HOUSE NO 47

House No.47, was an old, abandoned, red brick house with a slanting tin Assam type roof.

With its once vibrant big large family scattered over all parts of the world, and some gone too soon, it had a forlorn and lost look to it.

Upon closer inspection, one could see the green ivy, covering the strong walls, and different creepers of jasmine and bougainvilla , growing all along the walls, to wrap the house within their arms and bring it comfort and solace. Its as if they want to say, hold on, we are here, cheer up. The garden, which was once spotless and green and full in bloom, was now just a tangle of tall grass, with the trees creaking in the wind, their branches heaving with longing for the older times.

 Its windows, once open wide to let in the cool summer breeze, were congealed behind a layer of dust and thin, spindly, cobwebs. Its door, once made of good, strong wood and with an outer net door, made lovingly by the owner of the house, now stayed shut, keeping out mosquitoes, visitors, and keeping in the memories. The tin roof, once painted a beautiful green, now rusted, warped, and dusty, with holes in it from years of abandon and rain. Amongst the run down bits of the house, however, where some occasional,  bits of beauty, that attracted passers by. It was perhaps, the marigolds, growing in yellows and oranges, the efforts of the old gardener attempting to salvage the beautiful garden. He faithfully planted dahlias in wintertime, daisies and poppies and the occasional pansies as the seasons changed. The birds still made their nests, chirping merrily, singing a song. And the odd straw crow scrambling for bits he never found,  and a occasional stray dog, poking their noses looking for old friends who lived there when he was a puppy.

House No.47. Walk by it and you can almost hear the sighs and the longing for the old times and the people who lived there.