For Sale

You've missed me, haven't you? KWERTY and me will believe you have - both of us. In fact, all of us - Figaro, Barty and Maggie included. We've missed this old place too. The stairs, the attic,the garden - oh, I could name every room in the house!

It's a walk from the highway to the house, the way dotted with flowering trees. The road is always sprinkled with leaves or flowers, depending on the season. You'll never walk alone - the soft crunching of brown-yellow leaves when you tread on them
in the fall, the hum of insects and the calls of birds in summer, shovels working in winter and of course the singing of rain, whenever it pays a visit.

One enters the house, an enormous, imposing villa at that, by a side entrance.How comical is that! But the main entrance has been locked for ages - no particular reason, it can be opened if you grease the hinges I guess. We never tried. We liked the narrow opening in the fence just fine. And that was only to bring in the groceries. I don't remember not jumping the fence otherwise. It's an art though- you don't want to land up in the rose bushes.

That brings us to the garden. I've never been one for roses, really, but sometimes you just compromise (and later wonder why but never mind) and much to your horror have a string of rose bushes dotting an entire side of the fencing. Not to forget the
yucky thorns they come with. I wanted to switch to geraniums later but the task seemed monumental. It isn't though. However, I can't imagine anyone wanting to uproot picture-perfect rose bushes unless you have a strong dislike for them like me.

Anyway, let's move on - There's a huge tree in the opposite corner. It bears fruit. That I've never seen anyone actually eating it is a different matter. A swing hangs from the tree. A battered one. I don't recollect why we never fixed it, though a quick glance now tells me it's a five minute job. The rest of the garden is lush green grass, a few wild flowers in between which I'd never had the heart to pluck or weed out. There isn't a solid, paved path from the opening in the fence to the house, that's the one from the big gate. That is paved with red terracotta offset by the few strands of grass peeking through the cracks. Of course the garden is incomplete without a mention of the honeysuckle which grows bright and thick on and around the big green, wrought iron gate.

The sole thing the house lacks is a porch. (I'll be honest with you, I've never believed in withholding facts) You sort of just stumble into the house. Yeah, yeah - it has a door, a grand ornately carved masterpiece with a brass knocker but there's
no space in between that and the garden. One minute you're in the garden, next minute in the house. Yes, if you're the creative type, you can think of it as the doorway to the fabulous world of yours truly, a time portal, the magic cabinet- all very true. But if you were an old lady who wants to enjoy the sun setting over her meticulously trimmed and prepped garden while knitting, then you just don't have the porch.

Then again, if you were an old lady, you wouldn't fancy the beautiful staircase spiraling its way to the top, decorated with a memoir in colourful terracotta. It's a magnificent staircase, white marble, the palatial kind, with the small columns supporting it all the way instead of a tacky banister. That's bang in the center of the entrance space. On one side you branch off into the living room, the dining room and a master bedroom - rooms which have long since been forgotten. Forgotten only for use but preserved otherwise. You'll find all the furniture neatly tucked away inside polythene sheets. Not a sign of white ants and definitely no roaches or moths. The sofas are plentiful, the beds kingsize, the cabinets spacious, some drawers unopened, some tightly locked up with the key buried in the backyard. Don't you just love the mystery element? (you can trick yourself into believing you do-worked for me, no reason why it shouldn't for you!)

That's to the left. To the right you have, what I call the cheery part of the house. There's a small bedroom, a den/study(which connects to the garage - excellent for young lovers who want to sneak away while pretending to be studying) and a guest bedroom which has been converted to an art studio. It can very easily be converted back to the bedroom if you move in the beds. But to me it will always be the studio. That's where I painted my first rainy day and my last sunny one, at least in this house. Anyway, back to the house. The small bedroom's cheery enough, coated in a cheery pastel which bears no resemblance whatsoever to the somber shades of the rest of the house, filled with sunshine, laughter and the smell of the garden in summer but lies cold and barren in winter. I never slept there in winter. The den was my refuge. Besides the electric heating, there's also a fireplace complete with wrought iron grating and all. Along with the mahogany desk and leather chair, comes a foldable bed, making it a perfect hole for the mole in winter. However, I never used that either, always nestling myself in the enormous leather chair with a blanket and and Piggy in my lap. Next to the desk is Barty's spot where his fish bowl used to be. In a corner is Piggy's basket which she's never slept in. The den is otherwise sparsely decorated. There used to be a lot of photographs lining the walls and other memorabilia lying on the desk. It was all cleared out in the fire a year ago and consequently lost forever. Till sometime back the solitary poster of Charlie Chaplin and the Kid gave vent to the decorator in me. I moved it with me. I almost forgot to mention that there are huge French windows in both the bedrooms on this side of the house. They haven't been opened in a while. Why, I forget. Or maybe chose to forget.

Anyway, moving onto the kitchen. The kitchen is right in the middle - one entry to it from behind the stairs, the other opens, understandably, into the dining room. It almost feels like the monkey bone in humans- it bears the weight or burden of the entire house. Probably, also the sole connection between the various arms of the house. It was meant to greet anyone who entered the house with fresh aromas from here. I doubt it happened. As you know, I can't cook and I find the smell of meat nauseating, not aromatic. Maybe you could turn this place around.

Upstairs. What about upstairs? There's this huge banquet room complete with a wooden floor for dances and a grand piano. Like most of the house, it has never been stepped into. There are big doors which lead into this overwhelming monstrosity of a room. Oh, it has been very prettily done but if you stay alone it can get depressing to tread this hall alone. In all the months that I stayed here, I don't remember stepping into this room on my way to the attic. Except that one time to tuck the piano to sleep.

Now comes the best part of the house, the attic. The cosy little hide-away where you can forget this world exists. All it lacks is the bough of a huge tree trying to ram its way in through the window, else it would've been perfect. The walls are lined with books. From the ceiling to the floor, all you find anywhere is books. In a corner is my old desk and ink bottles and broken, run down pens. And odds and ends of stationery which are integral to my world wherever I go. There's nothing other than books in this room. Nothing used in the present that is. There are some knick-knacks stowed away over here, bundled up so as to be away from the casual eye. But I know they are there. Too precious to be tipped out of the window, too yuck to be placed elsewhere.

The room's accumulating dust. I see an expanding spider's web in the corner. I see the books strewn on the floor. I'd left in a hurry-didn't have time to look back-didn't have time to pick and choose then-didn't have time..-all the reasons I can come up with for this shabby condition start with "I didn't have time". I smile to myself at the weakness of it all. I can never not have time for books. They were and continue to be my best companions. Don't mind Piggy, I hope you understand. I pick up all the books on the floor. A few have been damaged. I resist every urge to hug them. My hands are covered in dust. I start coughing. I hold the books out of the window and mechanically begin dusting them. I catch myself in time, before it's too
late I'm thinking. I'd found Peace and Harmony in this room. In these very books. How could I just let them drop into the garden like that. Worse, what if there's a wind and they left the grounds forever? I want to laugh at the last statement.

Laugh like a madman. That has to be the statement of the year. It's too much to hold in. The laughter rings through the house, very much like KWERTY's movements at night- the attic was as much his spot as mine. I used to drag in my blanket and a coupla pillows and spend many a days reading in here. But right now, I'm just standing amidst the piling nothingness and crumbling beauty of my former library and haven, laughing like a nut case till the echoes knock a few more books of the shelves. The
dull thud as the book bounces off the floor sets into motion a train of similar memories and situations where the impact was more 'absent', 'non-existent', 'not there', 'not here either'. The train slides off the track of my madcap laughter and rams into a well of...emptiness again I guess. That's the best description of it, emptiness. Emptiness, so full and powerful in its impact that laughter changes to tears just like that and the rest of the house, there isn't much else mind you, flies by in a flurry of tears as I run down the stairs to pull my cardboard boxes upstairs.

Luckily, Figaro has left the boxes in tact. Angel that she is, she's prowling at the head of the steps-I'd left the door unlocked. I drag a couple of boxes upstairs to pack my books. I can't leave behind my books. How did I ever think I could? I lovingly dust book after book and place it in the box, making separate piles for the ones which have to be mended and those which are in good condition. 15 books left, still no sign of Peace and Harmony. 10..8..5..3..the last book goes in and they are yet uncovered. Oh sorry, here's introducing Peace and Harmony- my pet spiders, as tame as spiders can be. The big black one with the hairy legs is Peace and the yellow coloured one with the delicate legs is Harmony. There was a third, a beautiful silver one, my favourite, which ironically enough I'd found near the rose bushes- a stark contrast to the deep red of the roses. Either I wasn't careful enough or he was just too fidgety, he wriggled out of my cupped hands before I could reach the threshold. I'd decided to call him Truth. So, Truth's never made it to the house.

Maybe you'll find him. Maybe you'll find all three. In those books? No, they weren't there, I checked and rechecked. They weren't there when I left, they haven't come back either. In the attic, somewhere? Maybe. In those closed drawers? I doubt it. They've been closed for eons now. In my den? But then they were always there. In the books and in the art studio. In my pets and in my music. I didn't tell you about the home theater system in the den, right? And the gazillion CD's stacked against one of the brick walls. Anyway, they were there too. Just absent from the house but there with me in my leather chair, under the blanket with Piggy. Maybe that's why Piggy felt so itchy at times.

Books done, I move to the CD's. The home theater system is still here. I've bought a new one. The CD's however are as integral to my existence as my books. I start emptying the racks. That done, I dismantle the racks and pack those up too. They're too pretty, I'm not leaving any sign of my meticulousness when I'm gone. Let the house stand in its dismal gloom.

I seal my boxes with new resolve. One last task for the day. I go to the backyard- a handkerchief size patch which has been run over with weeds in place of my lovely vegetable patch. Maybe you could fix that too. The soil's good- I've grown cucumbers and tomatoes and a variety of herbs. The patch sort of tumbles downhill, you've got to be really careful.In the furthest corner of the yard is a garden gnome.

Figaro, is taking a break from vigilance duty and leads the way up to it. It's really amazing how she knows exactly what's going on in my head. We push the gnome aside. And once again, as on many prior occasions I resist the temptation to send it bouncing off downhill. Just like the rose bushes, I've hated the gnome. Anyway, form underneath Figaro and me extract a small shovel and I begin digging. A few minutes and I hit my buried treasure. I brush off the dirt clinging on to it and we get back inside. The gnome stays fallen. I hesitate after a few steps but nah, it's better off lying down, that hideous creature.

We go back upstairs, pull shut the windows in the attic, lock the cupboards, roll up the carpet and push it to the side and make a hurried check- no, still no sign of Peace and Harmony. I close the door to the attic with all my strength and make a beeline for the stairs. I don't bother about the banquet room, I hate it too much to even want to know if something's missing form there or might to missing from there. Same with the rooms to the left. But as owner I have to.

Rather grudgingly, I make my way to the living room. Underneath all the plastic, I find what I am looking for. It's a beautiful chest of drawers. It's locked tight. I extract the key from the bunch of keys I'd dug up from the backyard. As I unlock the first drawer, I'm praying whatever is inside has turned to ash. It would've been easier to dispose of it, I hear Piggy say. Really Piggy, this coming from you? One by one, I open all the closed drawers and make sure all the keys turn and the locks work. Most of the stuff inside is faded, yellow beyond recognition, to me even- to me who thought she'd never forget. I'm torn between relief and..And a mixture of emptiness and sadness. The same emptiness which has sucked in time and dreams and memories like one giant blackhole. I want to yell all this at the house, pour out all the venom I can muster from inside me but the giant house bears upon me with all its giant-ness and reminds me that I'm the only one listening- the stupid emptiness throws back at me my own voice instead of sucking it in. I shudder on recollecting all the bargains made with it. Stupid emptiness!

I collect all the trash in a heap. The drawers are locked once again, the furniture tucked in once again and the keys left on the marked pegs near the entrance. The boxes are moved out of the house and onto the sled waiting for them, tied to the fence.

It's fall. I rake leaves for one last time. And together with the trash from earlier, set it all on fire. I stay to watch the last few smoldering crumbs die down, petting Piggy absentmindedly. The giant door is padlocked and the keys pocketed. We stand and look at the house, towering above the both of us. It's called Manor House in true Dickens' style. I'm a big fan of Dickens but I've never liked the name. As Pip says, 'House House', what does that mean? To me it sounds like you're trying to reinforce to any visitor and to yourself that this is indeed a home. A morbid thought which would make anyone run for their lives.

Anyway, that's my old house for you. A Victorian villa with all the appendages which go into making a Victorian Villa, save high grounds maybe. As you know, I've moved. The villa is for sale. Furniture included. We shan't call it baggage, we shall call it furniture.

My things are secured on the sled, which is tied to my cycle. I kick the stand and begin pedaling. But unlike last time, it's not wild, my-tail's-on-fire, let's-get-the-hell-outta-here pedaling. It's a strong, sure-footed, steady pace that I maintain without so much as a backward glance. Goodbye old house.

The keys will be at the agent's. Interested folks can contact him, he's very capable. In case you're still dissatisfied, try Lake House, Grass on Green Hill, Under a Patch of Blue Sky, The Island out yonder.

I leave you with the leaves of Fall and few lines from Shakespeare.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

- Tempest, Act IV Scene 1