Chapter 1

The Echoes of Home

Winner in the 2000 Words, Endless Possibilities - OS Contest

Anushka's feet crunched on the gravel path, her steps slow, deliberate. The sun beat down relentlessly, but the heat wasn’t the reason for the heaviness that weighed on her chest. She hadn’t expected it to feel this way. She thought she was prepared, but it was impossible to prepare for this—saying goodbye to the house she had grown up in. Her childhood home. The place that had witnessed her first steps, first words, and every milestone in between.

The mango tree in the backyard was the first thing she saw as she approached the gate. It loomed over her, as if trying to remind her of all the summers spent beneath its branches. A soft breeze rustled its leaves, but Anushka was certain that the tree, too, knew what was about to happen.

"This is it," she whispered to herself, her voice barely a murmur in the empty yard. "The last time I'll stand here."

The old gate creaked as she pushed it open, and she winced at the sound. The house, her home, stood before her—fading, cracked, tired. Her fingers rested on the familiar doorknob, the wood worn from years of use. It had been so long since she had set foot here, but it all felt so immediate. So alive. The memories seemed to rush at her, overwhelming and intense.

She stepped inside. The smell of incense, faint but still present, clung to the air. It mingled with the dust, and a part of her wanted to run out of the house. But she couldn’t. This was where it all began. She needed to say goodbye.

Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind. "Beta, this house will always be here for you, no matter where life takes you." She could almost see her, standing in the kitchen, humming a song as she stirred the pot of dal on the stove. Anushka blinked away the sudden sting of tears that threatened to spill.

She walked through the house, each room opening up more memories—memories that felt like old friends, ones she hadn’t seen in ages but who still managed to make her heart swell with love and pain.

The kitchen was the first stop. The countertop was covered in flour, where her grandmother had always kneaded dough. The windowsill still held the faded flowerpots she used to water, though now they were dry and cracked. Anushka could almost hear her grandmother’s soothing voice, telling her to mix the besan for the besan ladoos just right.

"I haven’t made those in years," she whispered to herself. "Why does everything seem so far away now?" Her voice trembled, a lump forming in her throat.

Anushka moved into the living room, where the swing her mother had adored still hung from the ceiling. She hadn’t realized how much she missed this—the soft sway of the swing, the way it creaked as it moved gently, the sound of her mother’s laughter as she sat there knitting or reading. It had always been her mother's favorite spot.

Anushka sat down, closing her eyes. This was the place where I learned what home truly meant. Her mother would sit here every evening, knitting blankets or sewing small pieces of cloth, all the while humming old bhajans. Anushka could almost hear the soft notes filling the air again, so clearly that it felt as if her mother was still there.

"I always thought you’d be here forever, Ma," she whispered, her voice barely a whisper. "I always thought you'd be here to watch me leave, and now..." Her words trailed off, and she bit her lip to hold back the tears.

Anushka walked through the house, touching the walls as if to imprint them on her memory. The walls, which had seen everything—her first step, her first fight with her brother, the Diwali celebrations, and the years her family had spent together, had endured it all. She stood at the threshold of the room she once shared with her brother, his loud music still echoing in her mind.

"Remember when we fought over the top bunk?" she smiled softly at the thought. "You were so mad at me."

In the corner, an old trunk stood untouched. It had been years since anyone had bothered with it, but she couldn’t resist. Anushka opened it and found stacks of old photos—her father’s face in the faded pictures, laughing as they celebrated Holi together, the sparkle in her mother’s eyes as she held her newborn son, and the countless photos of their family over the years. She lingered over each one, trying to remember each moment, each event.

Her fingers traced a photograph of her father—his broad smile, his loving embrace as he held her close on her first day of school. Anushka had been terrified, but his words had calmed her: "You’ll do great, beta. You’ll always be strong, just like your mother."

"I don’t feel strong anymore, Papa," she said aloud, her voice quivering with the weight of unspoken thoughts. "I feel like I'm losing everything I’ve ever known."

The silence around her was deafening now. The house was empty, and she was finally realizing that it was all slipping away—those carefree days, the warm hugs, the smells of her mother’s cooking, the chaotic laughter of family gatherings. They were all fading.

"Goodbye, home. Goodbye, Ma. Goodbye, Papa."

The construction workers’ voices outside brought her back to the present. She looked out the window and saw them setting up their tools. The demolition was about to begin. Her throat tightened as she turned her gaze back to the house. Her heart ached, but she forced herself to look around one last time.

"This is the last time," she whispered to herself, her voice cracking. "I’ll never walk through this door again."

But as she stepped outside and stood beneath the mango tree one final time, she felt something in her stir. She reached up and picked a single mango from the tree, a reminder of everything that had been. It was a simple gesture, but in that moment, it felt like a lifeline, a way to hold on to the past, just a little longer.

She walked away slowly, the mango tucked into her bag, and as she left the house behind, she realized that some part of her would always be here, with her family, in this house. No matter where life took her, this place, this moment, would live on in her heart forever.

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