It has been many years since I last stepped into this house; many more have passed since I last used this typewriter and though my mind still weaves ever so effortlessly with the words, my hands have begun to betray me just a little.
This old house
It has been many years since I last stepped into this house; many more have passed since I last used this typewriter and though my mind still weaves ever so effortlessly with the words, my hands have begun to betray me just a little. Sitting here at this study table I look around and see the dusty white covers and cobwebs that have remained untouched for so long. I thought I’d let the silence fill me up but, ever so unfaithful, it ushered in a torrent of memories long forgotten, sweeping me up in a nostalgic rage. I tried to fight it but I am a weak man now, so I gave up and let them drown me in the abyss of my heart’s deepest longings and desires.
* * * * * * * *
The room up the stairs and to the right used to be mine. There is still a cot in the corner of the room that my father made for me before I was born. I can vaguely recall the dream-catchers my mother used to hang above my head, her kind face beaming down at me. I remember her soft voice waking me up every morning before school as I tossed and turned in bed and I remember her bringing me food whenever I was too busy studying to eat. I remember the books I read on the windowsill and I remember wanting to become a writer in that room, more out of passion than anything else. It was then that I urged my father to buy me this typewriter. I remember the ecstasy of being chosen to college and, thereafter, university in that very room, surrounded by my mother, father and younger brother as I tore open the acceptance letters.
The room up the stairs and to the left was my younger brother’s. Like all other siblings, we used to fight a lot. I remember some of the more intense fights we had in that room, one time in particular where I broke his nose and he told father about it afterwards. I recall how we’d sit together to listen to songs on the radio and watch hockey and cricket matches, and how I’d help him out with his homework from time to time.
The master bedroom used to be my parents’. My father was strict on matters of discipline so after every little mischief of mine, it was back into the bedroom for some good old-fashioned chastising. I remember my mother reading out stories to my brother and me in the master bedroom when we were children, always dozing off before she could finish the story.
The front lawn was probably my favorite place in the house. My father, my brother and I would play cricket whenever we had time. We’d lie on the warm grass in the lawn as the monsoon rains poured down from above to stave off the relentless heat of the never-ending summer or trace our names in the crouch grass after the cold November nights left it riddled with dewdrops.
My younger brother, who was for a long time my only real friend, grew up to be the most selfless and caring man I’ve ever known. He died a couple of weeks before his 23rd birthday in a car accident. I named my son after him. It is strange how little I remember of him at times, unable to even recall his face but sitting today in his room I could picture him perfectly, with a smile on his face that always spoke of some trouble that was underway.
* * * * * * * *
I moved away from the house once I got a job, but I still yearned for the comfort of this place. I used to visit my parents with my wife and children every now and then but after they both passed, the place was simply abandoned; until we decided it was best to sell it to you, that is. I came back to say one final goodbye to the old place when I saw the old typewriter; it was pleasant surprise to see that the ink ribbon was still up and running. And so I write to you, knowing that you will soon be the owner of a place that has more sentimental value for me than I can possibly put in words; it is a lot more than the wood, metal and stone it’s made out of and I hope that you’ll come to see it that way as well. I didn’t intend to bore you with the details of my life and I duly apologize if I may have inadvertently done so. You must have asked yourself why I wrote this letter to you at all.
In reply, I state my disagreement to the adage that a place is only ever as good as the people who live in it, for even as I sit here, a lonely feeble old man with aching fingers and jittering hands, I feel more at home than I have in years. I don’t know why this place keeps pulling me back in. Perhaps it is because my days are now numbered and I know my loved ones are waiting to embrace me on the other side of the grave. Perhaps it is the innocence of childhood or the arrogance of youth that I so long to relive for once. Maybe I just want to be chastised by my father one more time for the countless mistakes that I’ve made in life; to hear my mother beckoning me towards her and to hug my younger brother for as long as I may hold on to him. But most of all, I like to think it is because in coming back to this place, I’m coming full circle; back to the roots of my humble existence.
I’ll leave the typewriter here, hoping that you’ll make better use of it than I did and I ask only a small favor of you: take good care of this old house. It is the only place that’ll ever truly be home to me.
