My old house

a poem by Paromita Bardoloi

Somewhere in the east,
lies a sleepy town,
called Doomdooma.
Go a bit further…
you will find a small place called Rupai.
where everyone knows everybodyelse.
Turn gently towards the first lane,
leave a few houses,
you will find an old house standing firmly.
Open the green gates.
Don’t worry, if you find the door locked.
The mistress may be out.
But a servant will answer you.
Get in, its my house,
where I have spent 17 years of my life.
Talk to the pink walls,
that stood even before I was born.
They have recorded my first laughter,
my first word,
this is the ground I first learned to walk.
And then I ran.
This house, with all its dignity,
will tell you, all the tales of people who once lived there,
and the the two people who still reside.
This is the house that recorded cries of many new born,
many laughters, many marriages…
and also tears, and cries in wilderness.
This house has tales of black humour, success, failure
but above all the spirit of one woman who tried to challenge all odds.
This house carries chants of thousands mantras,
and pujas to thousand devtas.
so when you enter be careful,
everywhere there is an unseen guardian,
have a look at the furniture,
the curtains, the vessels.
Don’t think they are speechless,
they have there tales to tell.
When you come back,
have a look at the house,
which stands like an old oak tree
where everyone waits for a shade,
but none resides.