House Number Nine by Sonia Mann

HOUSE NUMBER NINE

Sonia Mann

“Sonia!! You mentioned your permanent address as house no. 9 and street no. 9.”

Both 9? Is this your correct address? Who writes "street no."? In this small city, I have never seen anyone write "street no."; everyone writes "gali no." It surprised me. The class teacher asked me while checking the address in my school diary in class seven. The year was 1998. I was very used to this question. I replied proudly, "My father has taught me." He writes our address this way in all our documents. Ohh!! What does your father do? asked the class teacher. I replied that he is a civil engineer. He has designed and built our house. He writes our address in his own style, and we follow him. The class teacher was impressed and satisfied with the answer. I felt confident and looked around the class, thinking my father was the most intelligent person in the world. House No. 9 was not an ordinary house. It was the safest and most beautiful place on Earth for me. I watched my parents choose furniture, curtains, and colors for our home and upgrade it with the most modern facilities of the time. As a civil engineer, my father drew the plans, selected the highest-quality building materials himself, and built our beautiful home. The flooring was terrazzo brought from Dehradun, the wood for the doors and windows came from Arunachal Pradesh, and the cement and concrete were the best on the market. Everything was carefully designed and planned. I heard these stories only from our family members, as I was born a few years after the house was completed. But it was not only a house; it was also my dear home. My first home and the last home in my memories and my heart.

In May 2000, I lost my father to cardiac failure. The world seemed shattered to me. My father was my first hero. His sudden death left me fragile from the inside. I became numb. It felt like the world had come to an end. What to do and where to go? But my home reminded me of him at every inch of the place. I always felt his efforts and his presence in that home. After one year, I lost my mother too in an accident. Now only my older brother and I were left there. Our parents were no more. Our uncles asked us to leave the house and stay with them. We both strongly refused. Now we had only our home as a memory of our parents. I was very attached to that place. I never felt insecure there. I considered that home a family member. It felt like my mother's lap. It was cozy, safe, and peaceful, and most importantly, mine. So, they let us live in our home and moved in with us.

Life changed completely. The address I wrote was the same as always. But now, if someone asked about the street, I replied with the address written in my documents. That answer never stayed the same. Pride turned into grief. I had no courage left to look around the class for a response. I felt pity for myself. I was the poorest child in the class, as I looked around. Everybody in the class had a father, maybe not as talented as my father, but still a father. I was a parentless orphan now. It was terrible to see the pity and sympathy in others' eyes. So, I decided never to talk about it with anyone. I started behaving normally, cool and carefree. Home was the only place where I could cry in my bed. My home was the only place that knew everything about me, my family, and my belongings.

The stairs of my home witnessed my doll play. I used to decorate my kitchen set on the stairs and turn it into my dollhouse. Every year, my father hangs a swing from the stairs for the Teej celebration. I remember the days of Saawan, with heavy rains outside. I sat on that swing in our gallery, watching the pouring rain and the earthworms coming inside. I used to play with those earthworms, watching them curiously as they crawled. Making paper boats and putting them in the rain was one of my favorite sports. My mother kept the cylinder and cooktop in the backyard and made gulgulle and maalpuas in the rainy season.

My brother and I shared a bedroom with two single beds. My father painted those beds himself and involved us in the coloring process, too. Then he filled those beds with cotton niwaar (as we pronounce it locally) with his own hands. He kept tightening the strings regularly as they loosened over time. Our room had a study table and chair, originally my father's but passed on to us. My brother and I kept fighting over it. I always lost the battle. My brother was a bookworm and older than me, so all the circumstances were in his favor when it came to that chair. I accepted that and kept studying while lying on my bed or, in summer, on the cool floor. I topped the district twice in board exams, studying in that room. That room was special and soulful. There was a mirror on the cupboard in my room. It was very beautiful, somewhat oval in shape. That mirror witnessed my teenage years. I used to look in it and see myself glow. Looking at my hair waving in the air from the cooler through that mirror felt amazing. That mirror was my best friend back then. I cleaned that mirror daily until it became spotless. That was a precious asset to me.

The kitchen was very small, but it never felt too small. Today, I have a big kitchen, but I don't feel the same peace or love I did in the small kitchen. That small kitchen had unique tiles on the walls, which my father selected. That place was so complete in itself. When we were very young, my mother would make us sit on the slab and make lunch for us. When we were in school, at exactly 6.15, my brother and I would go to breakfast, ready, with our mother accompanying us. My mother never worked alone in the kitchen. I always saw my father helping my mother in the kitchen. My mother prepared chapati, and my father prepared the salad. He always ate his own food and chatted with my mother. Gender equality was learned by default in that home. We learned everything through actions. A small, cute service window in the kitchen wall opened into the drawing room. It was the place from which I served my father evening tea daily in the drawing room. My father had a lot of site work, so he usually drew maps and did his work in the drawing room.

The drawing room was very big. In those days, it was bigger than the bedrooms because we had many social gatherings. That room was the most beautiful room in our home. It had beautifully carved lamps on the walls, pure wood pelmets, big sofas, and a showcase. We were not allowed to make any mess in that room, so it was always neat, clean, and well decorated, ready for guests. That was the same room where, after his death, my father's body was kept. After that incident, that room went on my enemy list.

Years later, after many ups and downs, I was admitted to dental college. I left for college. My brother had left home earlier for his college. The home was left alone, locked. I felt like something had been left behind, a piece of my heart. I kept trying hard to spend some time at my home, but I was never allowed. I kept dreaming about my home. Every day when I slept, I kept roaming through my home in dreams. I missed my home badly. I got married after college, so over time I occasionally visited my home. I always felt that my home, and maybe my parents' souls in the home, were waiting for me. But the home kept going out of my reach.

More years passed, and many things happened. My brother decided to sell that house. It was very difficult to hear, but I agreed, even though my feelings were quite different from his. I wanted to explain things to him again, since he was also right. I felt emotional, but he was practical. Every night, I kept visiting my home in dreams. Finally, my brother sold that home. I was prepared, knowing the home would never be mine forever. But I don't know why; I felt very depressed and sad from within. I used to wish I had enough money to buy that home for myself. But I don't have the money to buy that home. The day my brother asked me to sign the property documents to sell it, my heart shattered. Tears rolled down my eyes for how long, I don't know. That home meant far more than words and feelings to me. Somewhere deep in my heart, I thought that if I were a boy, I would have held on to it. But maybe I am too emotional or an idiot to calculate profit and loss. I let that go physically. But I still wander in that home in my dreams daily, as my home is now only in my memories. I am very glad that my memories are only mine, and nobody can take them from me. Now that home will be forever mine, in my dreams and my memories. But the permanent address, house no. 9, belongs to someone else. I wonder how their kids will write the address- street no. or gali no.? As everyone doesn't have an intelligent father like mine…

Sonia is a PhD Scholar in English literature, with a focus on Children's Literature. She is based in Hisar, Haryana. Her interests include reading and creative writing, with a particular inclination to explore human experiences and everyday life through words. This short story marks her first publication, and she hopes to continue exploring the art and possibilities of storytelling through her writing.