“No one knows what happened to the old lady living in the colonial bungalow, since no-one has ever recalled one ever living there.” My mother blithely answered my quizzical questioning, while intently focusing on her knitting, with unperturbed alacrity, which I found quite disquieting.
Ever since I took a vital sabbatical from college to dwell in the sedate quill-quaint township in which my parents were spending the tranquil tea-tepid phase of their elderly life; I would often find myself gawking at a rather large and age-old bungalow, settled on the lofty crest of a verdant hill. Its monumental grandeur would entrance me into ruminant reveries in which I seemed to be an aristocrat of regal descent living life languidly in the charming comfort of my palatial abode.
One time, I gathered enough courage to arduously hike all the way to the peak, to witness the sublime architecture up close. When I had gotten there, I was welcomed by an old and peculiarly gracious woman adorned by wrinkles that told olden tales of years that occurred long before my birth. We had bonded on a dime, chiefly due to her courteous mien and mannerism despite her opulent status.
Since then, I would always look forward to my frequent sojourns to the bungalow until recently, the amiable old woman just vanished into the thin air like a soft shadow dissipating at the arrival of sunlight. When I interrogated the reticent servants, they expressed stark bewilderment and denied anyone living in the bungalow, which was now a government-sponsored heritage site.
As I sat in my balcony during the cerulean chill of a crystal-cool evening, I wondered whether the old sugar-sweet lady that lived in that baffling bungalow was a welcoming wraith or a figment of my imagination.
thespace.ink has collaborated with ‘Word Munchers’, a creative writing platform that trains and encourages kids and youngsters to hone their creative writing skills. thespace.ink will be publishing two short essays by students of ‘Word Munchers’ every Saturday.
