“Do we have to demolish this house?” Shantha asked softly, her voice laced with sorrow.
“Yes, Shantha. Is there any alternative? My brothers are waiting for their share... They have every right to this property, don’t they?” Thilak replied, trying to conceal his own heaviness.
He had decided to hand over the house to the flat promoters. "Thank God," he thought, "my brothers have agreed to accept the apartments in exchange."
Had they refused, even the land on which this proud old house stood would have slipped through his fingers.
Though he resented their insistence, he couldn’t fault them. They, too, had a rightful claim.
It was their final day in the house. Thilak and Shantha were temporarily allotted a flat until the new construction was completed.
Movers arrived and began packing up their belongings. With each item sealed away, Shantha felt a pang in her heart. This wasn’t just a house—it had been her universe for three decades. Every brick and beam held a story, every creaking floorboard echoed with memories. She cherished every inch of it.
As the house emptied, Thilak stepped out to fetch food, and Shantha wandered from room to room, taking a final stroll through the corridors of time.
This had been more than a shelter. Within these walls, couples had shared laughter and tears, babies had been born, toddlers had taken their first steps. Families had dined, argued, celebrated, and grown. Shantha had stepped into this house as a bride, and over time, had come to love the house even more than its people. She had infused beauty and grace into every nook.
The layout was simple yet expansive—rooms flowed into one another, unconstrained by modern definitions like "living room" or "dining room." Doors and windows welcomed air and sunlight with ease. Even when electricity failed, the house remained well-lit and breezy. There was always space—for guests, for relatives, for life.
She paused in the living room, recalling her grandfather’s affectionate visits. He would drop by just to ensure she was content. She could almost see him again, deep in conversation with her father-in-law, both nestled in old, comforting easy chairs. Children would gleefully rock on those chairs in their absence, while the elders stepped out for their daily snuff. The family astrologer, a regular fixture, sat immersed in horoscopes, predicting destinies. Her grandfather, tapping his snuff box and sneezing heartily, listened attentively.
She moved into the hall and instinctively looked for the swing—it had already been removed. She remembered its rhythmic creak, the throne of her commanding grandmother. In her absence, children would vie to push it higher and higher, their laughter filling the air. This hall had also reverberated with music lessons—her daughters’ first notes still echoed faintly. As she hummed a familiar raga, the empty hall magnified the melody.
In the kitchen, she envisioned her mother seated on the floor, expertly flipping dosas over a kerosene stove, stirring hot upma. Even during visits, her mother participated in household work without complaint. She was tireless—cooking, grinding, serving, nursing the ailing, endlessly engaged. Shantha often wondered whether her mother ever truly rested.
The house had hosted countless gatherings, especially during weddings. She vividly remembered one rainy celebration when igniting the fire to cook became nearly impossible. The commotion, the laughter, the improvisation—it was all part of the home's charm.
Relatives came and stayed—ten days, sometimes more—and no one minded. Festivals were opportunities to reconnect, to laugh, to debate, to love.
As she moved through the house, the years seemed to fold in on themselves. Children ran, elders busied themselves, the middle generation balanced responsibilities and aspirations. Despite occasional disputes, harmony always prevailed.
It saddened her that Thilak’s brothers, once warm and close, had now reduced their bond to mere greetings. As the eldest daughter-in-law, she had once been the glue that held them all together. Still, she believed they, too, cherished the house.
Climbing the stairs to the first floor, memories surged. How often she’d rushed up to comfort frightened children, their nighttime fears a guise for stories and embraces.
She stepped into the garden. Every plant, every tree seemed to whisper her name. The mango tree stood like a sentinel of her past. She had spoken to it, nurtured it, watched children climb it, tumble from it, steal its fruits and squabble over them. They had tied swings to its branches and transformed it into a haven of joy.
Her reverie shattered with Thilak’s voice speaking to the builder.
"The mango tree will have to go," the builder said.
"If necessary, proceed," Thilak replied.
Shantha’s heart ached. How could Thilak not understand? That tree was more than greenery. It was her confidante. Her silent witness.
Time has a way of reshaping our perspectives.
Once, she had lamented the burden of managing such a vast house—endless chores, fatigue, the sheer labour. She had yearned for the convenience of a flat.
But now? The house felt almost enchanted. Alive.
Still, she yielded to the inevitability of change and walked away—without a backward glance.
A practical woman, through and through.
For the past has a quiet way of shadowing you, even when you pursue a new beginning in a distant city.
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