C 6 — Home was mine, but the house wasn’t.
I took a long profound breath as I looked at that staircase from which I used to jump and feel triumphant, when I was small. As I climbed up the stairs, my footsteps made a familiar rhythm which was like music to my ears. I reached the fourth floor. The name plate had gathered dust with time. I brushed the cob webs off the lock and unlocked the door hastily. The door opened. So did my box of memories.
The floor I spilled milk on, the window I broke, the room I messed, the walls I scribbled on! Each and every object had a story to tell. I stood on the doorsill as a patient spectator. The happier the stories were, the sadder I became. The memories I had gathered in the 10 years I had lived there, flashed across my mind within the span of 10 seconds. My lungs tried to inhale those happy vibes, my heart throbbed rapidly carrying the weight of the resplendent times, my legs became heavier with every step I took, and my eyelids captured the tear that had just emerged out of the ocean of emotions my eyes held. My room tried to comfort me. I walked into it, as I felt that I owned each and every brick, each and every tile and every nook and cranny of that place. My room had an unusual soothing effect. I glanced out of the window. The first rain shower of that year had just quenched the thirst of the dry, barren, lifeless land outside. The vibes of that place had, literally, the same effect on me. Suddenly, my phone rang, interrupting the harmony abruptly. It was a call from my father and I had to leave for Bangalore right then. I didn’t feel like leaving the place which had been the source of my long lost ecstasy. Again, my brain and heart waged a war. And this time again, the brain won. As I bid a final goodbye to my room, my eyes tried to capture each and every detail that had once been a significant part of my little world. The tenants would be here any time soon. My memories will have to make way for their memories to arrive. Isn’t it a never ending cycle? The place would be the same. But that feeling won’t be there anymore. The clock struck five. I was already getting late for the airport. I brushed off my feelings and started locking the door.
Why was I getting so sentimental! I wasn’t selling the place or something! Just some other people are going to call it their place now! That is it! I handed over the keys to the building’s watchman and strode past the gate. I saw a big truck overloaded with cupboards and tables and chairs. The tenants had arrived. They thanked me for letting me my house.
How it dawned upon me, the home was mine, but the house wasn’t.
