Death of a house


Another one bites the dust. Literally. I witnessed the death of yet another house. This was the third one in a week. It’s a depressing sight. Seeing the carcass of what was once someone’s home. In some time, the skeleton also becomes visible. One can see each and every intimate detail of the house, without ever having visited the place. The bedrooms, where the residents would have slept or shared a private moment. The almirahs which would have cased clothes, jewellery, nick nacks and what not. Only this time, they have a deserted, ‘final’ look about them. Some posters on the walls are still there. The walls have dust patterns depicting rectangles which shows where the family would have hung paintings or maybe portraits of an ancestor. The kitchen looks naked, devoid of its usual utensils, jars, gas burner and the like. The lady of the family would have cooked here. The bathrooms lie bare. It becomes almost embarassing to watch as the ‘private parts’ or rather the sancta sanctorum of the house get exposed to the world. The terrace and the staircase where the children would have gamboled about is almost about to collapse. The occasional tree and the plants if any, are almost gone and forgotten. They bear the look of orphans left behind by their parents. In a few days all this is reduced to dust.

But this isn’t all. Unlike human lives, houses live forever. They rise like a phoenix from the ashes. No soon has the house ‘bitten the dust’ than another one resurrects. This time with a better look about it. A modern architecture. More capacity. Stylish facades, porches and arches. Portruding terraces and balconies. Modern mousetraps, all. Soon it will be inhabited like nothing happened.


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