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.

Click here to post comments

Join in and write your own page! It's easy to do. How? Simply click here to return to stories.