The handsome colonial building and the
estate around it had a hypnotic charm about it… and the low wall which
separated it from my property, and the fact that my kitchen and study
overlooked it, allowed me to gaze at it as I went about my day.
The garden was wild, and beyond the mango trees, were the remnants of an arched gateway for the horse carriage to pass and low dwellings for the staff.
Perhaps at one time it was the stables.
Decades ago, an old lady lived there all by herself.
The only sight one got of her was mid morning, when the gleaming white Ambassador would pull up, and she would set off in her crisp cotton sari, and return after lunch.
The gossip I heard from my old help was that she loved to play cards and dine at the club.
Later, I would spy a young foreign looking woman come around and work began in restoring the building to its grandeur.
She turned it into a magical retail space and cafe, preserving a piece of Old Madras, and I finally got to see the beauty of the inside of the mansion, the chequered black and white marble flooring, the majestic wooden staircase and balustrade , the details of the cornice work of the high ceilings and the views out of the tall windows .
The store then moved for reasons which are unimportant, and soon the building started looking neglected and abandoned, forcing my eye onto the staff quarters.
It was home to a young family, and the children and I befriended each other out of mutual need; they because I had to retrieve their ball which would land inside my compound, and me because my cat Bushy would wander into theirs and be brought back to me.
Our conversations would be mostly about cats and cricket.
For me, observing their childhood, the bond between the siblings, the older boy teaching his little sister to play cricket, and to ride a bicycle, play hide and seek, and climb trees, reminded me of my own childhood, growing up in big army Cantonment homes.
I would see the kids help their mother with her chores, and make traditional eatables that would be put out to dry in the sun.
There was a lot of outdoor living that I was privy to.
It was so uplifting to the soul to watch them grow, their bond a delight to see.
As they found new interests to entertain themselves, the bicycle soon gave way to a scooter.
Cricket was always a constant.
The little girl had started wearing a long skirt, and her unruly hair was oiled and plaited.
The boy had grown tall and lanky and wore trousers to high school.
He wanted to become an architect he would tell me, and his sister would want to do whatever he did!
Then one day a van pulled up, and the family silently went about loading their belongings into the van.
I called out to the children, but they refused to look in my direction.
I could see they looked crestfallen and sad.
Hurriedly they left without a backward glance.
I was perturbed and saddened by their sudden departure; I could not imagine what had made them leave.
The next morning I got my answer.
I woke up to the sound of JCB vehicles pulling in to pull the old mansion down.
Another piece of the glory that was once Madras, now just a heap of bricks, without a goodbye, just like there was no bidding goodbye to the family that left.
The house would now become home to many families, as apartments would take its place, but would any of the children who would come to live there have a childhood like that of my little friends?
