House That Has Learned To Dry.
The floor is bone-chilling, as if walking on ice, barefoot. Wasn't it warm the night before? Glass-finish tiles that usually reflect faces now lay mucky, bespattered with dirt that was alien, but now feels native. The sofa is lying crooked as if doing some yoga pose, that has gone wrong. The centre table has lost it's centre of gravity. Tea was served on this table, now the table stands in the muddy water that looks like spilled tea. Shoe cupboard is hoarding shoes like a fisherman carries fish in a tub to sell. Doors of this cupboard show empty spaces but the top is burdened with the weight, the weight of shoes that usually carry the weight of feet. Vases are down on the ground and the flowers have lost their colours. Even if artifical, the fragrance is now putrid. You cannot distinguish a rose from a lily. Show pieces, enthusiastically bought from far off places, are now unrecognisable. Where did they belong to before this debacle? What was their origin? Were they meant to ...