across the street
from where i grew up-
lies an old house,
rotting in its own silence.

paint peels like brittle skin,
windows nailed shut,
a monument
to a bygone era.

it has seen better days,
once stood tall, proud-
boasting more rooms
than people to fill them.
they say
it was the first concrete house
in the village.

an old couple lived there,
with their quiet maids,
beyond the hush
of long corridors.
stories were whispered-
tales of riches,
gold and jewels,
tucked in suitcases,
hidden in the ceilings.

it was the ’90s,
and they had the only tv
in the village.
a black-and-white box
locked in a wooden cabinet,
untouched,
sacred-
like a relic 
no one dared disturb.

every saturday morning
they’d ask the maids
to bring the TV down
like a holy offering.
we’d gather,
sit cross-legged on cold floors,
and watch ramayana
in silence,

then one day-
the wife died,
just like that.
and everything changed.

i don’t know
if the children told the old man,
or raided the ceilings first-
i was young to know.
but i heard:
the suitcases held 
nothing but rats,
and the jewels
were only silver.

the old man followed soon after.
the house remained-
empty and stark,
a relic left
to mourn itself.

no one returned.
no one repaired.
years passed.
and the old tv
was never 
brought down again.

all that’s left
are the memories,
and the flaking paint
and dying walls.

the house stands still-
a reminder of time gone soft:
a time of wealth and wonder,
of innocence
stitched into saturday mornings.

now,
it barely stands.
weathering the weather,
a far cry
from the majesty it once bore.