The House that Breathes

by Sanchita Dwivedi

And there stood the house at the end of the road – lonely and forlorn.

The once bright red walls were dull and covered with dust and cobwebs now, the red paint peeling away in most places.

The wrought iron gate, though rusted, was still imposing – standing tall like a sentry guarding the beautiful past that lived within. It swung back on its hinges with drunken creakiness, to allow entry to the now weed-covered long, curving pathway that led to the Oakwood front door.

Beyond that lay the hallway. It was not empty. Memories of its busy past and echoes of distant voices filled it up. If standing there, one closed one’s eyes, one could hear everything – tinkling of anklets, soft shuffling of steps, heartfelt laughter and heated arguments – though faint and fading now… just like the house.

And the kitchen – oh, the kitchen, with its spicy aromas, clattering of pots and pans and the frequent reprimands that followed any attempt to steal sweetmeats before they were laid out on the table. It filled one up with sadness – not unpleasant – just deep and sweetly melancholic, like the melody of a favourite old song.

Here she hummed soft tunes as she worked all day long – arranging and rearranging things, stirring the stew, chopping the greens and peering at the clock in the adjoining dining room, making sure the meals were served on time.

And then there were the bedrooms, where whispered secrets had been exchanged in confidence and in the glow of warm light from bedside lamps. Conversations that went deep into the night – till sleep took over and sentences were abandoned midway.

Look left and there was the main bathroom… the biggest in the house. Here many a childish dream had taken wings, songs sung, roles enacted and conspiracies hatched. The shower snout stuck high up in one of the walls looked despondent today. As if it was silently protesting being left behind.

The staircase in the backyard led to what was once the favourite haunt of the entire family: the sunny rooftop. Once children played here – four corners, hide and seek, Ring around the Rosie and more – and elders watched, comfortably sprawled on jute mats, under the balmy winter sun. The deserted rooftop had seen it all – Holi celebrations, kids’ games and his daily hours-long reading sessions.

Yes, the house breathed. It still breathed the life of those who had created it, long after they were all gone; it breathed, bemoaning its lonely fate that had decreed it to bear witness to the end of all that it once loved.

Or maybe not.  Maybe a day would come when the house would get a new lease of life. Some more mirth and laughter to fill up its rooms. New bushes and flowers to rejuvenate the garden. Some other rooftop celebrations and aromas wafting from the kitchen. New secrets to keep intact. New people to love and cherish, even as it smiled and remembered the old ones.

Pic from https://www.flickr.com/photos/mikeprince/

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