Maithily's Scribblings

The House That Aged With Time Our ancestral home, built in 1964, slowly weakened. Years of low maintenance made it unsafe. Now, when we visit the village, we only stand outside and look at it. The walls are tired. The roof fragile. We don’t dare enter. Yet every crack holds laughter. Every corner holds memories. It waits quietly — like an old guardian watching generations move on. **To be Continued**

Where My Mother Now Rests In 2015, my mother passed away. Her ashes were taken to our ancestral village. As per Hindu customs, a grave was built there, beside my great-grandparents and grandparents. From that day onwards, when I thought of the village, the first image that came to my mind was not the garden, not the house, but my mother’s resting place. We had chosen that spot intentionally. So that no matter how busy life became, we would return to the village at least once a year. That land held my roots. My mother’s mother was born there. My father was born there. My grandfather was born there. It was not just soil. It was history. **To be Continued**

   A Festival and a Truth Too Heavy In 2013, when my wedding was planned for the following year, we decided to visit the village for the temple festival — the oor kodai . It was my first time truly experiencing it. I participated in rituals like Mulai Pari and the grand Thaer Thiruvizha , where the chariot rolled through the village streets. Food was served three times a day in the temple itself. Those who couldn’t attend — especially the elderly — received food at their homes. The village still followed traditions with love and care. But behind my smile, a storm was brewing. Just before we left for the village, my sister and I had accompanied my mother to the doctor. That was when we heard the truth. My mother had a severe heart condition. She had only a few months to live. As the drums played at the festival, my heart felt heavy. As people celebrated life, I was silently preparing for loss. That festival was both beautiful and painful — joy and sorrow walking s...

When Silence Entered the Courtyard Not long after, my grandfather passed away. Without him, the heart of the house seemed to stop beating. My grandmother moved in with my chittapa and stayed with us occasionally. Slowly, the ancestral home began to remain empty. With my father busy with work and business, our village visits reduced. Temple festivals were missed. Family gatherings stopped. The house that once held generations now stood quiet. Walls aged. Plants overgrew. Memories remained. **To be Continued**