The Yellow House

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There is a small yellow house beside ours.

In a town where buildings keep growing upwards and outwards, it is easy to miss. From the road, only two windows are visible. Above one of them is a small grilled opening through which a staircase climbs to the upper floor.

Most afternoons, an old man sits on the terrace.

Dressed in a worn white dhoti and a loose upper garment, he spends hours looking at the neighboring houses. Sometimes I wonder if he is watching people or simply watching time pass.

Today, he was not alone.

A little girl in a red frock had taken over the terrace with her younger brother.

The boy carried a yellow school bag almost as large as himself. He walked from one end of the terrace to the other, pretending to be on his way to school.

The girl followed closely behind.

Every now and then she would snatch the bag away, tease him, or give him a playful pinch. He would protest for a few seconds before forgetting the offense entirely.

Soon they were running again.

Back and forth.

In and out of the doorway.

Disappearing for a moment and returning as though the terrace had become an entire world.

Their laughter travelled much farther than the boundaries of that small yellow house.

Watching them, it became difficult to believe that happiness requires much space.

For an hour or so, a terrace, a school bag, a grandfather, and a sibling were enough.