Farewell, Old Guard…

 

Old buildings are like old people.

With creaking spines and leaking pipes.

With cranky roofs and wrangy temperament.

With wrinkled façades sprinkled with a sparkling wit and crackling cynicism.

 

Old buildings are like old books.

Every fold in their skin holds a story between them; waiting to be held, caressed and soothed.

A story here of joy, a story there of failure.

A story of triumph against a ravaging ruthless life.

A story of becoming an encyclopaedia of births and deaths.

A story of juicy secrets and clandestine relationships.

A story of being alive despite the cards of destiny perpetually stacked against them.

A story of loss despite fighting fate every single day.

A story of bitter-sweet wisdom bargained against careless dangerous knowledge.

A story of memories, memories and more memories…until they all fall down.

 

Old buildings are like old trees.

They always hide more than they will ever reveal.

Every door like the roots holds the key to the journey of many lives passing through them with Time; people, birds, insects and even moss.

Every room like the trunk holds the secrets of all that has moved through them with every turn of the seasons.

Every window like the many leaves holds the music of eccentricities that rustles with every twirl of the wind.

 

Old buildings are like old music.

Unique and ubiquitous, holding so much sway over us that a single refrain of a song heard back in our hey days of blooming into bipeds like the carmine roof of our childhood home can stop us on our tracks anywhere on the street in any part of the world at any given time.

They almost always make us reminisce and take us on a trip down memory lane, however painful or joyful the memories attached to that particular lane are.

Like the sound of the rain beating down the leaky roof to submission in that old house that refuses to let go of your dreams, there is always that song from our younger days, the lyrics of which we rattle off, off key and all, even when shaken in our beds at 2 am!

 

Old buildings like old people, old books, old trees and old music put me under a spell.

They smell of the very definition of Life.

Ticking with age yet brimming with honesty.

Tickling with sensibility and blossoming with wisdom.

Always ready to engulf me with stories and memories.

Invoking deathless waves of nostalgia like the unconditional churning ocean.

 

Behind the scenes:

My plan to travel to Kenya was akin to a butterfly effect in my life.

It had its ripples spread far and wide.

After years of trepidation, I finally made peace with Mumbai and decided to renew my love affair with my old flame, Bombay.

Unaware to me, Bombay had plans of its own to welcome me back home!

It took me to a place where it all began. Where I as a human ‘began’.

To the old building that houses the home that took care of me as a 2 day old baby till I turned into a gangly old girl.

Where Life started to write my story in its jagged handwriting.

It’s been more than 15 years since I saw it last. And I honestly hadn’t even given it a thought to revisit it. Ever.

Heck! I wasn’t even aware that the old building was still alive and standing! Albeit moving closer to a certain death any day now.

So when the opportunity presented itself, I had no clue of the magnitude of deluge the visit would leave me under.

A walk in a drizzle, a short train ride in heavy rain and a long auto rickshaw ride in roads puddled with the aftermath of a heavy September downpour followed.

Later, as I stood transfixed with my siblings looking at the crumbling old building, my memory palace lit up like a star spangled sky.

There were stories and memoires and memories of stories heard within the 4 walls of the compound that were bursting one after the other like a multi-shot cannon ball let loose in my head!

Thank God! We, the threesome aren’t kids anymore. We weren’t squealing in boisterous delight. I mean it is a very old building, after all! We didn’t want it to topple on our heads for sure!

We grew up there with our Mom and the grand old lady of the house, my Grand mother, until we were prepped and finally made ready to be taken to be showed off to our Dad who lived in a far off town.

Its where we wept and shat incessantly. Crawled, learnt to walk and became decent looking bipeds!

Life took us everywhere but it is where we all went to recharge our draining brains and bleeding hearts every summer.

And then like some relationships that always come to an abrupt end, my Grandmother decided to let the place go and move to the suburbs. With that decision, the one tangible constant that held all of my memories of my Grandfather’s life in that house vaporized in one fell swoop.

The building was old and dying and one by one every other resident gave up on it and parted ways with it.

Like an old sentinel, to this day it stands solemn, revelling in its own solitude. As Nature is slowly creeping into it and sprouting in its every fold and crevice.

A forgotten monument living out its last days, alone but not lonely…until that moment when it builds itself a tomb in the memories of those who passed through its transitory womb.

And Waiting…

For you, me and the rest of us…to take a chance and cast its way a single glance.

Old buildings are like you, me and the rest of all living beings of the planet.

Waiting for someone to grace us with their precious time and if possible a little love and respect.

And time permitting, some kindness and acceptance… if its not too much to ask for…

Before the cloak of finality and death takes cover…

Before its too late.

If my childhood were a book, this would be the image that encapsulates SUMMER VACATIONS!

The Wall the still holds together the falling edifice

The balconies that stand witness to a century worth of memories worth their weight in gold

A wall that holds many of my secrets slowly inching its way to becoming a tree!