I ran down your corridors when I was small Singing Dylan songs at the top of my lungs not understanding a word of them. I swung from your creaky wooden doors after watching Tarzan on a TV which had a penchant for distorted sounds, for black and white. My father used to swing himself up onto the loft using the same parts of your beams that he used to when he was my age- restless, happy and naughty. He would sit on the loft and grin down at us while I squealed with delight and begged to be taken up. I used to have my afternoon siesta on solid but old beds, hiding under covers, pretending to sleep but really sneaking a peak at the telly at these ghastly Indian dramas which my grandmother used to watch on the sly. The sleepy afternoon silence not pierced but punctured by the voices of women reciting novena. The dreary rhythm of their voices forming the background music of Dhobitalao along with the ground’s gently purring whenever a train rumbled by, making all the buildings tremble in anticipation of something I never quite understood. I walk down your corridors now that I am back blasting the good ol’ Dylan songs on earphones. I’ve forgotten most of the words so I hum. I bang on your dusty doors to throw them open because the dust and darkness assault my senses worse than adulthood has assaulted my imagination. My father and I have not been in the same city simultaneously for quite some time now and I feel like what was once ours is now his and mine. The last time he was here he sent me a picture of himself up on the loft, grinning, eyes twinkling. Some things will never change and I am glad. Afternoon siestas have transformed into sleeping late into the day hoping to sleep all the alcohol away. My grandmother’s eyes can no longer trace characters on a screen or letters in newspapers she relies on memories. But the dreary afternoons are still pierced by women loudly praying, not letting us sleep, we cheerfully curse. Trains and even trucks passing can now make this archaic structure shake but now I know it is not anticipation but a declaration of strength and wonder. This is my home.
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