Short fiction: An ancestral home – imagined as a sentient being – narrates its own abandonment

I consider myself a living entity. Am I just a brick-and-mortar structure? Absolutely not!

One of my earliest memories revolves around three children – Gautam, Gaurav, and Garima – who spent their childhood in this endearing premises. How I enjoyed watching them grow up!

Their father, Gangadhar – nay, Gagan to me – was away most of the time. I have overheard him talking about the travails of his travels.

At that time, I used to wonder: Why is he away all the time? Is he working in another city? I think he does travel a lot as part of his official duties.

Whenever the children heard of their father’s homecoming, they would wait on the veranda. How eagerly they would listen for the sound of his car! I was always amazed by the depth of their affection.

“There comes father!” Gautam, the eldest, would shout excitedly. That was the signal for Garima and Gaurav to run towards the gate. What a sight to behold! The driver would get down to open the gate. By the time he opened it, the two children would be seated beside their father, asking him a hundred and one questions.

Gagan had always been a family man; he was so attached to his near and dear ones, yet he was away most of the time. Why? He was so hard-pressed for time that he could barely visit home.

I remember once it so happened that he was on his way back home when he got a call from the higher-ups, asking him to report to another destination as soon as possible. There was no time to reach home and get a fresh set of clothes. He rang up Malati to send his clothes with Giridhar, while he waited at the station for the next train. You know Giridhar – nay, Giri to me – was his younger brother.

What a pity! His time was not his own, I have often felt. Whatever be the reason for his paucity of time, I must say I’d feel happy whenever I saw him coming in through the wrought-iron gate. If I were human, I’d have run to give him a warm welcome with a hug. Alas! I’m immobile! An inanimate thing, as they call me. But I often wonder – why don’t human beings realise that a home is a unique being, like any one of them?

I must reveal: I owe my existence to Malati and Gagan. It is with gratitude that I remember Malati. It was her idea to build a house in this compound, and her husband was only too happy to build it according to her choice. Giri continues to live in the ancestral house nearby. I like to call the brothers Gagan and Giri. Aren’t these short names rather cute?

I was like a child when I was newly built. Youth and middle age come and go so fast that we don’t realise it, do we? Men grow old as seasons come and go, so do I. If my owner doesn’t maintain me properly, I look shabby with wear and tear and will resemble an old person with wrinkles. Time takes its toll anyway. Just like a ten-year-old becomes an old person within three score years, a newly constructed house becomes an old house in just a few decades.

I used to stand proud and tall in this big compound. The driveway from the gate to the courtyard passed through a nice garden in those flourishing days. Malati used to take good care of her flowering plants as well as her vegetable garden. Gagan was more interested in fruit trees, I guess.

Their two boys, Gautam and Gaurav, shared a room at the front, to the right, while Garima had a room of her own. Her parents took special care of their only daughter. How thoughtful of Malati and Gagan! I’m proud of them.

My owner has given me a name: his family’s name, which is prominently displayed at the gate. Manas – that’s my identity. Thus, I have become an integral part of the family. I come alive when there are people inside: when the rooms reverberate with children’s laughter; when the living room becomes a meeting ground for the young and the old; when family members assemble in the prayer room; when the aroma of delicious dishes floats from the kitchen through the dining room to the drawing room; when the children’s bedroom becomes the venue for storytelling sessions. There are so many such instances… I could go on and on.

Malati was the epitome of all virtues of a homemaker, and Gagan a typical husband of a housewife. Whatever that means, it is your perception, after all, isn’t it?

I have always believed it is the woman who makes a house a home. She does so many things within the house and leaves her imprint everywhere. One does not notice all those little things that she does during the day; if something is missing or not done, then it becomes prominent by its absence. I feel that it is a pity that her work is hardly appreciated for what it is worth.

Malati would be busy doing household work – cooking, cleaning, washing, and whatnot – throughout the day. I remember how the responsibility of looking after the children fell almost entirely on her shoulders. Since Gagan was often away at work, he got to spend time with the children very rarely.

Gautam: ‘Ma, where is my toothbrush?’

Gaurav: ‘Ma, where is my schoolbag?’

Enquiries like this would start early in the morning itself. Garima was the only exception. She didn’t need anyone’s assistance; she could manage things on her own. Good girl! She always knew what to do, as if by instinct.

I admire that girl for her confidence. I often thought, Why can’t her brothers be like her? Both are elder to her. But still they behaved like little boys, totally dependent on their mother.

One day, Gaurav did something foolish in school and admitted his mistake to his sister. I was amazed to hear Garima telling him, “You know, these walls have ears, they hear whatever we say; these walls have eyes that see whatever we do. So be careful. They must be laughing at your folly.”

“Do they? Really?” said her incredulous brother. “Oh, Garima, don’t be silly!” said Gautam. “Yes, of course, grandma told me so,” replied the girl. Yes, grandma was right. I am a mute witness to whatever happens within these four walls. And yes, I did laugh – in my own silent way – at Gaurav’s foolishness.

Since their father was away, the children spent a lot of time with their uncle. There was a special bond between them. Giri’s wife had passed away after a prolonged illness when their son, Tarun, was just three. The motherless child’s grandparents and aunt Malati chipped in to take care of him.

But can anyone truly replace a mother? The boy missed her. It seemed he never got over the trauma of his mother’s death. Neither did Giri, for that matter

Excerpted with permission from ‘The Orphaned House’ in Mini’s Diary and Other Stories, Beena Sugathan, Rupa Publications.