Nilesh cuddled with his grandfather and looked out the tiny window of the attic. His recent fixation, the mountain peak, looked distant from their blue roofed home.
He listened with rapt attention as the septuagenarian shared anecdotes of hitchhiking there as a kid on his father’s shoulders. The pride of the countless trips that followed on foot, with friends and alone, was evident in his tone. Will I get there, Nilesh wondered.
Sitting on the same peak today, a mix of emotions surged through him. It had been sixteen years since the brutal storm had turned their beach town and lives upside down. Lots of people had succumbed to nature’s fury or, including his family, fled the town to escape it.
Home is where the heart is though. After painstakingly labouring for last five years, they had breathed life back into the rubble. The beautiful landscape smiled back at Nilesh just as he had always imagined. The blue roof of his home reminded him of the conversation with his grandfather.
“Come Grandpa, I’ve some stories for you.” Nilesh said out loud as he felt his presence. The memories of our loved ones are woven into our very existence, aren’t they?
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