The world was my home. A haven of comfort, love and affection . What we probably understand as security and contentment today .
It was a huge bungalow with several rooms, halls , verandahs. The voices were still there..the laughter .The boom of the old grandfather clock, the shrill ring of the ancient black telephone, the sun filtering through the grilled windows and the green mosaic floors ..images that still linger in memory , trying to forge a connection today to things that do not exist .
There were hardly any walls – spaces just flowed into each other..doors opened into more spaces called rooms, halls, verandahs.. The verandahs led to the lawns, a vast expanse of green bordered by the trees, the flowers...Voices from haystacks and garages still echo as we, kids used to scurry around and play hide and seek. Except for some bedrooms, everything was open ..life as well . I could see myself - an eight year old, running from one room to another, missing a foot here, jumping from the stairs, a sense of freedom , of belonging ..
The power of transfiguring is that its worse than demolition. When you transform something beautiful and ancient laden with memories into something thats far away from the original, you take the life out of it..Its like living without the ability to feel or think. I believe that you need to have a twisted mind to kill something like that ...memories are living organisms and by transfiguring it, you have killed them .There is no grandfather clock....the boom is only for certain ears to listen, the green mosaic is now a dull yellow , there is no sun, the windows are now walls, there are no spaces and there is a clear NO ENTRY spelt everywhere . Its all closed now ...Walled. There is no laugher. Just silence . Its a funny feeling as I stepped inside . A feeling of intrusion , a feeling that I was trespassing . Yet ,it was home once, for more than a decade .And yet, it no longer today is, though its still within the family