The village house of the 1970s still stands—its structure now gently modernized, its essence lovingly intact. Walls once bare now wear fresh coats of color. A few corners have changed shape. Yet beneath the surface, it remains the same proud spirit that once held generations together.
Tonight, as rain falls steadily from dark clouds, I sit quietly in a familiar corner—one where I spent many childhood evenings. There’s no electricity. Another storm, another tree felled, another power line broken. The silence is soft, not hollow. It’s broken only by the hush of raindrops and the whispers of memory.
This is a small village in the Malabar region of Kerala—where, once upon a time, electricity was a distant dream. We lived by the gentle glow of kerosene lamps and lanterns. Today, decades later, I light candles—not from need, but in quiet homage.
Though the ambience has evolved, and my present gently inhabits this space, I’ve preserved its soul. Its warmth, its rhythm, its silences. I don’t just visit—I return. To feel. To listen. To remember.
And tonight, memory rises with the wind and walks softly through the rooms.
🏡 Monument of Memories
There are just quiet moments around.
Each stone, each window holds a memory—
of laughter once shared, of joy that lived here.
The rain outside carries with it echoes of a distant childhood. The world felt smaller then, yet somehow, more complete.
By candlelight, the room flickers with old scenes—a warm smile, a familiar voice, the echo of my name spoken in love.
Time changes. Life transforms.
But memories—they grow younger and fresher
with every passing moment.
Some houses are not just built of bricks and mortar. They are monuments—living vessels where memories rest, waiting for familiar footsteps. They do not age with time; instead, they deepen in meaning. They grieve the silence but welcome it too.
—
🌿 Returning to the Self
I’ve moved from city to city like a wanderer—chasing purpose, collecting experiences, donning masks for roles I’ve had to play. In each city, I left behind a version of myself. But when I return to this village, I return to the truest one.
The little chatterbox who ran barefoot through courtyards.
The girl who made paper boats out of torn notebooks and watched them float in rainwater streams—with ants as her passengers and stars as her audience.
That child is still alive—somewhere deep within my soul.
And in this house, on nights like these, she rises again—
smiling, dreaming, remembering.
🌧 A Gentle Reflection
This home may no longer echo with the chatter of barefoot children or glow with kerosene lamps. But its walls remember.
We so often rush forward, fueled by urgency or hope, forgetting to look back. Yet some nights—especially the rainy, powerless ones—invite us to pause. Not to escape the present, but to honour the past.
To sit in the soft golden hush of memory and simply be.