Welcome to a new series of posts where I will take you to the untouched box of memories from my past. The oldest of my memories are just flashes of my childhood. I have gone back into ages to remember my first shot of memory and share it with you all. I have penned down my deepest thoughts and the air feels alive once again.

From the core

I must have been 5 or 6 years old at that time. The clippings are all jumbled up and I am not sure which one exactly comes first. I remember my first home in Darya Ganj, Delhi where I was born. There were 6 open flats inside a big building and our flat was on the first floor along with a room set on the second floor. My dad had maintained a beautiful garden on the second floor. And I remembered that he used to take care of the plants all by himself.

We always admire those things which we can’t get easily. Similar was the case with me when it came to the nearby houses.

I always liked the ground floor flat on the opposite side. I had heard many stories from my Grandmother that described the flat so beautifully. It was an unfulfilled desire to have a look of that flat from inside.

I also liked another flat opposite to our building at the corner of the road. It was a vast round shaped bungalow. I had asked my grandparents millions of times that why didn’t we live in that house? That was brilliantly made.

My grandmother used to visit her friend and I used to accompany her many times. I liked her house too. It was all white and big. It had spiral stairs and it was fun to climb them.

Lessons learnt later in life

Now when I look back at my past, I just laugh away. But on a serious note, why did I like everybody’s home except my own? I was always fascinated by their home’s size and architecture. The colour and space had made a place of its own into my mind. Maybe because:

• At such a tender age, we don’t have thoughts of our own to make an opinion of how the house should be. Whatever we see, we want it.
• But yes, I had dreamed of a beautiful house since my childhood and today, I live in a house that is truly beautiful or rather made beautiful.
• It is later in the age that we understand the importance of a reoccurring dream. A dream fits itself into our subconscious and our subconscious mind starts working to achieve it.
• We may forget about our dream but our subconscious never.
• Wisely we learn that home is not beautiful because of its space; big or small but because of the love out of which it is made.

Memories are old but the pen is fresh.

I am taking part in The Write Tribe Problogger October 2017 Blogging Challenge