Littered rooms that echo in emptiness, the dimness that encroaches everything that enters into the room like a seductress, the old lamp and it’s struggle to keep things safe here and those cracks on the walls that form mosaics as if it’s trying to illustrate the story of things that have occurred inside this old house. There are papers littered over the floor, some crumbled to rolls, few tore to pieces and others just lay on the floor, with blanket of dust keeping them warm. Pieces of poetries carved on the papers wouldn’t make any meaning, until the story is known. All in all is a blur imagination of a story that may have occurred between these expressive walls. The papers described the joy and happiness, the tore paper might have been the pain and the crumbled papers which seemed most mysterious, as these are probably the unexpressed feelings. These crumbled papers are the suffocation this house suffers. It feels like the house is waiting for its story to be written and told. May be its making its last effortful stand and will crumble to rubbles thereafter, once the story is heard.
Down from the main city, passing by the barren field, the shrivel forest and the deserted residence, on a primeval highway , where the city lights don’t spread its magnificence, where the noisy roads don’t barge around and where the mischief of people don’t mock the rustic air , and on the Melancholy street , standing alone and wearing, is this Old house. An old house with an old room, that is dumb and is suffocating because of its inexpressibility. I can sense its breathlessness by the old air it breathes, by the whistling winds that creep in through the broken window panes that whispers words into the ears and by the old forest outside that sings a melancholy song on behalf of the old house, the forest which has been a witness to all that happened there.
Written by Dr Shrestha