THAT LITTLE YELLOW HOUSE IN PAKARIA

I have only visited once….but that house haunts me till date. They say your roots beckon you always and I forged a connection with that house at first sight.  I hope to go back and make a home of that structure some day.

When I first saw it, the house was old and dilapidated, the walls crumbling down in many places. It was home to spiders, bats, stray dogs and vermin; all of whom were disturbed by our arrival. There were cobwebs all around and dust hung in the air. There was definitely that air of neglect that you see in such old houses but you could also sense that this was a grand residence at some point of time. I could imagine the roses in full bloom in the front garden with its yellow wall with intricate designs running all around. And a little twisted cobbled path through the garden which led to the veranda with its big round pillars. You could see the family seated on armchairs in the veranda looking out into the rain and sipping piping hot tea. This veranda led into a long passage which led to rooms on either side. My memory fails me here but I find no trouble in imagining these huge rooms with polished teak four posters and a huge chest of drawers in a corner. Of course these rooms must have held items which spoke of the personal lives of their inhabitants; maybe a half written letter to a lover, maybe a rose preserved for years between the pages of a book, an odd ring here, a precious fountain pen there. And of course lots of unspoken memories. This passage ended in a room which might have been used as a baithak where the family sat around during lazy winter evenings while in a corner the lady of the house prepared the night’s dinner. What most fascinated me was the winding rickety flight of stairs off this room. I cautiously made my way up this flight of stairs to come upon a different world altogether; for here the sky was the limit, you could see lush green fields for miles and the sun reflecting off the surface of the little rivulet that coursed round this part. I can only imagine what fun the family must have had sleeping on the terrace during hot summer days gazing far into the stars, telling each other stories of ghosts and witches and of days long past. And it is here that I realise, that the picture I painted might not be very accurate. I have been brought up listening to my grandparents talk bout this house which was built by their parents. And it is a fact that with time you only remember the good memories while you let go of the bad ones. This is what happened here. It was a happy house with lots of grandchildren and laughter and mirth ….but time can be cruel. Everyone’s drifting apart every second, each person so caught up in their own little world that on occasions that they do meet , they can but behave like people whom you meet on journeys, never sharing their life again, apart from those few hours you spend together. What pains me is when I remember that these people are family…..