Kumbakonam house

A small anecdote of a well cherished memory. An online friend had posted a thought about the sounds and smells of an ancestral home. He said that as time goes by, one remembers the house more than the inhabitants; something I totally agree with.

I have never lived in my paternal grandparent’s house except during short visits but when I stepped into it at an age where one does start remembering, the thing that struck me was the history of the place.

Every timber, every small cot, even windows sill had a story to tell. Graffiti by dad on the kitchen floor with god knows what which never went away; paint on the well walls, lovely drawings of gods by my aunts all told a story of the place. The place was living, breathing as if it had a life on its own. The people who came were but fleeting in the time frame of the house itself.

It’s this feeling which makes me love that place. Along with the fact that it was a typical village house in one of the most temple-frequent places in south India surrounded by temples, temples and more temples, each of which was famous and have thousands of devotees each day.

These kinds of houses don’t come often. The sad part is, the few that are left, we do not know how to cherish.


2 thoughts on “Kumbakonam house

  1. I say as I said on my post – it is very much the memories of the house, some of the decrepit objects in and around, perhaps the surroundings, especially in the temple towns, some of the books and the paraphernalia in the place that evince these emotions in us. Its nice to know about a bit of the heritage which makes you. 🙂

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