I dreamt last night of the house that we had grown up in. My mind had wandered through the roads and the lanes that lead to the address we once called home.
It still stood there in all its glory but the halo had changed. I could still hear the rustling of my grandmother’s sari as she lovingly watered the plants in the garden waiting for my grandfather to come home from golf with his friends.
I could still see the faded shadows of our gang of friends running in the drive way excited about the game of cricket in the park.
It was all a long time ago...
The ladies who cooked our meals and the others who helped my grandmother with the work around the house weren’t there either, but their daily dose of gossip and chatter still filled the air.
I wandered into the house without knocking fully aware that it wouldn’t be the same from within, however since it was a dream – it will always be just as we left it.
The mango tree in the backyard seemed to recognize me like an older person who acknowledges your childhood through the love in their eyes. It was almost like all of us who lived there at one time had left a bit of our souls in it.
I stood for awhile in front of the gate, recalling the times I waited for my father to drive home from work in his Red Beetle and then I looked at the name plate.
It had an unfamiliar name. We had all moved on with our lives. Some of us beyond this life and the rest of us beyond the house...
Sanchita Johri
