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10 months ago

golden rock

"golden rock" - inspired part by the bittersweet experience of seeing a childhood house, reinforced by the embedded song and written by me.

My father takes me to his hometown today.

He grew up in this interesting little town associated with a railway network in the south. It’s quaint and quiet and so full of culture. Everything was set up by the British during the pre-Independence era. Inlaid upon the architecture is the mark of oppression, but the cement thrums with resistance.
Things that I’ve never seen before, I see today: ball badminton with wooden paddles, for instance, or even a swing made out of a chair with broken legs. The ‘swing’ reminds me of what the town stood for after the British left – to rebuild and repurpose and find something that was wrenched out of your grip. It feels innocently sweet and full of grit.

Dad takes me to his old home. We step out of the car and the rain is light. I don’t think he notices the drops clinging to the grey hair on his head.
The wind whistles past me, playing with my hair. This scene feels soft despite the rough brambles scratching at my calves. A soft, worn picture – that is what I witness today.

“Everything that happened to me,” he says, wistfully – and I can’t blame him as we stare at the rubble and dust that remains of his home (now, it’s more of a house) – “Happened here.”

(crossposted on @/vrs.culdesac on Instagram and on Medium.)


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