Sunday, 27 March 2016

I grew up in a small house, in the middle of a market brimming with people and set in a street surrounded by other age old houses and flats. The ground floor is isolated except the corner of it is occupied by a shrine, whereas the first floor is occupied by my Uncle, Aunt and their two kids. And a terrace full of memories, where the rays of the moon would always seem to reach profoundly, makes a well roof for the house.  

I visit the house for the first time in a very long time, climb up the stairs with an ache in my bones, afraid of what my eyes will perceive and feel the fear creep in my veins which I thought only lived in some remote part of my brain. Held on to the railing for my dear life, only to be reminded of the time I slipped on them. The fear and trepidation kept growing upon me as I drew nearer and nearer to the door. The same door which was banged uncountable times now stands more ragged as ever.

Surprisingly, as I enter the door, It was not the terror which crept upon me but the dawn of a more exciting hope which engulfed me and I began to watch with a strange interest, myself. I saw myself playing in the hallway, screaming, crying and laughing, picking myself up from the ground and brushing off the dust from my frock, the same frock worn every third day, torn and stitched and torn again. I would move from one place to the other, picking up one thing and dropping the other. And as adventurous as I believed myself to be, I'd climb up the terrace in search for treasures. I'd always find a pebble or a paper and sometimes if I was lucky, I'd find a kite. At times I’d bring my tricycle and ride it. 

The further I step inside the house, the further I connect with myself. The emotions I seemed to have forgotten were now bared to a place where I first felt them. I felt love, for the ones who carried me when I was hurt. I felt hatred, for the ones who scared me at night. I felt jealousy, of the ones who were loved more than me. I felt hurt, when I lost a loved one. I felt anger, of a murder done in the park in front of the house. I felt scared, of the witches who ran in the streets at night. I felt anguish, when we had to leave it. And I knew what nostalgia was when I came back to it again. 

I came back to it again for the sole purpose of recollecting the pieces I’d left there, pieces of me. I came back for the memories. Now if someday that house turns to rubble or is washed away by the rains, I'd still be overwhelmed with the same emotions because nothing can wash away the intangibleness of it. I'd know when I stand there, that this is the place where I have known courage, hurt and betrayal. This is the place where I have been nurtured, a land I have been rooted to. This is my place, my memory. This is my home.

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