Do you remember the warmth, when you would sit by the window, draped in the morning light? Do you remember the cuckoo, singing atop the big Gulmohar, or the squirell-couple, galloping on branches? Do you still remember the wind, which carried the fallen leaves to you feet? Or those sparkling dew-drops on the grass blades?
Now, those days are gone. Dust has settled on the leaves. Grasses are gone. The multistoried has replaced the Gulmohar. Birds have flown away.
Faint morning light, sieved through the smog, lits up the empty corner of the old house; reminiscing a tale once told.