Red

These dilapidated walls, termite ridden doors, half broken windows have kept ancient secrets within their bosoms. Resounding of the meanest, most depraved of human needs. It just fascinates me that these walls have stood witness to those thousands of strangers who left their lives outside only to fulfil one desire inside. Local poets, scholars, authors, writers, letter-writers, artists, painters, those without any means of livelihood – all thriving on one basic instinct. Here where the bricks smell of an ancient age, the wall plaster coming off, the paint faded, as if an attempt to bare for once, all the secrets it holds within. The water gargles in the broken, rusty pipes beckoning to be released. And the balcony, stoic and enduring, echoing the mysteries of this part of the world; the floral, ornate fixture illuminating under the sun’s rays as if to say “come no closer, for within me lies an all-consuming darkness”. The doors have shielded the residents of this abode for centuries from the distant world, providing them with a solitary haven. And as the blue paint peels off, moss finds its way up the walls, creeping within, evolving into a stream of veins, that pronounce the eventuality and finality of the structure. One day, this may not stand as it does today. No door to guard, no window to gaze out of, no wall to hold together. All that will remain is this picture, a moment captured in days past, a picture itself witness to that which it testifies for.

Image courtesy of Mobeen Ansari, from his twitter page.

 

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