Healing Aura

It is a red-brick house at the turn of the winding road, which climbs a hillock overlooking the pristine sea-shore on its right. Anyone who stands in its tiny porch in the afternoon will have their eyes blinded by the sun, and the same sun will tease the waves at early evening to send the sparkle to your eyes. A wonderful serenity I feel, whenever I look at it! Its silhouette seems like an embrace welcoming me. It seems to talk to me, I don’t know what and I don’t know why! What is its fable?

Once upon a time, there lived an old woman in this house. An ever ready smile lit up the otherwise commonplace and dark face. Her village dialect course, but sweet to the ears all at once! This was one of the many houses she had occupied through her living years. This was perhaps the best of the lot, because she lived here for the longest time. And also because her youngest son had given his young years to pull it down and build it again in solid red bricks. How could his wife live in the old ramshackle house, whenever he married?

The old woman wanted to spend the sunset years of her life here, in her rightful house. The house now had all necessary amenities for her to lead a peaceful life at least (though it was a far cry from a five star). How would it be possible? Her husband was no more, all her girls were married with grandkids and her youngest son would have to leave the village to find a job – he had to pay off the loan he had taken to build the house. Even if the house had become habitable, she was old and there was no one to help her with the everyday chores. Against her wishes, she would have to go and stay with her daughter, who had a bustling household, with children and grandchildren. Her great grandchildren – the thought soothed her, she had seen it all and there really was some satisfaction in it.

There was another house, built by her elder son, where she would have loved to stay, but circumstances did not allow her to dream about it. And she did not spell it in words. Life had been difficult, many moves, many fields, many abodes, many falls and many upheavals later she finally spent the last years with one of her daughters and sons alternatively. And finally reached her rightful house, that of God!

Part of the house on the hillock is let out by the old woman’s youngest son. Still, whenever I pass it, it reaches out to me, waiting for someone of its own to come and occupy it, to make it complete. The youngest son is married, works in the city. Will he at least enjoy the fruit of his labor? Will the “Orphan House” beget its members? It is an abode in waiting, standing there like some elder, waiting for the prodigal son to come back.