NIWAS

The world was on fire the year I was built. Smoke hazed the landscape hovering above dreamy eyes. Happiness floated above dancers of love and singers of peace. Bell-shaped pants covered legs and colorful bands covered heads under long hair.

I rose from ground up into a bright pink emblem on the street surrounded by empty plots. My cheery façade welcomed the first family into my warm abode. They walked in with pride through solid rot-iron front gate onto the driveway. My baby guava and mango trees extended their delicate green fingers to invite them in. The petite garden inside the boundary wall boasted bright red roses and saffron marigolds surrounded by lush green foliage. From the lawn, the family took a short one step to give blessings to my verandah, partially sheltered from the elements. I invited them indoors by holding the large wooden door ajar and the family stepped into the cozy square sitting room. A door to its left led to the master bedroom but I chose to take them in there later, when they will be ready to turn in for the night. First, the adults reclined on the rattan chairs placed next to the bay windows while the two children sat on the long divan, their feet dangling in excitement on its sides. Celebratory conversation glided around the room as if musical notes floating in the air to a harmonious piano concerto. Words glued to the fresh paint of my walls absorbing their resonance and excitement which I cherish to this day despite numerous coats of varying colors since the first.

The family, energized to carry on the tour, made their way out of the sitting room and entered the large back room. There was no designation for this area, perhaps an all-purpose room where everyone over the years gathered for meals, children played games, the grandmother told stories, mothers helped the children with homework, women gathered to work on sewing projects or household tasks over juicy gossip. This was one room that went through several transformations from being an open area to housing one large piece of furniture to dine on, to a temporary tiny kitchenette for the grandmother and then back to being an empty open space. Its walls today hold the most words buried deep beneath the paint into the thick cement. They carry squeals of laughter, tears of joy, howling of tantrums, moans of pain, sniffles of goodbyes or melancholy. They embrace the most memories.

The family proceeded to a door to the right entering a tiny room labeled as the kitchen. It was always held at the highest esteem compared to other rooms over my lifetime. In the early days when the grandmother lived, shoes were unwelcome in this sacred abode where artful creations were fashioned by the women. Inside the tiny room, a shelf balanced a gas stove and several shelves higher up supported steel and copper dishes. A sink in one corner had been handy for filling up a pot of water for cooking or quickly washing off a glass or a plate, though the large chunk of the washing and cleaning was always done outdoors under the tap in the courtyard in the back.

Advancing in the same line as the kitchen, the family continued towards my walkout. It was divided by a dark grilled railing separating the indoors from outside. The two children ran their hands through its intricate leafy and coil shapes set within the lattice all the way up until it ended by the far wall. A tiny washing sink balanced inconspicuously in a corner of the wall. Diagonally across the expanse of the nameless room, the family gravitated towards a door welcoming them into a spacious room. A king size bed covered half the floor as its massive headboard proudly stood upright offering a grand backdrop for the equally dignified grandmother who claimed the room for all her living years. She breathed her last breath on that very bed in the arms of her youngest son. Over decades as the wheels of time churned, children of multiple generations brightened this space with their wide eyes, warmed it with their cheerful laughter as they huddled under covers circling around the grandmother and the multitude of stories she always weaved.

As I continued my tour, the family noticed the smaller door by the side of the bed that led to the bathroom. Through this washroom was another door perpendicular to the first one that led into a different room. The largest room in the house, the very same we skipped as we entered into the sitting room, the family had come a full circle back to the front of the house. A large bed and a set of bunk beds occupied the space in here where the first young couple with their two children resided. A window from this master bedroom looked out into the garden inviting rosy aroma and musical buzzing into the room.

I have harbored many souls, warmed many bodies, cheered many faces. Several generations of the same family have walked within my walls or run through my doors and I carry their legacy, their memories and their love in my hearth. Having stood tall for over forty years I have extended to new heights, cleansed to fresh looks but my foundation remains grounded to the original roots. I will welcome several more generations from this line of family, invite them in to rest, to stay and leave behind a piece of themselves to be ingrained in my walls forever.