Still-life.

This is the fourth time in the week and I am seeing exactly what I saw the last three times. The same two people. The same house. The same garden. The same dog tied to the same Silver Oak stump. It looks like even the leaves on the ground have not been blown off by the winds.

It is like a picture. Frozen, unruffled, tranquilised.

Familiar and yet unfamiliar. Times I knew and times I could have never known. Like a collage made of two time-frames, so intelligently harmonised that it tends to appear like its true. Like its today.

Pleasant memories bring a million smiles. You want to be wrapped in them, bury your head and heel inside and try to smile with the times that went by. You want to be that kid you were, jumping for the moon. You want to make those mud-castles, play with those toy swords and get wet in the rain. You want to hide your grandmother's spectacles. You want to blindfold your father, cupping his eyes with your palms and wait for him to find out that that was you. You want to run around the house in a superman costume. You want to stand on a parked scooter, hands on the throttle and dream it zooming.

The plastic slide on the lawn was one of my favourite plaything. Until the time I was big enough to scale the steps on its ladder, I used to sit on the pram watching my elder brother climb it, faster and faster each time, clapping my hands as he slid down the curvy orange plastic. And when my legs were sturdy enough to run and climb, I used to climb up its ladder, sit down on its yellow seat, with my legs on the slide and my eyes looking down on the earth below. I used to imagine I was a mighty king, overseeing his vast army of men and horses from a fort so high.

I can see me roosted on that yellow seat. Legs on the slide and eyes looking down on the earth below, imagining to be a mighty king overseeing his vast army of men and horses from a fort so high. I can still see my face gleaming. The same sneer of contempt. The same innocence.

You do not know what lies ahead of you. But you know what it will be made of. Your wishes and with it, your dreams. And you hide your wishes for tomorrow carefully under your pillow. Looking at it every night before you retire. To see if it looks any different from yesterday. And as those wishes age with you, they look more and more beautiful. The Japanese call it Sabi, the beautiful patina that accumulates with age. Yes, the beautiful patina. You want them to breathe life one day. You want those wishes to become memories one day. And you want to cherish those memories some day.

I remember the recliner with those long arms and the folding plate in between. I also remember that old copper teapot on the tripod. The plate is unfolded. I see a glass teacup thats half-full. The old man is reclining on the chair with his legs stretched. His eyes in the direction of an open book spread on the plate, beside the cup. He looks totally at peace with himself, not caring to see how dull it indeed is around him. The veranda has never looked so faded. The wooden chime on the front porch where he sits seems to have lost a reed. The walls look like they need a repair. The flooring has cracks all over and its also time to change the doormat.

But amidst these vapid looking objects, I can see the brilliance on my face. The same sneer of contempt. The same innocence.

I walked past them. The little kid and the old man. Faded shots of life tied one to another. One within another. I knew what it is to be. I knew what it is to be me, with the same sneer of contempt and the same innocence.

33 Jubert Ave.

Honeybush or Mild Orange Ginger. Water or Wine. An idea or an encouragement. This place has always given me what I wanted. Filling in the silent pauses of life with Fur Elise and Marriage of Figaro. Like syncopated words that are fuller than the sounds they create. Like a breeze that kisses your cheek just as a tear rolls by. Giving me life when I lose my breath. Giving me a thought when I need to write. Giving me a reason to come back and seek more.

The high-ceilinged rooms with dark wood lining enliven with pleasantness even in midsummer's heat. Today as I cross the dark hallways, the strong smells of old wood and old times pierce my memories pitchforking the most tender days of my childhood, when many a tender feet trembled as it passed, fearing hidden ghosts inside every nook.

The corridors that lead to the courtyard warms my feet as I walk on its sunburnt tiles. The baked smell of shingles that line the corridor's slanting roofs blend with the whitewashed insides, making it glow like amber after a long day of untiring sunshine. The matchless serenity in those courtyards, filled with guavas, mangos and shoeflowers where I have carefully observed caterpillars turning one day to flutter by with rich golden wings evoking a unique sense of freedom and beauty, combined. I have spent many a night on the oblong wooden counters gazing at the sky trying to match constellations and lose myself until I wake up to the first beam of daylight as it reaches my face.

In the age of innocence and thrills, I have spent many a moment in the attics digging out mysteries and treasures and with them untold stories that survive each generation as it passes to the next. Bottomless urns. Broken cannisters. Corningwares with heavy coats of dust. Colored Pebbles. A teak trunk with mud idols of gods and goddesses. Walking upto the attics and squeezing my then tender, flexible body through the tiny doors in stealth, not uttering a word and exchanging conversations with the dark walls and blue shadows with raised brows and an open mouth till my bouts of sneeze give away the secret hiding place.

The wide and wellspread hall. The wooden cupboard in the southwest corner that never closed. The divine reading room with the giant rolling shelf in the center. The rooms where we sang and learnt to play the violin. The beautifully designed hexagonal front room. The sprawling dining halls where more than one debate was argued but none agreed upon. They are all pieces of poetry by those who built it. I go through each one of them, recalling each moment I once lived and cherished. As I stand on the brilliant flooring. I see it has still not lost its sheen. Neither has it lost the blurred reflections of those who walked on them.

I long for those days when death did not part us all. When we laughed in content and slept in peace. I wish I can relive those days again. In togetherness and love.