Writing about old family houses has become deeply interesting. In the midst of nothing but politics, democracy and uniform, one needs something actively catching the mind , making the spine shiver a bit, or bring smiles on the tense countenances;
what do people talk about generally?
when financial stress becomes a key factor then thinking about, feeling and missing the peaceful cheaper days of the past , nostalgia about open spaces and clearer roads, and calm cool evenings is common;
For many days memries of childhood times, the houses that we lived in, how numerology played or plays a part in our lives and election fever had been the talk at home. My sisters were on a short visit from the United States and there was a summer wedding in August so a get together after a long gap brought out the family album out of the damp storeroom of the parental house.
Memories of 17 Central Road were of a different kind.
A many roomed bungalow just opposite the Army Medical Corp Officers Mess , in a small tourist town , Abbotabad, named so after Major John Abbott of the British Indian Army,had numerous trees and fruit trees as well. The dark green tall orange Loquat bearing ones were jungle like, there were a few pear trees and one with a thick fat trunk became a wicket for our short cricket game on particular Sundays when two smart young uncles under training at the closeby Kakul Pakistan Military Academy, would pay the weekend visit. It was fun and there was plenty of time for games and garden walks.
Open space all around and a considerably cricket field like lawn on the eastern side gave 17 Central Road the grace of a mansion.
Our house would always become the family house because my father was the eldest of the brothers. All younger brothers and sisters would gather there regularly, specially on occasions like the Holy Festivals of Eid.
But revisiting 17 Central Road in 1998 ,thirtyeight years later, revealed the stark unkempt neglected condition of a house which was once full of life love and laughter.
I walked around the house and entered one of the rooms, it was dark inside though it was day time, and for some reason the windows were covered with dirty printed cloth smudged in oily patches and smoky blackness. A poor caretaker family was putting up in two rooms which I made out to be the dining room and the pantry in the old normal days when we were the occupants.
A strange ancient cavelike cold air struck my trembling frame as I daringly made my way further inside, carefully stepping across the scattered unwashed odd utensils, hastily gathered sleeping mats, and a couple of mutilated iron boxes; this was a one room living place for an apparently Afghan refugee family serving to guard the house against unknown intruders;
the rest of the house was locked, I could not stay for long as the Heart had started sinking a little and salty tears for sweet sounds scenes and scents, striking so heavily had begun to emerge .........sweeping and submerging my senses in complete nostalgia......the dark stony stillness stretched deep in the soul and spirit.
"lets go " I said to my ever supporting sister now living in the same town, and in the last house my father built after his retirement from service.The address- 26 Kakul Road, suddenly I realised that both the numbers were significant.
they both added up to make the single number 8.
'Its the people not the houses-people go -house stay and the truth is that houses also decay.
Life is strange, times change and only people make a place alive colorful, active and lovably noisy. "the rest is silence"
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