All drained, somehow dragging each of the footsteps, reached the place where I find light when all grows dark. It smells of my Granny’s cooked meals, the dusty old books, and the fragrance of the rose from my lover. Perhaps Home is not a place but simply an irrevocable condition. Home is where I have a wagging tail waiting forever. But the charm of the ancient houses is an entire new chapter on its own. Those have seen generations ageing like fine wine.
I’m an artist by passion, so I would overwhelm myself with painting a scene to you all. And here I give the first stroke on your mind canvases. Imagine, an abandoned vintage building, with a name engraved on the entrance, standing tall since the Renaissance. The building retained its glory, sheltering a group of speech impaired individuals, no matter from where they belonged, what were their age, race, gender, they were assured shelter. A handful of benevolent people shouldered the responsibilities of the former. The building in itself felt worthy of its existence. The individuals, in spite of their varied cultures and rituals grew together as a family, turning the building into their dream abode.
Until the day, one among the bunchful, sold the benevolence and decided to take down the building to fulfill his materialistic desires. The voiceless crowd kept weeping but those tears brought no alterations. Suddenly, the thought of being homeless engulfed them. They rebelled and denied to leave. Within a few days, huge machines were brought to knock the cemented structure down. And the first machinery blow hit the entrance wall; it shattered into chunks of cement and bricks, so does the name “DEHING PATKAI.”