I have already written about how much I love my grandfather’s house in Supparayapuram.
That house was never just a structure.
It was my childhood’s silent witness.
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| Front Entrance |
But now, it stands half-demolished — fragile, unsafe, and no longer suitable to use.
After serious thought and discussion, my father and my chittapa have decided to demolish it completely and build a small new room in its place. Not something grand. Not something modern and flashy.
Just something that gives the space life again.
When I look at the recent images, my heart feels heavy.
I don’t just see broken walls.
I see my grandmother walking through the wide kitchen.
I see my grandfather sitting outside, lost in thought.
I see the lemon tree that stood proudly near the side.
The curry leaves plant that always smelled fresh.
The huge kitchen — fully equipped even in those days.
The water storage “thooti” near the kitchen.
The narrow pathway that led to the backyard.
Every corner carries a memory.
Some houses hold furniture.
Some houses hold stories.
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| Kitchen Entrance |
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| Kitchen Interior 1961 |
There is a strange pain in watching walls fall. It feels like watching time collapse in front of you.
But then I remind myself —
We are not demolishing memories.
We are only rebuilding the space.
The souls that lived there.
The laughter that echoed there.
The love that grew there.
None of that disappears with bricks.
Maybe the new home is not a replacement.
Maybe it is a reminder.
A reminder that we still remember.
That we still care.
That we still return.
The walls may change.
The roof may change.
The layout may change.
But the roots remain.
And perhaps that is what truly makes a house immortal.
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