It was a wrenching affair, a cutting of roots as we shifted from our home that had housed three generations of the family. The old rambling mansion was being abandoned by us, the family downsized over the years, in favour of a more compact flat that would give more comfort and convenience. The house was built with passion, every brick telling a story. So many memories were tied up with this house; the echoes of children’s voices, the admonishing voice of an elder, the sounds of joy and togetherness—in fact the tide of life of an entire family—reverberated within its walls. It housed desires, passions and aspirations, some fulfilled and some not, but all laced with memories of the honest efforts made.
The bookshelf stood decrepit and desolate in a corner with old school texts forgotten by the youngsters as they moved to higher rungs of education. I spied a tattered copy of Huckleberry Finn with notes written in the margins and old copy books with essays and exercises relentlessly corrected by teachers. The old clothes rack in the corner with a cast-off shirt and skirt still seemed to bear the impress of those who wore them. Outside, the mango and the jackfruit and the cluster of coconut palms that have provided us with their bounty stood as they did through the years bearing silent testimony to the changing fortunes of the house.
The unruly patch in front was now overgrown with weeds, save for a lone creeper of a money plant struggling sinuously along a wall. And the metal gate that clanged so cheerfully was now rusted and creaked so mournfully. I saw the slant of sunrays on the leaves of the champa tree from the terrace and the slow waft of breeze that soothed my soul. I heard the chirping of the birds in a litany of song amidst the cluster of leaves. Everything appeared the same and I seemed to be inside a time warp.
The house was a home with warm and loving hearts, some laid still now and some seeking greener pastures who could share a tear of joy or sorrow with another. Before I turned away I feasted my eyes on the austere architecture of the old building which knew no embellishments and breathed in the musty odours of yesteryears so that it would never be erased from my heart.
The celebrated Japanese writer Haruki Murakami says, “No matter how vivid the memory the power of time was stronger.” But I was certain I would never forget the house that housed not only me and my spirit, but that of all those who loved me and whom I loved. Strangers who would step into the house would never know what went into the making of it.
Sudha Devi Nayak
Email: sudhadevi_nayak@yahoo.com