My ancestral House in the Hills of Uttarakhand
I met The House after a long long time in June last year. It looked different, changed rather withered.
I asked- “What happened?” It replied- “Life and solitude”.
I said- “Don’t they visit?” It replied- ‘Talk about yourself. Do you?’ And I felt sad and guilty.
I wanted to say that time doesn’t allow but then I recalled my leisure trips. So I kept quiet.
This is the thing about the oldies. You try to act smart and they are smarter. They always are because of the age and experience.
Besides, The House just needed someone to talk to, someone to listen to it. Just like any oldie.
So I let it speak. It told me the same stories.
Repetition. Just like any oldie.
But don’t they all do that? Repeat the same thing? But I listened because every time it tells them in a different way.
In the meantime, I noticed the melancholy and loss of memory. But I didn’t intervene. It was too engrossed in the narration. Just like any oldie.
Through those four windows I relived my childhood. The House has an exceptional way of telling stories. Just like any oldie.
I would eat my food sitting in the room on the left, looking outside its window. The food that the women cooked in the porch outside.
The window on the right showed exceptional view of the stars at night. My siblings and I would sit for hours on those stairs and embrace the hills.
The doors, when strong, were durable swings. Us little monkeys would swing to and fro, sticking to them. The House never flinched. Just like any oldie.
I would collect twigs and design a makeshift nest for the birds . But the birds have never trusted the humans. Why would they trust me? The House trusted me. Just like any oldie.
There have always been haunted tales about the houses on the Hills. I knew there was one behind those white walls and black windows too. Someone said a woman killed another one, ages back, by stuffing her mouth with stones, dry mud, hair, small shards of glass and a lot of things that I have forgotten now. My distant uncle said that his daughter was possessed by the murdered woman, who wanted to tell her tale to all. Apparently his daughter vomited all those things, every time a demonic episode occurred.
But the House hushed it up every time. Just like any oldie.
I said you have become weak. Don’t you look after yourself? It denied it. Just like any oldie.
The House asked me how the older ones are? “Must be weak and fragile as I am”- it said.
I could not muster the courage to tell it that many are no more. After all it had fonder memories with them. One has to be careful in telling the oldies about their old friends.
I said they couldn’t come to see you but sent their best regards. I could sense that it didn’t believe the lie. It didn’t let it show. Just like any oldie.
It was time to leave.
The House asked me if and when I will be back. Just like any oldie.
I said soon. I will see you soon. This time soon for sure.
And it smiled and bid me adieu.
I saw hope in its eyes. And it believed me.
Just like any oldie.
