Never forgot my old house
My father was appointed as a government official in Arunachal, India. His profession required him to move from place to place in about every 6 months. There was this one time when we were living in Yingkyong. I used to love our home there, set amidst a beautiful landscape, atop a hill, two neat lines of white-fenced houses. That house was full of warmth and charisma. My mother at that time was working in another state, so we used to visit my father once in 6 months for a stretch of 2-3 months. It has become a part-and-parcel of my daily life to pack up and move from one place to the other. But this place made me feel different from any other that I had been to. We even had a pet dog there, which just added to the bonhomie of the surroundings. When my mother and I came back from Yingkyong, I was informed about 2 months later that my father had been transferred again to a new place named Itanagar. I remember that one time as being especially hard for me. Even though I was already away from the place and really didn’t have much of my time associated with it, but the memories of my stolen 3 months with my father had been captured in that place like magic. When after 5 months we went to our new place in Itanagar, even though this one was just as hospitable as the old one, with a big garden outside and a friendly neighborhood, I still couldn’t get my old house out of my memories. To this day, even after 15 years, I still pine for the moments spent in that house. That particular move had been a tough one, even for a 5 year old child who didn’t remember much, that is, me.
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