the house with the peeling red paint by Dhwanee Goyal (15, India)*

the house on the hill is empty. the furors have long
let themselves out, only tumbleweed remains. the
house knows its worth. the winds sweep away fine
dust every Sunday afternoon, the house cares for 
them each winter. the village folk have evaporated. 
the house knows of only their existence, though it 
suspects no one else remains, too. the lost people 
left stitched flower petals in their wake, and it’s 
strange how someone so capable is now reduced 
to a few parallel threads and a masked craft person's
skill. every “i’m here and thinking of you but too afraid 
to call,” has gone unaccounted for, their pencil lines 
chafing till they remain no more. hundreds of cicadas 
still bloom in a near perfect circle, no one is left to 
cup their petals. controversies wait to be harvested. 

---

the painted restaurant squares and clean tiles are 
fading away, the only homage paid to them a wet 
tissue paper fluttering down to kiss the cold floor. if the 
house caught on fire right now, nobody would notice. 
the sirens wouldn’t slice through the air as though 
smoky redemption will erase past mud stains. grease 
stains will still stubbornly cling on to discarded cloth, 
even though the crisp take-out paper was first to wither. 
curry leaves will fall, caress the spice one final time, then
decompose and regrow and decompose and regrow and
maybe once the fire reaches the nearby forest, the human
corpses will come stumbling out of their unburied caskets,
agonize over the meaning of such destruction, cry wispy 
tears to inadvertently support the dying plants. perhaps 
they will repent.
 
the house is not fragile. although the stench of stale
herring overwhelms its base, the house is assured that
it will not collapse. built on a double-slashed date that
seems irrelevant despite the context, it sometimes 
groans as it shifts from one foot to the other. the trees
sometimes wonder whether the iron nails in its belly
stab it on occasion. do cut-out dialogues from
conversations led astray come knocking on its unhinged
door? how does the house greet them, does it let them
in? do charcoal shavings mistakenly end up in the pile
of Sunday dirt? the trees are getting lonely. though
they whisper this secret realization amongst themselves
when the wind is gracious enough to let their branches 
touch, the swallows nearby take it in stride, wrap three
fingers around it in a firm promise, and take off. they
nestle in bronze statues where such devoted kindness
colors blue on cold nights, laboriously tear off shreds
off old rags and place them where roots meet ice. this
knowledge is scarce, but the house shelters a worn
piano, and along with it, the memories of impressionless
faces playing impressionless music with hollowed
expressions. the piano’s keys are like yellowed teeth,
but the water nearby acts as its accompanist, plays a
tune of sonic reverberation as cassettes drop out of neatly
lined shelves in appreciation. scarecrow cloth looms
over rotting fields, nature rejoices as nuclear reactions
progress, hidden. cement starts crumbling just as white
eyes begin shrinking into skull sockets. the house is a silent
spectator, it cannot move in the middle of this destruction.
it stands still. maybe one day, nature's anomaly won't 
bother to announce its arrival, and come strutting in through
the windows and loose floorboards and holes in the wall.
the house will roll up all that it has held back like the kids
rolled up their joints, and blow it in adversity's face. it will
exhale in satisfaction, shatter at the consequence, but 
again, ultimately, the house will 
                                                  stand
                                                          still.