Interpreter of Maladies
Thursday, November 25, 2004
After so much of cribibngLooking at the kind of comments I am attracting because I am cribbing day in and day out...for a change lemme try and write something happy.
About my home maybe. My home is not something which stands out, or has anything unique in it. It is a simple red brick house, unfinished, painted in white plaster, that too in patches. It has an orange door (look at the interesting camaraderie of colors) and a green lawn with a blue gate. I like my home because its a home, not just a house. I can see the small saplings I had planted in my lawn when I was a kid. I can see the imprints of my mom's henna tinted hands on the side wall. There is the jackfruit tree in the courtyard, something which has grown up with me, and has now stopped growing, stopped yielding fruit, and yet begging my folks to let it stay, just because it loves that place as much as I do.
My home is a part of me. I can smell myself in it when I knock the door. I can see that it loves me when it keeps my memories, even if they wither through the time.
