Description of one’s native place or grandparents’ place
Every year in the month of May till I was 15 years old, I spent a few days in my native place living at the old bungalow, where my grandmother who now lived with me in Mumbai had grown up. I vividly remember how I walked wearing my fancy slippers on the dusty road, complaining of the blazing sun right above our heads.
The main old wooden door made a loud sound as it opened into a verandah, which was stored with a lot of old stuff like an old television set, an overused moped which the family replaced with a bike. A lot of old clothes, newspapers, outdated and useless appliances, all which were supposed to be discarded but never really are. Through the verandah to the side of the two-storey bungalow was a restroom, it reminded me of how grandma took pride in being the first family to have a restroom technically inside the house. My most favourite part of the whole setup, which is still fresh in my memories were the potted plants that were placed in odd places of the house which made the whole place look lively.
I always observed my parents proceed into the house through the main door and I would run in through the bathroom to greet them in the living room. This interconnected space created in the bungalow excited me so much that I spent half of my time running around in circles. I then would rest on the huge old metal swing in the middle of the living room, looking at my grandma cooking in the kitchen, something that she avoided in Mumbai. I used to lie down on the swing and then stare at the whole house as if I was coming here for the first time. I would look at the fan on the ceiling and also the table fan placed near the TV, I would listen to my parents chattering with my aunts and uncles about my second cousins and their lives as if that was a national hot topic. I sniggered at my grandma’s baby pictures that adorned the wall, those pictures seemed like visuals to me, I would connect them with all the stories I grew up listening to.
Isidora as an Isidorian
Isidora is said to be the city of dreams isn’t it? Well indeed, it is the city of dreams. I looked upon my reflection in the mirror, still failing to understand why they called me one of the finest ladies in the universe, I adjusted my gown and pinned up my hair. I scoffed, isn’t every female in Isidora a beauty? I left my room and walked down the spiral staircase towards the living room, my fingers on the banister attempting to feel the intricate detail of the seashells. I greet my father, he was seated in his usual place by the bookshelf, reading his prized astronomy books again. Somehow even at his old age, he didn’t see himself sitting with the other old men by the wall in the square and talking about the city. A part of me took pride in his wish of being different and wise. Even when I was young I had never seen him participate in those worthless cockfights or duels. A lot of my friends had their families torn apart due to these terrifying and unnecessary fights among the nobles. As I sat on my chair and tuned my violin, I looked him cleaning the latest telescope he received as a gift from Sir Martin. Sir Martin was an extremely skilled craftsman and also a good friend of father’s. Every now and then he sent us a few items from his workshop. But for me, it was Sir Martin’s son that caught my attention. I first fell in love with him when he gifted my first violin, he carved it with his own hands and taught me how to play. Since then I was determined to marry him, not even the handsomest foreigners attracted my attention. Considering the aristocracy existing, our union wasn’t an easy task but somehow I knew I was fortunate. With a smile playing on my lips, I then played the very first song he taught me, imagining our beautiful life together in my homeland of dreams, Isidora.