Staircase to my home
Our first friends never get the credit they deserve
No matter how much I miss my home, the thought of the staircase to my doorstep never crosses my mind.
There were times when I had a bad day at school, and I would loathe to return home with bad grades, I would sit in the staircase, deeply saddened. Sometimes, I would pull up the socks, balancing myself on the steps, to hide those bleeding bruises before pressing the doorbell. When it rained, and no friend came to play the scheduled cricket matches, I would sit lonely in the staircase and watch the evening sky melt.
On soulless summer afternoons, when the world was parched and sleepy, I would tip-toe across the staircase to our terrace to watch the battle of kites and clouds. It has been a loyal partner in many crimes and consolation, yet I never looked upon the staircase as a friend. It was always the first and last part of all my journeys, but it was never a part of my home.
On my happy days, when I was too eager to return home, I would jump across it like a deer in a spring-time garden. It didn’t complain at my sudden indifference to its existence. When I was nervous before leaving for an examination, my most devoted prayers were muttered on the staircase. When I was a child and the bulbs on the stair-case were off, it exposed my biggest fears — darkness and lizards.
No matter how much I miss my home, no matter how many new dizzying stairs I climb, the thought of the staircase to my doorstep never crosses my mind.