THIS a slender lane up to a hummock – fussy and fresh, and deep down its throat is a crowd of pine trees, its horizontal stretch is conquered with vibrantly draped kiosks, the vendors hawking audibly in soulful decibels – garishly multi-coloured shawls with subtle patterns on them and boastful artifacts portraying the traditional sculpture and image of this rugged and cold region.
Yesterday, at dusk I had arrived at my uncle’s home. His home is a timeworn yet reminiscently salient single-storey bungalow with italic roof, oversize windows, its exterior off-white walls are adorned with creepers, its modest lawn shielded with wild grass and fenced with a corroded iron gate.
I had cautiously unbolted the gate and squealed, “Uncle, I am here!” An unexpected icy breeze sprinted towards me as I rambled down the concrete path in the direction of a large tatty wooden door. “Your old uncle died a week…
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