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.
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.
posted by an autumn leaf for all seasons at 7:05 PM
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