It was difficult to see them dying slowly,
inch by inch, in their moss-laden loneliness
and painful to see them fading back into the elements-
uncared, un-mourned, unwept
with trees and dogs peeping out from those
favourite windows of our grandfathers
some courageous walls were still trying to
hang on to some remnant memories
a rusty mirror
an empty photo frame
plastered bits of old newspapers with pale-yellow photos of celebrities of 80s
an old calendar, perforated by generations of silverfish
some dates circled- probably our festivals
a rusting hanger making absence so palpable
a gloomy earthen lamp
a broken earthenpot
some human shit within those crumbling walls that have somehow managed to save some privacy, some memory of those morning Sanskrit chants of our elders
some torn pages of school notebooks, magazines and binded-books
a small pencil with a thread attached to it
some old black circular electric switches
hanging dusty wires from wooden roofs
that make you believe for a moment that those old bulbs will suddenly light up bright yellow
and moths will start chasing that familiar light of our childhood years
the locals say
sometimes they hear loud cries, wails coming from those 'Batta' houses
ghosts of absences
or maybe our houses weep during night and when it becomes too much
a piercing shriek comes out
we don’t hear it
but someday, in this cacophony
if you hear a faint dying sob, don’t be mistaken…
your home is calling you
may be for one last time
By — with Neeraj Sanntoshi Khaar.
