notes from my journal, september 2010

Ravaged by time, the house still stands. It has undergone numerous paintings yet the color looks faded, pale, cold. As though love is a prerequisite for vibrancy. The gate has begun to rust and the walls are crumbling, stone by stone, cement crumble by cement crumble.

It’s hard to stand here objectively, to view it as just another house. It’s hard not to see the Christmas stars we hung on the Verandah. Three because three was what we used to be. Lit up by the 40 Watt bulbs we bought at Manasi Gifts. Three children, blind and unknowing, pitching rocks at the green, unripe mangoes and running to grab them when they had fallen. It never did matter that they were unappetizingly sour. That’s not the point really, is it?

The road that runs in front of the house is pot-hole ridden. I can remember a time when they had recently paved the road. It was the color of coal. Of kohl. Of Indian irises. I wanted to sweep the street every day to make sure it stayed that way.

I walk by. I tell myself it’s because the gate is locked, it’s because the house is locked. But when you get down to it, the truth is blatant. It has lost its value and so I leave.