Our Father’s House

There are two houses that are my father’s houses. These are the houses that were built by my father, grandfather and my mother. The house that was built by my grand & great grand parents (of which I have few memories) was in a bad shape, due to age. Over the past 100 years, may be more, the elements of nature viz. sun, rain, heat, cold, time etc. worked on the house of my grandparents so well that it has left it in almost of ruin. Thus, a ruin is the hard work, for centuries, of the nature. My father, the Reddy Saab, was left with no other option but to demolish the house and build a new one combined with advance technology of that time. We all thought, like my grand parents did, that the house which my father built will last ‘forever’!

One house was built at Hyderabad – both my parents gave a great part of their savings… no… their life to build it. The budgets were tight and the challenges were very many. As a child I do remember helping parents, in my own squirrel way, in making of the most beautiful house I have ever seen in my entire life. Nor will I be seeing a house of that great beauty again ever. I would describe it as the most beautiful house ever because in every brick laid there was the blood, sweat of my parents and most importantly their love & hope for their progeny.

Similarly, my father and his parents together built another house at the ancestral village Govindupalli, near Jagtial. It was the first-year commission from the life insurance policies sold by my father that funded the house in early 1970s. It is that house where my grandmother late Smt. Laxmi Narsamma lived till her last breath. Even in her 90s she looked stunningly beautiful. No wonder the strong tall lean workaholic agriculturist grand father fell for her beauty. With thick mustache, long nose and intent eyes he appeared most desirable for every woman in the village; yet he was a ‘deewana’ of my grand mother’s goddess like beauty! They built the house… and I am unable to imagine the depths of their love hope and aspirations for their children and brightest future.

Today if you were to visit these houses, you may not find them as grand as the new houses you are building; but you need to compare apples with apples.

My parents and grandparents hoped that their children and grandchildren and great grandchildren will live in these houses forever. Every inch of the house echoes some memory or the other. The very nostalgia makes me breathless. Added to this, few black & white old framed photographs hanging on the wall proudly decorated with years of dust and the layered cobwebs both of the spiders & time, brings tears to my never crying eyes. In every corner lay a heap of their hopes and dreams. I do take few of my grandparent’s dreams, attempt to read; they are so clear and focused. Many of their dreams are still lying there, unpacked. As I begin to understand the avalanche of their dreams, I find myself deeply buried in the depths of dark lightless silent unchanging time!

These are those houses where I have enjoyed the company of my brothers and innumerable cousins. I played here with my brothers, enjoyed the continued blessings of my parents. Our family shared happiness, achievements and a great deal of social status. Many people from various parts of the country used to visit my parents, for some discussion or purpose. I grew up in these houses. I was of the impression that I shall continue to be a child and my parents will continue to be my parents. I took my grandparents, aunts, cousins for granted. That was an existence of bliss, unawareness, gratitude, contentment and happiness. These houses then were an embodiment of unchanging world!

When I lost my grandfather, few cousins, aunts, uncles, my mother and a few years later my grandmother, these very houses began looking empty, forlorn and different. These are the houses that killed them all while promising eternal illusion of permanency. These are the very houses from where we the four brothers are separated for life! Except that illusion of long forgotten childhood memories there is nothing in these houses. Except few old clothes, books, framed photographs, old furniture and childhood engravings on the walls there is nothing in these houses that generates a positive emotion. Neither the blood nor the sweat nor the love nor the hope remains in these houses. I search for them in vain. Except a lizard on the wall, few cobwebs on the framed photos, dusted floor to serve as a reminder that someone may have lived here, very long ago, there is nothing substantial.

None of we brother ever visited our childhood dwellings together again in our lives. Together with our families going there is as believable as the sun raises in the west! These are not blessed houses but are the houses of our broken dreams & shattered heavens. These are the houses that made us the blood brothers, strangers! These are the cursed houses built by my grandparents & parents; it was hoped that they will become blessings in the lives of their progeny. Now that they have embarked on their eternal journey, when they look back all they will see how they wasted their life! And we most foolishly discuss of the increased land prices and ownership! I am sure, looking down from heaven at the state of affairs and the fiasco we have made it into, my grandparents & parents will suffer hell. Allow me to correct myself sirs. I beg for a last chance.

Without any understanding, I too built few houses with similar sweat, blood, hope and love as that of my ancestors, for my children. I have toiled all through life for these houses. But having learnt a valuable lesson now I hereby warn my progeny that these are the very houses that will break your blood bond and make you strangers. If you desire to be not as foolish as I am, do not waste your time, love & energy on these houses. Stay in the house your father built, never separate from each other. Let the blood bond remain. Finally, it’s your choice

---