The deal was already done but he hadn’t been told about it. Had he been told before it was settled, he would have resisted it. He had written the house in his sons' names long ago for he had wanted to free himself of everything and didn’t want anything in his name. It was only to relieve himself of all the burdens. He wanted to live a lighter life on a lighter note. However, he didn’t know his sons could sell the house one day. He had made so many memories in this house; how could he part with it just because it had become older with time?
His sons had got a lot of money for the house and they were buying a flat on the twenty-fifth floor of a complex outside of the city. They had also decided to sell almost everything in the old house. They were determined that the new flat would have everything new in it; no old stuff they would take there.
The house had been a big problem for them. It was in a narrow alley, which made it difficult for even a tricycle to pass through. His sons wanted to buy cars but that wasn’t possible when they lived in that house.
The senior went into his room; this had been his room since he was born. He started running his hands over the wall surfaces, and over the books he had collected over time. Those one and a half feet thick walls kept the house pretty warm in the winters and cool in the sweltering summers. He never bought an air-conditioner. “My house is already air-conditioned, why waste money only to cut oneself off from nature?” he used to ask. His windows would be open through all the seasons. It was like a big television screen where he could watch the soothing rain coming down heavily after a scorching season. Now, the flat they were to move into was fully air-conditioned. It wouldn’t let him open the windows.
He looked at the murals he had drawn in his free time. He had painted the ghats of Varanasi on those walls, as if he had brought in a part of Varanasi to his room. He never bathed in the tiny bathroom at his home; it never gave him the freshness he wanted. Even in the cold winter he would wake up early in the morning and walk down to the ghats, and take several dips in the Ganga. Then he would take a pot of Ganga water and march down the street briskly, straight to the Siva temple, where he would pour it on the Siva lingam. The temple was only a few blocks from the Ganga.
When he would return to his home, a bull would be waiting there for him. It was his pet bull and he had named it Nandi. It was gigantic in build but was as sedate as a turtle, and it strolled through the crooked streets all day with the speed of a turtle. It would forage for food here and there, poking its head into every refuse bin for the leftovers.
The old house was one among only a few where it would get a loaf of bread. The bull would be there right at the door, and wouldn’t let him enter the house until it was fed. He would ask his wife to throw a loaf of bread from the window in the kitchen and would feed Nandi with his own hands. After eating, the bull would move away from the door. He always remained proud that Nandi came only to his house, although it was true that it came to his house only because he fed it regularly. Yet he believed the bull had chosen him and his house. His mother had told him early on in his life that his house would be a home in the real sense only if love and respect found a home in it. This had been his routine for many years.
There was a small hole on the northern side of the wall of his house where a sparrow had built a nest. A pair of sparrows hatched eggs in it round the year. Every few months the fledglings would come out and hop about. Everytime his sons argued with him about it and tried to get the hole plastered, he fought on behalf of the birds. “And where would the birds go — for a slight beautification?” he would ask. He refused to get it plastered. This hole was there for many years now.
Beside his front door he had built a small wooden box with his own hands, and spread a ragged blanket in it. A mother dog with its puppies slept in it, curled up and snuggling with one another in warmth.
Now all of it had to change; they had to move. It wasn’t only about the house; it was also about his lifestyle, which had to be altered. He clambered down his narrow spiral stairs and remembered what trouble it had posed whenever they had to move something big in size up or down. Finally, they were rid of the trouble. Now they would use a lift to climb up to the twenty-fifth floor. No Nandi would come and obstruct the path at his doorway. No dog would sleep beside his door. Stray dogs are not allowed in the big complexes. Sparrows wouldn’t come hopping for grain.
The day they had to move out from the old house, a small wagon came rattling to his house to carry a few important household goods. He kept everything near to his heart in his bag, and with a drooping countenance was about to leave. Hardly had he reached the corner of the street than he turned around and looked back once again for the last time, as if something had beckoned him back. He saw that his neighbour was filling up the hole where the sparrow had built its nest, with a piece of brick. He ran towards him to ask, “What are you doing, it’s somebody’s home.” The man turned slightly towards him and said, “It’s not your house anymore. I have talked to the owner of the house. These filthy, noisy birds need to move away. It’s not a zoo; it’s a residential area.”
The sons were right behind him and they took him by his hand, “Father, leave it now, you’re not a child.” He couldn’t say a word.
He wouldn’t talk to his sons after moving into the flat. He stopped talking altogether. He was very lonely there, and just kept staring out of the window. His gaze remained fixed on the pigeons all day.
When his sons noticed that the new house was taking a toll on his health, they came into his room together one day with a wooden nest box. “Now you may have your birds here, father. It’s not a very big issue. You shouldn’t stress yourself out.”
He took the nest box in his hand. It was a small, hut-shaped box painted green. It looked beautiful. A weak smile flickered at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t because he was happy. He laughed at the stupidity of his sons. Perhaps, they knew nothing about the emotions a creature as tiny as a sparrow possesses.
There’s no space for a sparrow in the skyscrapers. Skyscrapers don’t welcome them; in fact sparrows don’t choose skyscrapers. They fly only a few metres above the ground. They are not the birds of longer flight, and they don’t touch the sky often. They like to remain near the ground just like him. He knew that just like him they wouldn’t accept this as their home up on the twenty-fifth floor.
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