My grandparents’ house once stood
mud and thatch, a stone’s throw
in a pool of progression.
The resulting rings told of new technologies,
a rippling out of concrete houses
in a small plot of land.
A push over though,
and structured like a dunked biscuit.
History worth preserving, perhaps
but no longer a liveable home.
We stay on the same spot
some floors up
in my father’s unfinished building.
Solid and warm
in handmade bricks and steel
its foundations are deep enough
for storeys to come
its foundations strong in the stories past.
© Saradha Koirala 2011
I have just returned from Nepal where my dad is building a house (ghar) on the family land.