Home

I feel utterly disgusted and sad every time I see these small little big houses, homes, being broken and being transformed into flats.
With one blow and the other... the plasters, the walls, the bricks... goes off forever... and men in lungis set off for theirs 'homes' with happy faces.
My grandparents from both the sides owned beautiful houses and both the houses have lost their existence.
One in which I have grown up throwing tantrums and being super pampered in, is now called 'Meghna', the uthon in which we once played 'kumir danga' and badminton and chhoyachhui no more exists.
The other one, the cradle of my chhotobelar 'sheeter chhuti' was sold to idiotic people and I no more get to see the black sunsilk on windows and no more secret semi midnight trips on bicycles... the house ofcourse is demolished.
I often wondered how it feels to see your home being broken. The place where you learned you crawl... the walls that know your secrets, the balcony in which you danced during rains... I somewhat know and somewhat don't. Thank God for that and while your wondering why am I writing such shit?
I saw a house being broken yet again