The House
I know exactly how many steps it’s going to take me to reach my bed from the main door of my house even with lights out.
Mind it, I won’t bump into a wall or any corner because I know every square inch of this place.
I know the exact corner I hurt myself while playing hide and seek when I was five and my parents had to rush me to emergency room for stitches on my chin.
Mind it, I still feel the pain on that spot because the doctors didn’t give me anesthesia at that time.
I know how the light will slant through the window of my bedroom in summer, winter and on rare occasions in monsoon because I’ve never experienced any season in any place other than this house.
Mind it, the colours of the sky while the sun rises and sets still surprise me everyday.
This house is not made of four walls, a roof protecting us from the nature, a floor made of tiles and cement.
Mind it, it’s made of memories which embrace us in good times and bad, a roof which blesses us with humility and compassion, a floor which keeps us grounded no matter what.
I know this house and this house knows me.
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