not made of bricks

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 02, 2018

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Submitted: September 02, 2018

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Sometimes, when I close my eyes and strain hard, what I get are some faint recollections of my life as it was in my salad days. We were a family of four and lived in a tattered, whitewashed building. Our house was on the backside of a railway yard, facing the railway station. One could spot a flurry of activity at the horizon which was only touch of greenery in the landscape. Our house was itself like ruins of an old but a grand building. It bore the royal, old fashioned knobs and bolts. Its walls were 2 feet thick; able to bear any strain of an earthquake that any modern, western style building could not. Its high ceiling was actually too high to make out. Fans hung from it in a grand style seemingly more comfortable than A.Cs. Its arched doorways, grand spiracles (from which you could view the moon and stars even while lying on your bed) great Indian doors and an elegant courtyard gave us feeling of being as grand as our house was. The house was still a poor thing to the aliens who visited us. They would complain about having a bathroom without a shower, a leaky roof and no windows in the house. Aside our colony street stood a row of government quarters. All whitewashed with some signs of growing mosses and small plants in the places where the rain had deposited a pint of soil. The houses were ‘whitewashed’ every year in the fear of the officers who came around on an inspection but the ‘white’ was ‘washed with the arrival of monsoon. We had a few friends who would accompany me on my daily market visits and would play with me after we were done with that obligation. Often, when I would deny playing with them owing to my study regime, there would be complete barrenness between us for the week but a knock at our door would be like first drop of rain which would replenish our friendship. Once we decided to leave our home when we learnt that it was to be condemned and abandoned. We had decided to construct a house in a plot which we owned in the city. The day we left home, I could not control my tears. Just one look! One last look! I kept looking at our home out of my car until it was not out of my sight. On my way, I kept thinking. My family seemed to have the same thoughts for the immediate day we returned. How happy I was on that day! I almost ran the 200m distance between my bus stop and my home. I wanted to hug my house, to kiss every object of it; I wanted to live every memory of it. That day was probably one of the happiest days of my life. That night tears and thoughts kept me miles from sleep. My home was a temple. Though it was owned by Government of India, It owned our hearts. It was the place where every moment of my life started and concluded. There were frequent visits of lizards and snakes but they all were like messengers of God to us. The outer cement flaked out daily from the house walls but was cleaned daily by my mother with utmost patience and love. It was simple. We loved our home, our home loved us.


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