Certain memories rip you apart, akin to what salt does to ice or mountain peaks to clouds. That’s what happened to me when I saw a picture of my old house in a family WhatsApp group. It started as a saline drop rolling down my cheek and ended as an outburst.
“What’s so special about this house?” asked my son.
“Oh, Mom, you don’t have any furniture. Where did you sleep?” asked the other one.
“That’s the house I was born in,” I replied. They got the point, albeit vaguely.
So what’s the big deal?
The room in the picture shows only half the friends and relatives that would visit our house on an average day. The kitchen was noisy and the aroma of the smoked mustard oil wafted across rooms.
While the older women sorted, cleaned and chopped the khol-knols, lotus stems and other vegetables, the younger ones would buzz in the kitchen, making rhythmic sounds with the ladle.
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