Memories in Mortar

 It was on a grey cloudy morning that Dadu decided to revisit the old house. Bhanu, his grandson, was to accompany him that day. The decision to take a look at the house one more time had taken nearly everyone by surprise, especially considering that Dadu wasn’t really known to express his emotions.

The construction project of the town would replace the derelict mansion with new apartments, where new families would move in and start their new lives. So it goes with old stories, they get razed and crushed beneath concrete. Dadu wanted to feel his childhood again, so they went.

The rusty gate creaked in a way that Dadu didn’t remember, and the sound of it was jarring to him. In a swift move too quick for his age, he swung it open lest it make that grinding noise again. The muddy earth was all that remained where once a garden used to be, and Dadu’s leather sandals squelched in the wetness. Carefully, clutching Bhanu’s arm, they made their way to the entrance hall.

The construction workers had been through here, Dadu noted. Pebbles and dirt lay thick on the floor, and as they crunched beneath Dadu’s feet, he remembered the cool, smooth marble that lay beneath. He shuffled through the rooms, one by one, and remembered running from one room to the next with his cousins, playing hide and seek in his boyhood. The hallway was untouched, but there were a few walls which had chunks obscenely hammered out, their jagged edges cutting the air around them. He couldn’t bear to look at those walls, and left them behind as he made his way slowly to the upstairs floors.

His family had lived in this portion of the house. He remembered his parents’ room, the one that he was never allowed to enter. Would he dare? He slowly made his way to the door that lay thrown open. His wrinkled hands ran over the wrinkled walls, the paint peeling off them at his touch. Cautiously, as though any moment his father would yank his ears, Dadu crept into the room and made his way to the balcony. It looked over to the garden they had just passed, and he remembered the voices of his father and uncle, sharing a cigarette as they talked where he stood now.

He turned away hurriedly, even now slightly ashamed, and walked towards the kitchen. It was here that the hungry cousins would sit in a line, joking as they waited for their lunch, the sound of their laughter ringing throughout the house. From the kitchen the smell of cumin and mustard hung heavy in the air around them. As he stood there, memories flooding, Dadu could smell the smells again, and once, hopefully, he flicked out his tongue to see if the taste comes too. But all he could taste was the dust floating through the air, and the salt of his tears.