I ambled through the narrow lane between several fleets of bungalows and chalets on either side cemented with an uneven stretch of glossy, varnished cobblestones. I was visiting my old family mansion after seven years and still the vicinity seemed untouched by the usual hustle and bustle of the huge, polluted, metropolitan cities. The white stucco bungalows on my sides were tinted with peeling lemon colored paint at the corners. Several blotches and stains of coffee and brown colored sludge were splattered over the walls. There were steep stone steps leading towards the bungalows obstructed by lofty gate made of flaking rusty iron.
There were a few aged residents strolling along the stoned street supported by wooden walking sticks, glasses slipping down the bridge of their noses due to the greasy and slippery wet they were drenched in. Behind them a crowd of teenagers chortled at some joke quoted by their leader who was a well portioned boy with untidy hair wearing a T shirt that read “Support Manchester City F.C.” and a pair of rugged levis jeans. There were groups of small children playing around a fountain near the heart of the vicinity while their mothers stood beside chattering loudly as if no one was listening.After walking a few more yards i saw a cluster of tall beech trees through which streams of golden light pierced through the space between the leaves,and behind them stood the great white mansion made of marble glistening in the sunlight making it impossible to look directly at.

By Nimai Patel, June 15, 2015.