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10 minutes to demolition. I’m standing outside the gates of ‘Shanti Grah’ building. Inside, in the compound, there are two giant bulldozers and a few people who I think are the government. I see a man talking to the driver while sipping on his cutting chai pointing a finger towards the wall of the right wing.

That’d be the first to go down, I believe.

The area was always crowded and hasn’t changed one bit. The road, still narrow and the smell of fried samosas and kachoris still fresh in the air. A crowd gathered outside to watch the destruction of the building that was once, home.

The loud hubbub of the crowd and the passersby took me back in time, 20 years ago, when a similar bustle in ‘Shanti Grah’ scared everyone as Anil refused to climb down the human tower without breaking the ‘Dahi handi’ and hung on the ropes. Amidst the panic, we, his friends, yelled ‘Oye, phod k hi utarna’. We were only 8.

The homes were small in the broad two-storyed buildings that caved in to form a semi-circle.

I’m staring at the building.

In an instant, I see Dad holding me as I learn to cycle and mom screaming from the 2nd floor asking him to not leave me. Dad obviously didn’t listen and I fell. Faraz and Anil couldn’t stop laughing, that’s how I met my best friends. Not best or even friends anymore I guess. Maybe, that’s what moving away meant back then. 90’s was a good time because people in the building you lived always shared in your moments of joy and sadness. From offering delicious dishes to looking after each other’s kids for a few hours or days, the bond between the residents were tight. Only distance could tear them apart. Scribbling on the walls of the house with crayons, rushing to Faraz’s house for biryani, peeping into Anil’s house through the window only to watch his dad scold at him for flunking while we made faces was a different drug altogether, waiting for Uncle Patrick to arrive wobbling after a heavy drinking session because no matter how drunk he was, he’d never forget our chocolates, mothers on different floors eagerly waiting for their kids to return from school was always a beautiful sight, forming little gangs, fighting with kids from different buildings and the dreams some of the resident are now living were born within these small homes.

‘Shanti Grah’ had been just an ordinary building, but, for its people, it was once, their kingdom. This kingdom was a library of memories.

Today, the foundation of my childhood was about to be reduced to rubble in front of me. My eyes well up and yet, a smile comes through.

It was time. The driver puts the key in the ignition, starts towards the right wing. The crowd begins dispersing while I stand still.

I feel a gentle tap on my shoulder, ‘Hey, the pillars of the kingdom have gone weak, isn’t it amazing how memories never need renovations’, Faraz says as tears gather at the corner of his eyes.