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Sometimes, the journey of life seems so fast that its celerity usurps the precious beads of memories. But when you happen to meet the memories in your life again, it imbues you with a pristine happiness. I also happened to meet one of such happiness after a fairly long time.
I was visiting my ancestral home after three decades. My relatives had taken whatever care they could of my house. Despite all of their efforts the signs of dilapidation were starting to arrive on the several parts of the building.
I had gone to my village with a plan to stay there after my retirement. I had thought of devoting myself full time to agriculture after my retirement.
As I was indulged in the attempt to spruce up my house, I discovered a clay house in my courtyard covered with the tree leaves and other remnants of material existence of time. I removed all the debris around it and was astonished to find that the clay house was still in almost good condition.
All memories related to this clay house came unbidden.
I must have been 12 years then. And it was the time of Diwali. All the children of my age were busy making the ‘Gharonda’ for Diwali. I used to go to the house of my friends where their elder siblings used to make the ‘Gharonda’. Some clay houses were one story some were two stories. I used to get mesmerized by the enchanting world of ‘Gharondas’.
One day I asked the elder sister of my friend to build one Gharonda in my house as well. But instead of answering my request she said ‘my brother’s Gharonda would be the best in the village.’ I knew that she had avoided me.
I went straight to my house and made the dough of the soil. But despite my several attempts I could not give any shape to the clay that would resemble a ‘Gharonda’. My mother was observing all my painstaking endeavors from the kitchen of the house. She came to me and told me to bring some wooden planks and fresh volume of the clay. With all the finesse lurking in her deft fingers, she carved out a beautiful ‘Gharonda’. It was like a dream being transmuted into reality for me. She did not stop here; she painted the ‘Gharonda’ making amazing designs on it like an expert painter creating his/her chef d’oeuvre.
I did not have the idea that there was lurking a great artist in my mother whom I considered a simple housewife.
On the night of Diwali, it was my ‘Gharonda’ that had stood out among other ‘Gharondas’ of the village and I was kind of hero of the village but I knew that real worthy of all the accolades for the imposing ‘Gharonda’ was my mother, but she unassumingly relished her son being praised.
Now still I could find the glory of that ‘Diwali’ night smeared on the façade of the ‘Gharonda’.
P.S: This is a creative account for