Whoever said that a house was not a heart,
that it wasn't growing up and going back to the start?
A living things,it grew on you,with it's walls that bore the same warmth of pista green,
and the tall Neem outside the window,that stood through many heartaches and monsoons.
The indigo sky that merged the same with the tar roads,and you counted them,flights-
In their rush hour,leaning against the grilled railing of your balcony tower.
Was it not also home to your first real book read,
the first poem you thought up,and your first heartbreak.
And it still feels like the good warmth of chocolate cake melting away in your mouth,
on a Sunday morning,in essence and memory?
And the odd sounds escaping walls paper thin,from houses that grew up with you.
Standing small facing the facade of the building,shouting out for your friends for a game of hide and seek.
And warm and small,it's spirit lighted the one inside you.
Only two Decembers ago,you realised how it had become a part of you,so indefinite.A part you left behind with the old life,one that dwells in dusty corners of your mind everyday,still.
You want to think of it with what you call warm remembrance,but all you can wonder is if you would be someone different still living in that house?
Would it have moulded things in you to something better? Do you believe that houses hold the ability to shape and change one?
