As I stood before the gigantic house, a shiver trailed down my spine, making my hair stand on end. The walls had fungus all over them, paint faded here and there – which clearly showed that they’d made no effort to maintain the house.
I took a step ahead, and then stopped, should I ring the bell…, I shrugged off the thought as soon as it struck me and rang it anyway.
As I waited for someone to open the door, my mind drifted off to the dream I had had last night – ‘I never left that house…I couldn’t…but I miss you all…’, Grand-mom had said, stroking my hair. It’d felt so real as if she was sitting beside my pillow. Does she want me to go there, the question had kept me awake rest of the night.
The door suddenly opened with a creaking sound. A middle-aged lady stood there, eyebrows scrunched, looking me up and down.
A cool breeze from ahead fluttered my hair and for a moment I froze up, the smell it carried was too familiar, my heart skipped a beat, tears welled up, this is what home smells like, I smiled.
‘This house used to be ours…,’ I said, looking at her, ‘…actually we’ll always call it ours…,’ I muttered and left.
Written by Chirasree Bose.
This piece is dedicated to my memory of the house we left long back after my grand parents had passed away.