That house was more than just a house. It was the place where I learned to dream, learned to be who I am today. Every corner of that abode takes me back to some beautiful memory, some happy time; a time long before I grew up and eventually came to terms with the absurdity of real life. That memorable veranda where all of us cousins used to have our evening walks, which were essentially more about talking than walking; the living room where we used to have our many discussions, usually pointless; the abnormally huge rooms, which used to bug us at that time. But my all time favourite portion was the kitchen where I used to make tea for myself at 3 in the morning while marching back and forth, planning in my mind about how to deal with some twenty odd topics in just under ten hours or so. Yes, I was a sad student, but that’s not what we’re discussing right now.
I can still picture myself standing beside that huge window in my bedroom, looking outside (the view was amazing) dreaming about the future. Dreams seem so authentic when you are enjoying the carefree years of your life. Everything seems so gettable. I think they still have that old tape recorder somewhere that I was so insanely attached to. I hope they don’t give it away.
I don’t think I spent more than a period of just eight years over there, but yes, those were perhaps the best eight years of my life by far, no doubt about that! That was not just any house. It was a house which became a part of me, rather which made itself a part of me, a part of my life. A part that I shall never be able to let go of, ever. I’m aware of this much. It was not just a house. It was and maybe, shall always be my happy place.