08.06.2026

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Late at night, the room filled with TV light; an old comedy show was on, and I was trying to find the sense of familiarity, wondering if I had left some memories behind. Last week, when I finally went out, I saw some old houses, and they started to remind me of things that were lost somewhere in the track of memories. Healing places are the places where one witnesses suffering and death, the ultimate truth. Medications don't guarantee vitality. I opened the album by my bedside so that I won't ever forget the face of the past. I need to let it go. Let it go… 

I looked around the room, a new room, this is the fourth room this year. One thing that remains constant is the window and the tree outside it. This time it's chir pine. Don't know who planted this in this hot plain area. My eyes fell on my shoes, and the socks were peeking through them. I tried to type some words, but my fingers refused to write what my heart was saying. Fingers were controlling the narrative. Narrative is a funny thing. Strong people always get hold of it, whether it's the politics of families or countries. After all, politics starts in the family. Loner always loses in this battle. I wonder if they still hold round-table meetings against me. I called back home, and my friend said yes. Funny. Being unconventional is so difficult; your peace pays the price, innocence leaves your soul forever, and trust vanishes.

I turned off the TV, lit up my cigarette, and stood by the window. It was the fourteenth night of the month. They are building a new house in the colony. Every year, an old house is being replaced by a new one, a better one, they say, with big glass windows, a modern aesthetic. Time changes, aesthetic changes, so does the face and the intention behind that face. Don't know what people were thinking before shattering the house. It was a beautiful house; a little renovation would have done the job. The day they broke the house, a little piece in me cried. My friends, an old couple living there, are already dead. I'm not gonna go there anyway, so who cares? Maybe I care. Maybe I still long for the familiarity. I closed my eyes, listening to the chatter on TV and stood there till the morning.


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Nidhi katoch
A silent observer in search of her TRUE HOME. If you like my writings, do comment and share... Views are extremely personal and are original writings of mine.

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