Recently, I came to know about this house people call a “Humble Abode.”
I didn't even know the meaning of Abode and I had to google.
But somehow, that made me curious.
I wanted to see what was so special about a place where someone lives. An abode.
At first glance, I saw an earthen house and thought, okay, I’ve seen houses like this before. So what?
And then I just kept looking.
For the next few minutes, I started noticing the randomness of it all, the joints, the cracks, the door that seemed to make no sense, the glass window that looked almost too fancy for an earthen house. Even the chavni that my modern-day architect had suggested I have in my modern house.
And then I noticed the Tiranga, held high, even though a few things around the house were slowly falling apart.
Somewhere along the way, the house started telling me its story.
How it had evolved over time. How things were added, changed, repaired, and adapted, not according to some grand plan, but simply as life happened.
And I realised that sometimes looking isn’t enough.
We need to pause and observe.
Slowly, everything started making sense.
The mysterious door.
The second floor.
The glass window.
The moss-covered walls.
Each little oddity had a story behind it.
And yet, the heart of the house was missing.
The uncle who lives there wasn’t around that day. I was told he left a few moments before I arrived. Apparently, he had grown a little disappointed with all the people who came for the story year after year, admired the house, and then simply forgot it.
Sometimes a house isn’t just a house.
It's a story.
And stories don't reveal themselves to those who only look.
They reveal themselves to those who stay long enough to observe.
Akash
"I write the way I speak, with ordinary words and unfinished thoughts."
