The guesthouse room overlooks a house - large enough to be called a bungalow and small enough to be called a cottage. It is a quad-symmetric one - almost; unless you leave out that jutting square portico. Under this portico stands a car - a Maruti Esteem - steel grey; majestically aloof in those humble exteriors. The walls are yellow; though they could have been white once and discoloured with every passing season.

It must be having some address - some numbered nameless existence on Upper Wood Street. Though I don't care even if it did not; for it needs no address.

It is a single-storey house with rounded corners looking like the royal pillars of an old library. The open terrace is used by the inhabitants to hang their clothes and by pigeons to flock together around some grains strewn around for them. The boundaries are square - like the bylanes surrounding the house; paths leading along the boundary to the same point. Around the boundary tall trees stand guard; their roots deep in search of water and leaves covered with dust, housing the nests of innumerable birds.

Sometimes an eagle sits on the topmost branch and sways with the tree like a grandfather in a rocking chair. The house itself is dislodged from the centre of the boundary walls, making the whole thing look asymmetrically beautiful.

The gate is at the right of the house while a lush green lawn separates the servant quarters from the house on its left. A small cabin near the gate is where the security guard sits - alert during the day and napping in the wee hours of the night. Early in the morning, I can see a heap of burnt ash and a blanket there - telltale signs of the nocturnal cold. Sometimes, I hear him taking a walk around the stony path banging his stick in a rhythm that is irritatingly familiar. For I remember the policemen in our locality who used to go around at midnight shouting 'Jagte Raho.'

The stony path leads from the gate to the servant quarters and takes a detour to allow the car park in front of the house - under that portico. The detour that the path takes always reminds me of a rivulet getting wild and branching away from the mother and then having understood that it's difficult to live alone, getting back into her mother's arms.

The servant quarters have a cement grill - with flowery designs and recently painted. On the roof of the quarters are some illegally strewn pots and plants. Some creepers spread over the grill while a passage separates the grill from the rooms of the servants. The rooms with this grill look like a village school. There are clothes hanging on a rope in the path - which prove to be obstacles to the kids playing cricket.

A long black hose that spreads like a python in the well-trimmed greenery waters the grass daily. It lies dormant most of the time; one end tied to a tap in the corner, which doubles up as a common washing place for the servants' wives, who share their common woes in hushed tones; until water gushes into it. Then suddenly, it quivers to life as one can almost sense the water spiralling through it, eager to rush out of the other end. There is a small outhouse in the farthest corner where white plastic chairs are stacked up neatly. In the morning, they lie strewn on the grass indicating a recent round of tea.

Whenever I see this house, I am reminded of your quaint little house - the same straits of a peaceful, leisurely, qualitative life, making it enchanting.

An old couple - older than the house - live there; perhaps! I have not seen them, but I sense their presence. The windows are generally closed, except for a half-open one in a secluded corner room, which the old man must be using as his library.

Will it have those thousands of books, stacked in old cupboards with glass doors?

Would it have seen a tiny toddler's feet, covered with mud, after playing in the freshly-watered grass, etched on the stony paths?

Would the lady be equally enthusiastic and proud about her garden, nurturing it with a motherly affection that has no other recipient?

Would the children be in far off places, not wanting to return to this beautifully simple place, lured as they are by the materialistic glitter?

The couple must be retired and the pension hardly sufficient for them and the house. Their hearts would be yearning to talk to their children but the money might just prove their wish to be exorbitant; dampening it before they can even utter it.

Sometimes, I don't see the car. The house looks coherent without it. The car spoils the picture. I hate it!

The old man and the old lady, they never come out - at least I have not seen them come out.

The old man and the old lady; I have not seen them but I feel they are there.

Perhaps I will never get to see them but I wish you came there once. And when you come, just wait there for some time and glance up, I will be standing there.

Aap thehere hain to thehera hain nizaam-e-aalam,
Aap gujare hain to ek mauj-e-rawan si gujari hain.
Garch-e-sou baar gam-e-hijr se jaan nikalti rahin
Magar, jo dil pe gujarani thi woh kahan gujari hain