The Old House

The old house,
seething in anger,
despondent,
distraught –
cursing wordlessly,
fought time.

Like its inhabitants,
it withered away slowly,
crumbled in places no one looked,
quivered ever-so-lightly in strong winds,
put up a brave front to visitors,
and waited.

It waited,
for the young ones to walk into it –
they ran around its vast porch once,
plucked juicy jamuns and tamarind from its garden,
fell on its high threshold,
slid on its smooth floors,
lit fires under its dark chimneys –

It waited,
for the stubborn little girl
who once found a snake
slithering amid firewood
and killed it –

It waited,
for the soft-spoken boy
who once dreamt of a demon
and wet his bed –

It waited,
for the little toddler
who once banged his head
on its door
and left liquid red patterns on the floor –

It waited,
for someone to look again,
and call the bluff
on its pretty façade –

It waited,
and wore itself out
with every passing hour.

The gates never opened
to let a young one in.