You know something we keep hearing about home. That home never changes. Home always remains the same. But right now, when I walk the paths which I've covered like umpteen times over, I think,
..is it really that way? Does anything remain that way?
Home does not have my grandfather anymore, frowning upon me as I walk outside the gate after 6pm.
The wide sky view from the terrace has been blocked a little by the new building on the next street.
Pages have turned a brownish yellow in Kafka's Trial and Desai's Journey to Ithaca.
Lizards play around in the verandah of the neighbour who moved out a few months back.
Everything is different. Yet, something is so familiar. The odour.
Odours filling the lanes, insides of my room, when the leaves rustle in the balcony and when ammumma fiddles in the kitchen.
Even when buildings erupt, odour remains, I guess.
When people move out, odour fills their absence.
Muthassan's cupboard still smells like him.
My books too.
Wafts remain the signals to memories.
