(Wrote this for a college assignment. But this has remained very dear to the heart. And hence...)
Indifferent wheels that screech past the road; concrete colossals that crane their necks to make their mark in the firmament above; hoardings of motley colours that scream for attention; men, women and children who trot the happy, puddle-laden, slushy street……these are things anyone would notice. But not the old, dilapidated house that seemed to have ungrudgingly absorbed all the grime of the metropolis onto itself and stood there still like a stubborn old hag refusing to give up. With its moss-laden boundary walls, tiled roof, flaked interiors, broken pillars and cracked flooring, it stood there, an anachronism, as against the grand confusion of a city striving to earn that-something it had long forgotten in the chaos of progress, expanding roads and concrete sprouts.
The heavy iron gate, rusted beyond repair, whined as if to protest when pushed open. There were unkempt bougainvillea trees on either side, a melancholic pink and in full bloom, that had spread to an unweildly canopy, like the hair of the witch in the fairy tale book, so much so that it almost shut the sun out completely. But you notice the shrivelled bark, the termites happily eating away memories from the wood, and you realise this may probably be the last time spring will kiss the optimistic trees.
Climbing dust-laden steps, one reaches the grimy black porch on which muddy shoes had left their imprint, unconsciously leaving the only outward traces of human habitation there. And then one enters the one-time ‘living’ room. On one side are wooden cupboards with glass panes , full of books – from classics and old dictionaries to the latest bestsellers and magazines. And on the other is a long wooden table and a couple of wooden chairs around it. And at the table is the man of the house, reading the day’s newspaper. All that one sees of him is the held up newspaper and wisps of smoke rising from behind it.
The dimly lit corridor with rooms on either side leads to the smoky kitchen with its dark walls covered with soot. And along the corridor one notices the clandestine flight of stairs which leads to rooms upstairs. The wooden planks creaked rhythmically when trodden upon. Many a time a young rebellious teenager would have romped these stairs, in anguish, mostly in rage. And even as you climb up the stairs, you can still hear the clutter of vessels in the kitchen downstairs.
Atop is a large room, full of books, which leads to another room. Books, newspapers, magazines, clothes, accessories, pens, paintbrushes and loose sheets of paper lay strewn all around the room – on the floor, table, chairs and bed. Near the table is a window that opens out onto the noisy street. And through the dusty bars of the window, one sees the firmament. Not vast stretches of it, but only a rectangular piece. A piece of sky. Beyond the framework of that window, the sky is not yours anymore. The owners are many; they are unknown.
It is strange how distance cannot diminish real warmth and fondness. And the finest details push their way through the veils of memory. I close my eyes. This is home. Warm as ever.
