Narrative Essay On Small House

Narrative essay by Kaylene Pillay

The music teacher sat cross-legged, facing Sria and me, the undersides of his calloused feet peeking out at us from beneath the dirty brown-bordered hem of his veshti, the traditional ankle length garment, which was once crisp and white and was now yellowing and worn out with age. We faced him with straight postures, watching as his voice emanated from his vulture-like body, with shoulders that stuck up higher than his cheekbones did.

“Diya, you are not paying attention,” he said, a worried look gracing his aged face. “Sria has progressed to singing varnams already. You have so much to learn. If you don't start paying attention, then you won't even progress to the geetham stage, and what will everyone say

Avoiding them, I walked toward the front of the house and stood at the foot of the stairs, wondering if there was anything I could do other than walk to and fro the way I had already come.

Then I remembered that the house had a library. Appa had told me it was his favourite part of the house. I hadn't thought of it until now because I'd never seen it before-it was upstairs.

I had never thought of trying to find it during the summers because I'd always brought a few books to read with me and by the time I was done with them we were in Bombay again. But now, it was different. I was here to stay and there was no way I could play outside. Books would help me escape the boundaries of the house, in my mind at least.

The staircase stood silent and empty. But it was forbidden. The barrier between the two floors of the house was unbroken except at mealtimes, when the men descended into our realm. Only men used the stairs. If anyone caught me walking up them, what would Periamma do to me?

I put my foot on the first step hesitantly. Wondering if my heart was pounding loudly enough to wake the baby up. I clutched her tightly with one hand, picked up my long skirt with the other and climbed