The Monument Of Memories
Like an unexpected guest, I approached the biggest tree in the garden, a gentle smile graced its lips. The pleasant wind was like the music of old memories to me.
Each raindrop is the drop that kissed these faded walls in those days when the life and the walls have together existed there! Each leaf sings of those treasured memories, of the comforting love that remained there and the hopes as the entire structure held for the future.
When I stood in front of that dilapidated old building, I heard some murmurings from those faded walls. Slowly started walking around the house. The age-old breeze caressed my cheeks as if an old woman smiled feebly at the youthful world with a toothless smile!
The tall trees stood there like guarding it tirelessly for a long time. The old building stood in a composed way as if it had chosen solitude for itself!
In my daydreams, I sat on a wicker chair listening to the silent stories that house started narrating, paying attention to the chattering wildlife around.
The crumbling walls that were nothing more than a ghostly silhouette of some previous existence now were once echoed the life's triumphs and laughter. The wind whistled through the trees, bringing with it the laughter of children who once lived there and the caring call of a mother letting them know dinner was ready.
The spirit of the house had rescued itself by sleeping on the walls, by retreating into the welcoming wood away from the dust. It stayed there with the memories of its birth, the hugs and laughter that once were its colors and music!
I think the house had become aware of itself, of the history that echoed within the walls. And today, in my presence, after time unmeasured, the house opened each door and window. It shivered at first, for the wind felt cold and the odor of dust. It was about to close, to find a way to love the isolation, but I pleaded the walls and the floor, the holes of the ceiling and the smiles of the windows to say something, to reveal a bit about its past glory, I implored to change its mind. My thoughts passed through the cracked windows and mildewy browned walls with water stains painting as scars upon the inner walls.
The house shivered again, but in a different way! This time there was a small fragment of warmth, a tiny brave smile in the walls.
Each one of us has a personal narrative. The same way I feel every house has a story to share with the passerby.
The abandoned house started narrating its stories about its inhabitants,the story about the mother who keeps repeating the histories, the father keeps sharing and the questions they ask about their kids’ small daily achievements; even the tiny frown, the slight smile or the twinkle in the eyes of a parent — all become part of that house which silently shared every feeling with them. Its experiences in the formative years, those incidents, or words that touched its emotions or made it feel good or bad at that moment.
The house started narrating its story—"
I also used to have a family, a family with which, my experience, my opinion, my reaction, my emotion, my vulnerability, and my strength I used to share with. But these are just studied bits of ourselves that I choose to share. What about the real true stories? Those stories, when my master brought his newly married bride to this house, and even today I am feeling shy to recollect the romances of those days they had amidst my silent glances! They consummated here, and we've witnessed the consequent aura of exoticism, their sensual erotic fantasies every night from then on.
Still, I remember how the ceiling echoed their lustful whispers, the sidewalls used to kiss the breeze to reflect their night long titillating activities, I still remember, how she used to coyly pleading him to allow her to sleep for a while and his neverending overtures in those highly romantic nights. We, all the four walls of their bedroom spent almost sleepless nights for months together. After a few years, all of a sudden, one day she shyly whispered something into his ears, we tried our best to make out what it was! Later we've realized when he brought a big glass of fruit juice pleading her to have it for the sake of his kid! The entire house now witnessed their sense of belonging, that fond association, the celebration of their union! The floor herself has taken care of the would-be mother like an invisible mother, we started counting days and nights to see that blooming flower of their love to smile at us.
The kid came and many sleepless nights again, this time only for mother! After a few years, another kid, many more chirpy laughs, and tiny footsteps. Every time the floor made itself a mattress whenever the kid falls or slipped on the floor. It wanted to caress the baby’s cheeks, but the mother used to come running to lift it to console.
The teachings of the father and the pampering of the mother, the sharing of playfulness amidst sibling rivalries, the bantering of the youthful adolescents, the sharing of their love's labor which lost many times while they were growing up in front of our eyes!
Life changed. We too changed our colors often! Kids moved forward in their lives, moved to different places for education, and then they build up their nests to lead a life on their own. An occasional visit to parents which used to be a sight for us to behold.
Family stories are like this only, of how your family was displaced and yet built itself up into meaningful and prominent parts of a community, give you hope and resilience. That becomes part of your personal happiness.
When you have allowed others to see you, you feel a strange liberation and a power. It opens conversations, creates mysteries and intrigues, and connects you to the world better.
My master left the world first, then our lovely muse left alone with her memories as her guard of honor. Our lovely newly married bride too decked herself up with past memories and present sorrows, left this world one day.
The kids came running to bid adieu to her and rented the house to an Orphanage. In those days we used to suffer, silently cried for the cruel nature of that Matron and the suffering of those innocent girls who are yet to bloom. One day when he was continuing his harassment, the ceiling couldn't bear the pain, it hit it's forehead wildly with anger. The next day, passers-by saw a big hole on the hall ceiling and the dead bodies of the Matron and a few already half-dead suffered kids there on the floor. Later no one came nearer to this house, even everyone started believing and saying that, they heard some cries and wails at night from here! That way the end page was written on our face and stamped me as an abandoned house.
All around me are the artifacts of a life lived and hastily abandoned, Stripped of her splendor, dying slowly, creaking in the gusting winds. A house once loved, now abandoned. A house once lived now receded from life. The spirit of life walked swiftly to the top leaving its footprints behind. The house stood still and so did time! The wind howled, and as the door finally slammed close, presumably by the wind, my eyes, once transfixed on the home, looked away in disbelief. I know, you wouldn't be coming back.
This simple Write- up is dedicated to our dear friend Nado, who provided the photo of an abandoned house to inspire me to write something like this😊. I am grateful for her kindness and devotion, and for her endless support, her selflessness will always be cherished.
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