A House on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams

“Memory is like a child walking along the seashore. You never can tell what small pebble it will pick up and store away among its treasures.”

This actually did come true for me on a vacation to Puri in April ’11. It was on a stroll along the Puri beach (‘Swargadar’ literally translated to ‘Gateway to Heaven’) that I came across this desolate mansion.

An imposing structure, regal and impressive – quite a welcome change for the visitor accustomed to the sight of sundry hotels of all dimensions and proportions burgeoning up and clamoring for a foothold on the populous beach. 

                                             

For the first few days of my visit I had looked on curiously at the house while passing by; the rush for sightseeing not sparing me a moment to inspect it up close. It was on the penultimate day of my vacation that I set out for a closer look at the house, camera in tow.

The entrance had almost been blocked by temporary stalls, crowded with tourists, some gorging on local delicacies; others busy buying knick-knacks and keepsakes. Doing my best to avoid the crowd, I reached the broken down gate and peered in for a closer look.  The lettering on the nameplate was almost illegible, but I finally managed to decipher the name of the owner (a Bengali) and his abode.

 ‘Akankha’ proclaimed the nameplate, with remnants of lost pride. I couldn’t help but wonder at life’s ironies, it was right here staring at my face. ‘Akankha’ or ‘Desire’ – ample proof that it had once been someone's dream house, built with much love and longing. Sadly the ravages of time had taken its toll and the once glorious mansion was now almost in ruins.

As I stood there, I wondered how life must have been for a resident of the house. To stand on the balcony in the morning and see the sun rise across the far horizon, the sky drenched in hues of red and vermilion; to hear the roar of the waves breaking against the shore; to watch the little fishing boats venture out into the sea one by one; to sense the beach gradually come to life; to marvel at the phosphorescent beauty of the waves at night and let their gentle roar lull you to sleep. Each day, a different experience, a different tale.
 How wonderful it must have been during the monsoons to watch the dark-edged nimbus across the skyline and feel the tangy breeze send a shiver down the spine. The beautiful home was the fruition of someone’s ‘desire’ to be a witness to the changing beauty of the sea through the four seasons. 

I don’t know whether it was the permanent residence of some retired gentleman or the holiday getaway of some wealthy family. Standing there wistfully, it was not very difficult to visualize the mansion in its days of glory; when sounds of laughter would reverberate across its hallways, when the proud owner would relax on the balcony, when little children would rush out onto the beach to build sandcastles;go back to a time when the house was alive.

I could just stand there and dream on and on, but, it wasn’t to be. As I left for my hotel, I threw a parting glance at the house. Maybe this would be the first and last time that I have seen it. Maybe the next time I came back to Puri, it would have been torn down to accommodate yet another hotel.  Be that as it may, I would treasure this vignette always, of human desires and life’s ironies.