Our house in India. The same one that has solidly stood the test of time for almost 36 years.
A house which has seen us children play inside it, plant a garden around it, study, eat and sleep in it, grow up and get out of it, come back again and again to be a part of it. So many changes happening, yet, in some ways, remaining the same. Reeking of nostalgia. Helping us to refresh our childhood memories.
A house which my mother would proudly flaunt as a place where only good things have taken place. Yes, it's true. It has always been a loving care giver of the sick but never once borne a burden of the dead. But, every rule has to have an exception.
My father's strange obsession to the house in which he wanted to spend his last dying moments was very puzzling. Here he was, getting ready to part with family and friends and yet, he couldn't bring himself up leaving these stone walls behind. I asked him why. A part of me even felt envy. He reasoned that it was a testimony to his biggest achievement and the only possession that he felt was 'his' alone. And, so strong was his will that even after losing his conscious self on a cold, hospital bed, he didn't give up and waited till he reached his home, his room, beside his books, near the neem tree which he planted, where he let out his last sigh.
I haven't understood this till date. Maybe someday i will. All i know now is that, i cherish every minute of our stay in the house. It's only a brick building, one may dismiss. But, to me, it's that warm feeling it seems to give, a signal that things are going to be fine. Maybe it's that feeling of stablity and constance, that only a concrete place can give - in a world that changes so fast.
I don't seem to care about the dust and the mites or notice the crack in the wall when i'm there. If it's peace and serenity that matters the most, i hereby declare that no place on earth can come even close to my house.
A house which has seen us children play inside it, plant a garden around it, study, eat and sleep in it, grow up and get out of it, come back again and again to be a part of it. So many changes happening, yet, in some ways, remaining the same. Reeking of nostalgia. Helping us to refresh our childhood memories.
A house which my mother would proudly flaunt as a place where only good things have taken place. Yes, it's true. It has always been a loving care giver of the sick but never once borne a burden of the dead. But, every rule has to have an exception.
My father's strange obsession to the house in which he wanted to spend his last dying moments was very puzzling. Here he was, getting ready to part with family and friends and yet, he couldn't bring himself up leaving these stone walls behind. I asked him why. A part of me even felt envy. He reasoned that it was a testimony to his biggest achievement and the only possession that he felt was 'his' alone. And, so strong was his will that even after losing his conscious self on a cold, hospital bed, he didn't give up and waited till he reached his home, his room, beside his books, near the neem tree which he planted, where he let out his last sigh.
I haven't understood this till date. Maybe someday i will. All i know now is that, i cherish every minute of our stay in the house. It's only a brick building, one may dismiss. But, to me, it's that warm feeling it seems to give, a signal that things are going to be fine. Maybe it's that feeling of stablity and constance, that only a concrete place can give - in a world that changes so fast.
I don't seem to care about the dust and the mites or notice the crack in the wall when i'm there. If it's peace and serenity that matters the most, i hereby declare that no place on earth can come even close to my house.