Behind the green veiled gate, there lived a Begum who believed in an eternity. When she had walked into the verandah of this house, she not only had bags full of gifts and treasures of her childhood but also carried a head full of possibilities and a heart full of hopes for the future. Moments turned to days and days became months. The passing of time wasn’t just a testament to change but everything around was transforming; power, influence, the importance of the family name. But, she remained the Begum.
A century later, walking around that verandah, the air is mystic, carefree and distant from the new world. The neighborhood has changed, known faces are a blur, nobody has a memory of her. Although, she is there like a mystery availing herself only to those who seek beyond the mundane, those who intend to grasp at the totality of the house.
They come and ask about the stories of this verandah and about the people who lived here, but the memory of the Begum is long gone. Translations and orations have displaced her version of the story.
Amused by this she now laughs at them and yet she waits for that one voice that longs to hear what she has to say. Anxiously resting but not so peacefully below her beloved verandah.