with.

The next morning, Ravi arrived to help move the remaining heavy items. As they worked side by side, Eshan found himself wondering more about him, especially after all that nonstop talking the day before. The physical labour created natural spaces for conversation.

"Fifteen years in the city…" Ravi said, carefully moving the rusty fan. "There was a continuous drought in the village for two years. Farming became impossible. My wife and two kids are still there. I send money every week."

"Don't you miss home?"

"Miss them very much, but what can I do? At least in the city, there’s work. Daily 500-600 rupees. Village mein sometimes whole month nothing."

Eshan asked questions he'd never thought to ask before. Where did Ravi sleep? What happened when he got sick? How did he manage the loneliness?

"Shared room with five other people. When sick, hope for the best. Loneliness... "Ravi paused, hefting the old iron with surprising ease. "That's why I like working in houses like yours."

"What do you mean?"

"Some people treat us like machines. But good families remember we're also human. Nagpur is kind city that way."

As they worked, Eshan realized how little he really knew, not just about Ravi, but about the quiet machinery that kept the city going. He began to notice labour, not just the furniture.

Few days later - October 2024

With the baseboards and wainscoting cleaned up, chips patched and edges realigned thanks to Ravi, the room began to feel less like a leftover and more like a possibility.

Eshan used the sale money to buy a study table near Sitabuldi—scratched, but solid. He sanded it smooth and polished the grain until it caught the light. His first space of his own. Clean, quiet, and entirely his. The matching chair came from another vendor just around the corner. the kind vendor gave him a discount and pressed a table lamp bulb into his hand.

In the far corner, he placed the brass kadhai. Out of the way, but not forgotten. Though no longer used for cooking, It was kept for memories it held: His grandfather, stirring slow, telling stories between recipes. Inside the cupboard, a wooden box held his grandfather’s sorted letters and yellowed newspapers. The headlines, folds, and scribbled margins spoke of belief, conviction, and a life lived through the shifting streets.

Yet it wasn't just the room he'd reshaped, it was himself. He'd learned that value lies as much in connection as in currency. He was grateful.

That afternoon, Vithal Kaka called. “Marbat festival. Sunday evening. Come see what your Ajoba loved most about this place.”

Eshan reached Kasturchand Park and paused, his friends trailing behind him. The streets were buzzing with people everywhere. Bamboo and cloth effigies towering over them, painted in wild colors, covered in garlands of yellow and orange marigolds.

“Gheun jaa re Marbat!” “Rog raai gheun jaa re Marbat!” The voices rose together as the procession kicked off. Eshan and his friends got pulled along with the crowd. With kids perched on shoulders, women carrying plates with flowers and incense, the beat of Dhols thudding right through the pavement. They moved slowly toward the edge of the city, where the effigies would be set on fire.

“Your Ajoba stood here in 1987!" Vithal Kaka shouted, his voice cutting through the noise and smoke. “He told me this city showed him the difference between ritual and revolution. Both need heart.”

Eshan didn’t say anything. He just watched as the orange tongues of fire licked the skies. First slow, then all at once. He had realized, Festivals weren’t just rituals, it felt like something breaking open inside him. Not dramatic, just necessary. Standing in the firelight, surrounded by ancient chants and warm smiles from strangers, he had realized that Nagpur’s real power lay in the kindness of its people. Every street corner held wisdom.  Every shared moment was a soft lesson in belonging.

And just like that, he knew: this city wasn’t just where he came from.

It was where he was still becoming. It was his greatest teacher.

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About the Author:

Utkarsha Dhok

Utkarsha Dhok, a 20-year-old from Nagpur, is currently pursuing an Engineering degree combined with an MBA. She is deeply passionate about technology, writing, and dance. Growing up in Nagpur has nurtured her curiosity and ambition, motivating her to fuse creativity with innovation in all her endeavors. A lover of travel and new experiences, she constantly seeks fresh ideas, perspectives, and adventures. Open to collaborations and opportunities that promote meaningful change, Utkarsha aspires to work on projects that not only push technological boundaries but also generate tangible impact for people and communities.