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The House of Dead March 16, 2013

Posted by Shahir in Life, Love and Relationship.
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Time was punctuated by sighs from the punctured thoughts of men and women deep in thoughts. One by one, or sometimes in pairs, or in groups they arrived. They walked gently, straight into the hall at the front of the house. They stood there in silence for a few seconds. What were they thinking? Did they have in their thoughts about their turn to come? Or were they thinking about the turn of someone they love whom they now fear losing?

They walked back gently to the courtyard, slowly moving into an empty space, silently, and stood there. Their greetings to the one next to them confined to a gentle smile or a nod. They all wore the same expressions. That’s because they all carried in them the same thickness of feelings – that of a loss, or the fear of inevitable loss.

Everything was silent, almost still. The trees held their breath and leaves stood still. The tiled roof appeared as bowing its head in grief, and the closed windows looked as though the eyes are shut in sorrow. The fragrance of burning incense hung in the air and the white and grey curly lines it drew in the air faded away, slowly, in the gentle breath of people who stood there.

In the air floated broken words – the words and letters of chants and hymns that froze after they slipped gently through the whispers that came from men of whom some leaned on the wall and some others stood still, crossing their hands. Some stared at the ground. Some looked at the distance, as if searching for an answer, or were they searching for a clue of their own fate?

Little children cried looking at the face of their mothers who sat leaning on the wall, still, looking at a distance. Birds forgot to sing, stood on the branches, tilting their heads left and right before they flew away. Clouds looked down, and moved on.

Arrogance melted. Egos stood undressed. Blue prints of future fluttered in the occasional breeze that entered the room through the cracks of the old window. Reminders of yesterdays dreams are on the desk, in the shelves, crossed or marked on the calendar hanging on the wall unaware of its masters journey – marked in red in them are the holidays of life before, till yesterday!

Did you ever think when you were dressing up this morning, that perhaps it’s someone else who will undress you before your final journey today?

The house of dead is silent.

Yet it spoke volumes.

Shahir

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