Bricks of Life

The first impression you get from the house is that it is empty, perhaps even haunted. The blue metal double door with a set of crossbars to give strength and an aesthetic sense that makes for the main entrance is flanked on all sides by bougainvillea. It frames the door and a person entering would have to step over and onto it to make it inside.

Then comes the stone walkway. This is perhaps a grand name for the actual thing, for the path is crooked and made of bricks that were once whole but have now become discolored and broken around the edges with weathering of all kinds. They have braved the heat and the cold, the rain and the temperature. They have stood witness to the countless feet that have trampled on them as they walk to or from the core house: some rushing hurriedly, others shuffling and some lingering. The bricks have stood the test of time and been faithful to the owner of the house. The owner has never had to think about replacements or even repairs. Perhaps because the bricks are hardy. Or perhaps because he/she simply never cared.

Moss has begun to grow in the cracks where the loosely paralleled bricks join together at the sides and edges. But wait, the moss is not new as you are first led to believe. Bend a little closer and you begin to notice that there is not one but several layers of moss. The previous layers have decayed and provided nutrition to the new ones, which in time have given way to newer and newer layers. It is only then that you begin to notice the slight stench that surrounds the path.

The main wall stretches to a long distance but you can't exactly make out its length for various stacks of discarded household objects mar the wall at small spaces, spilling out into what, lets say, is the lawn.

You walk towards the core  which stands as if in the middle of a vast bounded space. On your way you stoop to pluck out one of the pretty flowers growing in well kept flower pots that line the walkway. You wonder how they are so fresh, for keeping them proper requires human hands. The color in them seems strange too for it is completely mismatched to the silence and lifelessness of the overall place. Not a single human voice can be heard for a distance. A bird chirps on to the bougainvillea and you turn around to look at it. But it flies away immediately for it is not used to many visitors. Or perhaps humans themselves.

A shiver runs down your spine but you keep walking toward the white door designed out of white painted iron and some net to let the inmate look out without letting insects in. Insects. You swat away the pesky fly that has been sitting on your shoulder for some time and whom you had forgotten in the mix of curiosity and fear in your mind stemming from the very place.

Open the door and step in. It takes your eyes a little while to adjust to the darkness of the room which seems positively pitch black when coming from the relatively brighter outside. Faint shapes begin to emerge. You notice large suitcases stacked up against the front wall and a small table you become aware of only when your foot bangs against it. You hear a light noise that sounds like coughing and look around you. It's difficult to make out the source so you step our of the immediate range of the doorway. Light immediately floods into the room and you see a heap on a jute charpoy. A coughing sound comes again and the heap heaves a little simultaneously. It gives you the idea it’s a living thing, a person maybe. You creep slowly and cautiously toward the pile, take the sheet by the edge and slowly begin to peel it away. A pile of wrinkles emerges and some silver string-like surface. You peel further. Now there is pair of eyes deep set in wrinkles and crow's feet, shut against the light, apparently trying to adjust to the seldom brightness. They slowly open while you stand paralyzed with fear and regret and pity and confusion and a multitude of other emotions. The eyes pop open suddenly and you are taken aback. They rove around your face to search the directory of names in the mind to search for yours. Something seemingly clicks for the eyes change into a faint hint of a smile. There is a creaking of the charpoy as a pile of bones enclosed in skin assembles itself into a cross-legged position. The sheet falls off the charpoy but you are looking at the face of the person, those swollen hands on stick-like arms, uncombed hair partly covered in a dupatta. The face smiles and calls you a name. A name that is not your own. A name that belongs to some distant relative you have in the village. You suddenly remember your manners and bend your head low to for the face to kiss you on the top while it clutches you at the temples. A stench fills your nose. A smell of illness. Of hopes long crushed. Of the son she waits for every day but who comes only once in a very, very long time. A smell of life gone by and spent longing, longing, longing. The smell of my great grandmother.

For she lives alone with just my great aunt in this house, cared only for by my maternal grandmother living nearby and nobody else.

She lies in bed all day waiting for her only son to come visit her, who lives in the next town but just can't be bothered. A son on whom she has showered all her love, depriving her daughters in the process. A son she has spent her everything on. But a son who just doesn't care.

And she? Reduced only to a pile of bones covered in a wrinkled brown canvas.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Like the bricks on the walkway.