The lane

I stood in front of a lonely lane, intrigued, little skeptical whether I should march my tired legs through the inviting path. There was a dilapidated wooden home on the right with a broken swing in the withered lawn. I could see the depth of the narrow lane and can feel the silence of the home. A brown colour sofa abode in the porch, claiming the place, reminding that someone used to spend secluded evenings on it. A wooden tea table was kept beside it, but why a cup was still left on it? An incomplete moment, an evening of longing, waiting for someone to arrive?

 I was contemplating when I stepped my left foot on the lane. I don’t know why I chose to take that path on that day. I usually go to my home from the main road on everyday walks from the park. I used to see that lane every day, it somehow attracted me… enticed me in a way that my heart used to get engulfed by a paranoia due to an intense emotion which the lane bestowed.

With my first step I felt a chill run down my spine, there was no wind but it seemed like a storm had passed through that place. I saw a jar lying beside the fence of the lawn. The top was covered with a muddy purple cloth and tightly tied with a red colour nylon rope as if it was meant not to be opened by anyone. The jar was dull dark blue with stars and a girl flying a white kite painted on it.

 But why it was lying there, I questioned while bringing the jar closer to my chest. It was not heavy. After untying the red nylon rope I placed the cloth on the fence. A folded paper was there inside it. I took out the paper, it was wet. Somehow I desperately tried to read after slowly unfolding the paper but the ink was blotted leaving it unreadable. There was a sentence written on it but I couldn't understand. I realized it was French when I encountered a disfigured word chéri in it.

Who wrote it? And why that person left it here? Many questions were striking in my frantic thoughts. My eyes started searching the entire page and I found a name written at the bottom of it. Rosemary. Who was she? Did she live here? Why she left this over here? I looked at the house again, staring at the windows. It was dark inside, white torn curtains were hanging, gloomy but still it gave a sense of belonging.

I looked at the extreme right window, and I think I saw someone. I took a quick step forward focusing my bright eager eyes, but a thought held me back that it might have been just a shadow. I folded the paper, put it back in the jar and covered it with the cloth again.

I was confused. What should I do with it, leave it here? After thinking for a while I kept it in my back pack so that I can save it from this ruinous surrounding. This place which has consumed everything around it, swallowed, hidden it in the deep dungeon of its realm.

I started my walk again, my hesitance was replaced by the acceptance of the profound aura which that place was reciprocating. It was not just gloomy as I felt before. But now I felt a melancholy. Its vibe was attached to mine. There was a connect, now it brought out a peculiar character. I did not feel lonely, but yes, as if alone in a field surrounded by hundreds of kerosene lamps.

There is something which still calls me to that lane… that house… but after that day I haven’t crossed that path again. During my daily evening walks I just stand there, in front of the lane, capturing the melancholy in my deprived eyes.  There is a feeling that if I take few steps towards the house, something wouldn't let me go…

 I don’t know why I kept that jar with me. Do I feel empowered or a sense of fulfillment is attained by owning someone else’s memory? Or might be just to know; to acknowledge; be a part of someone else’s memory which in return becomes a proof of my existence. Why I felt the need to secure it, cherish it? We all like mysteries. We create mysteries where none exist. In that hope I still hold onto that jar. One day I might find its reason of lying there, one day I might decipher the mutilated words. One day I might know who Rosemary is. 

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