In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Our House.”
The drawing room windows were open. The white lace curtains bellowed in the wind; one of them wrapped itself around the tall earthen vase kept in one corner. My mother had drawn intrinsic designs in white all over the vase and placed a tuft of golden paddy in it.
I stood on the window sill.My tiny palms clasped the iron grill tightly. It was my favorite spot in the house. I loved the view from the window – endless stretch of paddy fields, ponds and hills.
A few months back, right after the first showers of rain,I had watched the tribal women in colorful saris bend over and sow the paddy saplings in the water covered fields. Over time,the green paddy had slowly changed color. Now,I watched the same women accompanied by men harvest the golden crop.
I stood there singing at the top of my voice, holding onto the iron grills and swaying from side to side. I was in no hurry.
The sound of bells coming from the temple on the top of the hill broke my rhythm.I jumped down from the window sill and plonked myself on the cane sofa.
The sofa had lots of big and small colorful cushions. Mother had recently bought them from a Rajasthani handicraft exhibition.They were embroidered with bright red, green, pink and yellow threads. Little shisha or mirrors of various shapes were fixed to the fabric using embroidery.
I picked up a cushion. The mirrors bounced the sunlight off them and made abstract patterns on the walls. I played with the mirror reflections for some time until the cushion slipped from my tired hands and I fell asleep.
Mother had decorated the walls with framed pictures of the Ajanta Frescoes .The picture of Padmapani, watched over me as I drifted into sleep.
Unfortunately,at present I do not have any photograph of the house or the neighborhood. Junior had recently drawn a picture of his neighborhood. Do you see the contrast ?