The Sorrows of Ancestral Homes

 The Sorrows of Ancestral Homes

Ancestral homes are uniquely divided into courtyards, halls, verandas, airy rooms, and kitchens, yet connected to one another. In these homes, worn red brick floors and lime-washed damp walls are overgrown with rampant vines. Tall grass grows in the center, while a mango tree and a lemon tree stand sentinel, embodying a perpetual mourning as they silently gaze in one direction.

Inside, the atmosphere is also uniform. Brass and copper utensils rest on the shelves, waiting for hands that dust and polish the furniture, while bowls and teapots remain empty. Clothes and linens stored in closets wait to be taken out, and walking sticks, wheelchairs, and canes search for hands to lean on. Framed family pictures—black-and-white and sepia photographs—along with old suitcases and sacred books, are placed on shelves, as well as ancient literature from Baba Adam's time; everything sits in its own designated place.

The inhabitants of these ancestral homes are now gone, leaving behind widows of those who sacrificed for a grand cause—individuals who may have once been young and passionate. It is not merely people but hours and centuries that have become ill. Ancestral homes hold onto promises of return, like a faithful village beloved, keeping hearts and doors open for those who may come back to inspect the broken doors, cracked walls, or rusted windows. In these homes, time does not grow old.

Instead of remaining children, we trade toys for real cars. The roads leading to ancestral homes are the same—desolate and dusty, devoid of travelers, where dust devils swirl and, occasionally, an ambulance passes, carrying a corpse. The ancestral graveyard, covered with wildflowers and thorns, becomes briefly populated amidst the buzzing of prayers and conversations. Then the scene scatters, even as the weather-weary clouds drift toward a hillside town.

The sorrows of ancestral roads can not be composed into verses, nor can they be mourned in memory. They can only be shared with someone like oneself.

Years pass in cities and foreign lands, but wooden boxes and chests do not leave us. If there is no space in our homes, they remain in the junkyards of our hearts and minds, never to be opened. One day, as we approach the end of our own journeys, completing our days before our last day on earth arrives, those ancestral homes wait for us to say goodbye with our final rituals, sending us to our final resting place.

Nadia Nizam