The House:
It was the same house which housed her growing years. The whiteness of it was now a two-shaded white and beige, like a dollop of creamy vanilla unwinding into a brown bar of chocolate. The paintings had been reshuffled for the walls to appear newly different, but they still loomed large, the years in them. The change in ownership tried to bring about revision, but the First Things one does, stubbornly remain The Special First, irrespective of any customized change.
This was the house she learnt how to use a mobile phone, and got the people who introduced her to the joy of sharing, eating, travelling. The house which unfolded unto her the love of rain. She found out on one of her visits to the terrace that getting drenched was a limited endless resource. The dark tunnel of bright hope. Each of the tears she held back, each insult she gulped, each remark she dealt with, careful not to allow anyone to see beyond the curtains she tightly pulled, she believed one day she would let go. In that house, many years ago, one day when it rained she had gone up to the terrace and soaked up the rain. And her tears became one with that of the skies.
Yesterday she was at the same house, somewhere between the real happiness of unreal magic, when the room darkened with the growling clouds. She pulled up her hair into a clutch and her youngest cousin into a firm grasp and took her to the terrace. She had disagreed for a couple of times till she gave in when she realized the firmness of the grip.
The Terrace:
The door opened to a cloud canvas of pouring grey, and swishing green leaves and fallen flowers. They stood bare under the sky unable to look up. Each drop felt like an intense arrow, making her alive, more than ever. The clothes clung to them limply, like love. The water began clogging on the terrace. Without the specks on, the sky looked even clearer. They sat down, unable to hold ground any longer, and then poured out the words, the tears, incessantly. Both of them.
Of juvenile heartaches, and steadfast determinations. Of growing up and not. And dysfunctional relationships, and memories. Some which remained, more which rusted. And lists that one would never speak out even to self. Verbal confrontations. Soulful tales.
The Life:
Life was a Series of First Things. They Never Ended.
Yesterday she was at the same house, somewhere between the real happiness of unreal magic, when the room darkened with the growling clouds. She pulled up her hair into a clutch and her youngest cousin into a firm grasp and took her to the terrace. She had disagreed for a couple of times till she gave in when she realized the firmness of the grip.
The Terrace:
The door opened to a cloud canvas of pouring grey, and swishing green leaves and fallen flowers. They stood bare under the sky unable to look up. Each drop felt like an intense arrow, making her alive, more than ever. The clothes clung to them limply, like love. The water began clogging on the terrace. Without the specks on, the sky looked even clearer. They sat down, unable to hold ground any longer, and then poured out the words, the tears, incessantly. Both of them.
Of juvenile heartaches, and steadfast determinations. Of growing up and not. And dysfunctional relationships, and memories. Some which remained, more which rusted. And lists that one would never speak out even to self. Verbal confrontations. Soulful tales.
The Life:
Life was a Series of First Things. They Never Ended.
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