“HAPPY new year, happy new year!” the little girl sang happily, running downstairs with her storybook, one of her Christmas gifts. Her mother was in the kitchen preparing breakfast, dressed in a new floral dress and apron. The girl hugged her mother around the waist, then ran outside where her brothers were still playing with their Christmas gifts—toy trucks and cars.
“Where’s your doll?” the eldest one asked teasingly.

“She’s tired; she needs to rest,” came her response.
The boys laughed, but she ignored them and went into the garden to find a comfortable spot to read her book. Her father was setting up a table with some drinks and beers for the close friends and neighbours who would stop by later.

The festive season still filled the air with a refreshing scent; cakes for the new year were baking in the oven, ready to be enjoyed with thirst-quenching sorrel and carambola drinks. The love and camaraderie among the invitees were so wonderful, like magic in the air.
Now, decades later, it was all gone.

The beautiful memories of a time and people of the past were all that was left, and the lifestyle and culture had changed. The little girl, who had lived with her family in that beautiful, simple house in the peaceful countryside, had grown into a woman. She no longer lived there, having married and settled in the city with her own family. Over the decades, she visited as often as she could.
But now, with Christmas just gone and the new year a day away, the house was empty—no laughter, no cheer, no scent of cooking. Her mother, father, and two eldest brothers had passed away, leaving a deep void. Yet, though they were gone, those beautiful times were framed in her memory, allowing her to relive them at any given moment.

“Things we never expected to happen hit us with some harsh blows,” she bemoaned as she looked at the house, which seemed to have aged so much since her mother and father died.

The house, now over sixty years old, needed regular care and maintenance, but when the two younger siblings decided to migrate to North America, the house was left alone. Now, as the daughter who had married and moved away two decades ago, she had to take on the task of visiting, opening, cleaning, and effecting small repairs. It was quite a challenge with insufficient finances, but she stayed positive, telling herself as the old structure deteriorated, “One day, I will find a way for the house to return to its former glory.”
The legacy of her father and mother she held close to her heart. As a child, she had seen their struggles, her mother’s tears, and her father’s indomitable spirit to work and build. In her view, what her parents built and left should not be sold so the younger generation could know and appreciate where it all began.

No matter how far we come in life, one day, there may be a reason to stop and reflect on the family who laid the groundwork and look back to find the beginning. Sadly, not everyone shares such sentimental values. For some, a house is just a house where they were born and raised, not a home. On her regular visits, as she looked at the old house, it grieved her heart that she couldn’t do more as it got worse with age.

She had suffered a big fall in life months after her mother died, which put a severe dent in her finances. Life took a drastic turn, and she set aside pride to work hard on a rebuilding process, facing many challenges along the way. She stayed strong, never gave up, and never accepted defeat. She even apologised to the house: “Sorry, I can’t do all that’s needed to be done, but hopefully, one day, I’ll find the funding, and things will get better. Just wait. Do not fall.”
She had wondered, with a smile on her face, shaking her head a little, “Can the house actually hear me speak?”

Technically, it couldn’t, but spiritually, it could because of the deep love in her heart.
She lived in a modern, up-to-standard house with her family, but she never looked at the old house with scorn or disdain because it was her birth home, filled with precious memories. So, it became disheartening when she heard adverse comments from people about the house’s deteriorating state.
It left her wondering why her parents’ house was anyone else’s concern, to the point of them taking videos and pictures.

“It’s strange, the way fate works,” she mused. “My family was always kind and helpful to people in need. Today, because we are faced with a crisis, people are expressing negative comments and unkind remarks.”
She smiled wryly and shook her head, unable to understand why fate had dealt the family such severe blows. It had blindsided her when her father died, and it was after that the decline started, with no one to stop it. That left her standing alone to keep holding up a badly cracked pillar. It’s not just monetary assistance but also love, dedication, and commitment to the home that keeps a pillar strong.

She had visualised a family home where relatives could visit, spend time, and bring light and life to the old house. She had waited expectantly for that to happen, but a shocking twist left her hurt and disappointed. The youngest sibling, visiting from overseas, turned his back on the house, calling it old and worn.
His comments stunned her; he was born and raised in that house.
What changed?

Old houses are known to have the most beautiful stories within their walls. The old stove her mother had cooked the most delicious food on, the old table and benches scorned by her sibling—her father had built them with his own hands. Those things were to be cherished for the precious memories they held, yet they were rejected.
She sighed deeply, still hurt, as she opened the house for the new year, tidied the yard, and watered the flower plants in the garden. There was still beauty and life from fruit trees and flowers, although no one was living there.

She spent the night there, alone—not afraid, just lonely—and awoke early the next morning to throw water on the Shiva Lingam statue under the chameli tree as the sun rose.
She had breakfast on the old bench and table near the garden, simply enjoying the peace and ambience of a morning in the countryside.
Late that afternoon, as she closed the house to leave for her home, she stopped and turned to look back, always with a deep feeling of regret in her heart. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself as that little girl standing on the bridge with her storybook, a look of hope in her eyes. She took a deep breath and said to the house, “Please wait. I don’t want to lose you. You mean too much to me and the little girl who once lived here.”

A new year, new beginnings, and a house that waits.