Friday, August 21, 2009

She glanced around fondly, at her favourite place in the world. it was as though a puzzle piece from the past had dropped onto the fast changing street, where the buildings grew taller and barer and cars grew louder and shinier. there were no shiny cars here. the man across the road still had an impeccably white astra, that his driver, who's hair had grayed only marginally in the last thirty years, scrubbed down every morning. the new car was not for show, it stood discreetly covered in the corner, as though it knew it did not belong.
The walls were yellow. it was incredible that even though they were repainted almost every year, they began peeling withing a month of painting. the cracks in the walls and the creeping wisps of the rebellious peepul trees were perhaps the most beautiful thing in the world. there was a time when she had hated the creamish-yellow, called it ugly and cheap, but she loved it now, it was perfect. as she turned the car into the uneeven driveway through the cracking white gates, she smiled as she saw the garden peeping out from behind the low wall. it was gorgeous, with every imaginable kind of flower climbing up walls and crawling along the grass and standing straight and tall trying to catch your attention as you got off the car, to entice you to slip in just for a moment. the nimbu tree was heavy with magnificent green limes that had a scent that couldnt be found in any vegetable market. home grown ones always did.
the plastic tarpaulin that hung in the uncertain space between the garage and the garden wall, that hid the gardeners tiny home, where generations had grown up and married and had babies with the same big brown eyes, the same warmth, knack for learning and affinity for happiness, but were carried away to the village to the same fate once they turned eighteen.
homes were places for broken hearts, she reflected. homes were never really sanctuaries, they were usually the place for greater turmoil than the rest of the world.

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