Something for the season: Happy Halloween

Abode

The woodwork was like filigree. A tubelight inside shone through like sunbeams through soft clouds. That's where butterflies once rested and vendors thronged everyday. The worn out brass latch is still cool to the touch. I can still see so vividly how perfectly my fingers fit into its notches.

The tiles, arranged in mosaic, were something I always examined at nose's distance. That was me trying to say I do not wish to leave - do not make me go. I tried so hard to dig out the cement with my nails so I could carry some of the tiles with me, but they never came off.

There used to be a sliding door with a picture of the sunset. There used to be a wooden clothes hanger where I swung like a monkey. I can see the household with everyone sleeping, no one stirring. I remember how my heart thumped when I walked alone in the corridors in the dead of the night. I remember how I would stay awake to count the cars under lamplight and talk to the moon.

I remember how they all woke at 4:30 am every day; the tumblers were always arranged and how the steam made the air dance over the vessel brewing the morning tea. How I waited for 'misri' and dreamt of crossing the road alone.

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The house is still there, ripped apart. There are no people. The woodwork is at some scrap-yard, my tiles are chicken feed. My latch is melted into a temple bell and the hanger, burnt by the slums to make hot water years ago.

Even if I ever go back, it will never be the home it was. Which is probably why, my heart still thumps when I walk alone in the corridors, in the dead of the night.

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Penned Thurs, Oct 29, 2009.