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.
t was October. The air pulsed with the sounds of dhaak and dhol, and the numerous clanging that preceded the shondha arati. What were the chances that everyone, in their gaudiest attire, had gathered in Durga Mandir? She walked round the house to the place where she could easily climb over the wall. Once inside, she allowed her eyes to spread over the surroundings. Even in the dim light of approaching twilight, she could make out the neatly mown lawn, the trimmed bushes and the extra terrestrial swing and coffee table. She walked to the front of the house, up to the door; it was not locked. She pushed it open and stepped inside.
Numbness spread through her as she looked at the foreign walls. All trace of the bygone years had been wiped clean from every corner of the house. She could well have entered the wrong place, and there wouldn’t be a difference. Before the claustrophobia could engulf her entirely, she walked out. Walked out and ran towards the last thread of hope she held.
The mango tree, majestic in its canopy of rust and green, stood as old as it had always been. Her refuge from cold punishment belted out by her parents, her companion during long stretches of solitary moments, her sleeping chamber for afternoon siestas, and her watchtower from where she looked upon the world.
Even now, she climbed onto her favorite branch, secretly glad at not having lost her monkey-like skills. She turned her eyes and let them search through the dimness, until they came to rest on the brilliantly lit Durga Mandir. She was not high up enough to be able to see the people but she spotted the window through which the deity’s face could be seen. She was never one to keep much belief with the Gods, but this Goddess was different. She was like a friend who came but for four days a year. It fascinated her as a child and she would spend hours sitting on that branch ‘chatting’ with her. Romi had promised her she would come every year. However, not all promises can be kept…
Now she gazed at the old familiar face, looking stunningly beautiful even from that distance, and she mumbled, “Hey, long time no see…” She imagined the deity smile and respond in the way she once did and their conversation continued. Long hours passed, the moon danced in the ripples of Ratna Jheel, the conch sounded faintly, and the beats of the drums faded as night crept in.
The inmates of the house would be returning shortly. Romi slipped down from her perch and took one last look of the place. What was left to see anyway but gravestones of the past? It was too late to dig. She gathered her thoughts and packed them away to be brought to the front during moments of reminiscence. Truth is often stranger than fiction. But as William Blake has said, truth is told not to be understood, but to be believed.
Romi crossed over the wall and turned her back to the house. No one needed to know that she was here. The mango tree and her friend would hold testimony to her visit. And with that in mind, she quietly walked away, her footsteps sounding softly, to be acknowledged by nature and erased in time.
Numbness spread through her as she looked at the foreign walls. All trace of the bygone years had been wiped clean from every corner of the house. She could well have entered the wrong place, and there wouldn’t be a difference. Before the claustrophobia could engulf her entirely, she walked out. Walked out and ran towards the last thread of hope she held.
The mango tree, majestic in its canopy of rust and green, stood as old as it had always been. Her refuge from cold punishment belted out by her parents, her companion during long stretches of solitary moments, her sleeping chamber for afternoon siestas, and her watchtower from where she looked upon the world.
Even now, she climbed onto her favorite branch, secretly glad at not having lost her monkey-like skills. She turned her eyes and let them search through the dimness, until they came to rest on the brilliantly lit Durga Mandir. She was not high up enough to be able to see the people but she spotted the window through which the deity’s face could be seen. She was never one to keep much belief with the Gods, but this Goddess was different. She was like a friend who came but for four days a year. It fascinated her as a child and she would spend hours sitting on that branch ‘chatting’ with her. Romi had promised her she would come every year. However, not all promises can be kept…
Now she gazed at the old familiar face, looking stunningly beautiful even from that distance, and she mumbled, “Hey, long time no see…” She imagined the deity smile and respond in the way she once did and their conversation continued. Long hours passed, the moon danced in the ripples of Ratna Jheel, the conch sounded faintly, and the beats of the drums faded as night crept in.
The inmates of the house would be returning shortly. Romi slipped down from her perch and took one last look of the place. What was left to see anyway but gravestones of the past? It was too late to dig. She gathered her thoughts and packed them away to be brought to the front during moments of reminiscence. Truth is often stranger than fiction. But as William Blake has said, truth is told not to be understood, but to be believed.
Romi crossed over the wall and turned her back to the house. No one needed to know that she was here. The mango tree and her friend would hold testimony to her visit. And with that in mind, she quietly walked away, her footsteps sounding softly, to be acknowledged by nature and erased in time.