The Terrace

The terrace was old and decrepit now – a lot like a doddering old man who’d lost most of his hair and teeth. Mossy and cracked, it stood forlornly crowning a house almost as worn out as itself.

It didn’t like being alone, this terrace. It liked the pattering of little feet, the anxious strides of older feet, the languorous pacing of the gossips. But in recent years, the steps had gradually dwindled. Now all that were left were memories…

“Come on – quick, quick! Before Dida wakes up!” With suppressed giggles, the scurrying little feet made their way to the sunniest corner of the terrace where Dida’s humongous glass jars of mango pickle & kuler aachar were having a good sun bath. No mercy shown! Lids stealthily opened, little hands dipped inside, and then the mouthwatering waft of mustard oil and spices, with squeaks of delight. Sticky fingers were hastily rubbed on to the terrace walls in an attempt to hide the evidence. The terrace didn’t mind. If it could’ve let out a deep chuckle, it would have.

Time scurried too. It has a habit of doing that. But the terrace was happy. Leisurely winter afternoons with oranges and games of ludo, with their inevitable outbursts – “Chhokka!” “You CHEATED!” “Did not!” Avid gossip sessions among the womenfolk as they dried out their long tresses – “Saw the Sharma boy smoking the other day. Tried to hide behind a tree but I saw him all right!” “Heard about Sona Boudi’s maid? She caught her opening the dressing table drawer! Servants these days, I tell you – nothing like the old days…”

Then there were the solo sojourn days. The little girl, not so little now, coming up with a book. The terrace, strewn with rosy gulmohar petals, at first wondered at the book – it was hardly ever glanced at. Closer attention revealed a pair of anxious eyes frequently turning to the terrace two houses away, where a boy sat, seemingly absorbed in a pile of comics. Occasional and accidental eye contact was immediately followed by frantic absorption in their respective reading material. And hours passed, until a parental summons from below played spoilsport in this age-old game. The terrace hummed in amusement.

Years went by. Thanks to the newest fad called cellphones, the terrace buzzed with conversation more frequently. And most often it was her, his favorite. Slow strolling, tender whispers into the phone, with long silences and shy smiles. Other times, quick pacing, an agitated tone – “…then you should have gone with her only! Do you know how long I was waiting?” “I told you before – he’s only a close family friend...” The terrace laughed and cried and sighed with the girl and wondered anew at the strangeness of humans and their behaviour.

And then that day – the memory to crown all memories. A royal decking up such as the terrace had never experienced before – flowers, velvet, zari, satin, the works. The cement floors were enveloped with colorful carpets, bright lights adorned the walls, a magnificent canopy above. The air was heady with the scent of rajanigandha. And the festivities! Right from dawn, they went on in a delightful stream of glow, laughter, sparkle, joy, and emotions. Excited shrieks, affectionate teasing, heartfelt tears, overwhelming happiness – the terrace felt it all and rejoiced to see her, his favourite, radiant in her bridal finery. Its floor was smeared with turmeric, trodden flower petals, vermilion… it embraced everything gladly. That was a day and a night to remember.

But life is not always a flower-strewn sunny terrace. She came home from time to time… soon the visits became more frequent. The terrace was witness to her frantic phone calls, her silent weeping, her bouts of blank despair, and suffered with her silently. Snatches of conversation from adjoining terraces wafted across – “…constant demands… trying for a settlement… never going back, I hear… nervous breakdown… abroad for good…”

The terrace felt an ominous shift in the house. Large trucks drew up, and the innards of the house were plucked out and dumped on to them. The house became emptier and emptier, until one day it fell silent.

No more pattering feet. No more whispered confidences, eager chatter, or lovelorn sighs. Memories were all that were left – the lost scents of mango pickle, oranges, rajanigandha – and from within, the crash of heavy hammer blows, collapsing walls, and falling plaster.

#OldKolkata #Oldbuildings #Kolkata