For three generations,
the house woke up
after they did.
Before the monsoon,
they found the leaks.
Before the guests arrived,
they made the floors shine.
They carried its furniture upstairs,
its dead downstairs,
and whatever could not be said
into the next generation.
They knew which window
would not close in the rain,
which tap needed two turns,
which stair announced a visitor.
They knew which rooms
required knocking,
even when the doors were open.
The owners knew
where to find them.
They could have drawn
the house from memory.
The deed had no reason
to remember them.
The children grew up watching this.
They learnt to recognise
the owner's footsteps
before they learnt
to recognise their own.
To lower their voices
near certain doors.
To make themselves smaller
when guests arrived.
To leave their slippers outside
even when nobody was watching.
They learnt that a room
could be entered
carrying a cleaning cloth,
but not carrying a question.
They learnt to wait
outside rooms
they had been sent to clean.
When the house was eventually sold,
the family moved into a smaller one
at the edge of the city.
They carried their tools,
their utensils,
their photographs.
One child asked
if they could keep
the old brass key.
His father said
it would be of no use.
Years later,
the child built a house of his own.
He chose the doors.
Fitted the locks.
Kept every key.
And still,
when he entered his own house,
he left his slippers outside.
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