When Romi arrived before the ancient yellow house, the sun was just dipping behind the horizon. The sky was a mixture of blue, grey, and white, lit up by a brilliant palette of red and orange where the sun had just been. From where she stood, she could see past the collection of huts of Dakkhin Para into the sprawling expanse of the paddy fields. It was not the time of the year for rice cultivation and the fields lay bare, except for a few grazing cattle and shepherd boys. The pond in front of the house, called Ratna Jheel was dirtier than she remembered. The trees and shrubs were still the same, all in their own places, and had not altered in all this time. The surrounding houses were all there, aging, but still there.
Then there was the yellow house. When the world around it had stood still, it had progressively moved on. It did not look ancient, and it wasn't even yellow. She only called it ‘ancient yellow’ because that was how she remembered it. In fact, the once withering chalky ocher walls of the bungalow had been painted a horrid shade of blue. Horrid, because the colour did not go with the place. It looked fake, like a mask being put on to hide the truth. She didn't like it. The single story house now had an ugly second floor sitting on its head, as if it would like nothing better than to crush what lay below.
Then there was the yellow house. When the world around it had stood still, it had progressively moved on. It did not look ancient, and it wasn't even yellow. She only called it ‘ancient yellow’ because that was how she remembered it. In fact, the once withering chalky ocher walls of the bungalow had been painted a horrid shade of blue. Horrid, because the colour did not go with the place. It looked fake, like a mask being put on to hide the truth. She didn't like it. The single story house now had an ugly second floor sitting on its head, as if it would like nothing better than to crush what lay below.