The Road to Anai’s House: A Journey Through Oil Fields and Childhood Memories

Every summer, as the days grew warmer and school holidays stretched ahead like an open road, there was only one place my heart longed to be—Duliajan. It wasn’t just my maternal grandmother’s house; it was a world of its own, wrapped in the scent of freshly fried samosas, the laughter of cousins, and the comforting presence of Anai (maternal grandmother) and Putha (maternal grandfather).

The journey from Jorhat to Duliajan was long—four hours felt like forever to a child impatient to reach home. But there was something magical about that drive. I still remember how the car sped past endless stretches of tea gardens, their emerald green bushes rolling into the horizon. The cool morning air smelled of damp earth and tea leaves, and if we were lucky, we’d catch a glimpse of workers plucking leaves, their baskets strapped to their backs like an extension of their being. Sometimes, we’d stop by the roadside, buying fresh guavas from a vendor who had probably seen families like ours pass by for years.

But nothing compared to the moment when, in the distance, we spotted the first oil drilling machines. Those giant metal structures, tirelessly working, meant just one thing—we had arrived. It didn’t matter how exhausted we were from the journey. The sight of those towering machines filled us with a kind of joy only children know, an unexplainable excitement because it meant Anai’s house was near.

The moment the car turned into the familiar lane, we would fling the doors open before it even came to a stop, running straight into Anai’s arms. She smelled of warm oil and freshly cut betel leaves, and her hugs were the softest, safest place in the world. Putha, on the other hand, was a quieter presence, sitting in his usual chair, watching us with a twinkle in his eyes as if he knew all our secrets even before we spoke a word.

Every visit to Duliajan was an adventure, and the highlight of our stay was always our trip to the Oil Market. One of our uncles would squeeze all of us into his Zen car—a feat that felt impossible but somehow always worked. With cousins stacked over each other like a pile of restless puppies, we would set off, laughing, arguing over who got the window seat, and making ridiculous bets on who could eat the most samosas that day.

The Oil Market was a chaotic, wonderful place, buzzing with life. Our first stop was always Madhumita, the little shop that seemed to exist just for us. The samosas were always hot, the crust perfectly crisp, the filling bursting with flavor. We washed them down with icy cold drinks, the fizz tickling our noses as we sipped. But the best part? The ice cream. There was something about the way it melted in the heat, sticky and sweet, that made it taste better than any other ice cream in the world.

After our feast, we would make a special stop at Little Wonders, our uncle’s shop. It was a place where time slowed down. We would run our fingers over glass shelves filled with toys,clothes , and trinkets, each item sparking wild possibilities in our minds. We never left empty-handed. 

Sometimes, during longer summer stays, we would take an evening walk past the oil fields. The golden light of the setting sun would make the machines look even more majestic, their silhouettes stretching across the landscape. There was a smell in the air, something distinct—oil mixed with earth, with a hint of distant rain. I don’t know why, but even that smell felt like home.

Nights at Anai’s house were just as special. The power cuts were frequent, but we didn’t mind. Sitting in the dim glow of lanterns, we listened to Anai’s stories—tales of her childhood, of places that no longer existed, of people we had never met but could almost see through her words. Sometimes, we’d spread our mats on the veranda and fall asleep under the open sky, counting stars, whispering secrets, feeling the kind of peace that only childhood summers bring.

And then, just like that, the holidays would end. Packing our bags always felt heavy, not because of what we were carrying, but because of what we were leaving behind. Anai would stand by the gate, waving until we disappeared from sight, and in my heart, I always made a silent promise—I’ll come back soon.

Years have passed, but Duliajan still feels like a dream I once lived. Even today, if I close my eyes, I can hear the drilling machines humming in the distance, see the tea gardens rolling past, taste the samosas from Madhumita, and feel Anai’s warm embrace. Some places never leave you. They become a part of who you are.

And no matter how far I go, a piece of me will always belong to Duliajan.