There are some roads I never want to walk on and yet something about the houses aligned on these roads, a patched roof here and a rustic chimney there, captures my soul and begs me to come here again and again. No, my house did not look anything like these big mansions adorned with splendid doors, but it is the bits and the pieces of lives dwelling here and there about every building that make me long for the touch that I suckled on as a child.

A house partly lit in the warmth of a mother’s love and partly dimmed in the grief of a father dying from cancer. A house blessed with a rope on which are hung two three proud undergarments of a six-year-old who has hundred reasons to bunk his classes. But the one house that tempts me into forgetting the societal norm of not breaking into a stranger’s private property is the one which in its curves and edges and its pots and plants gather the aromas of the spices that my grandmother used to cook with. I stand by the house for hours, pretending to be on a phone while secretly allowing my senses to fill themselves up with a past that is never going to return and that I badly want to bring back to life.

Hidden underneath is a pain too, which comes drifting with the aromas of the spices and makes me extremely sorry for the unknown inhabitants of the house. One day, and I am sure of it, the kids of this house will grow up and will move away in search of a career that will tend to elude them, forever. On their journeys, they would come by a house that will smell exactly like this house of their childhood. But then they would have no way to come back for the house would be lost forever to a past that was both loving and beautiful.


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