As I walk through these corridors
Filled with dust and the stench of antiques
The room seems to be filled with voices
Voices of age, voices of beauty, and perhaps voices yearning to be heard
Everything seems to have a story that could easily convince you to sit down with them
Teleport to the times where they carved a niche in their part of the plot
And then slowly reach the cadence of ache ;
The dreadful journey into this clutter.
They come from diverse geographies, they were born from different hands
A few boasted of having breathed in the royal rich which eventually conceded to the contemporaries.
Quite a few from different places of worship are ironically united here
Existing in harmony within these bounds of four walls.
Mismatched and incompatible yet what all of these relics have in common is this piece of monetary worth.
A worth, whose quarter for certain did not find a way to the pockets of those who crafted them.
These vestiges do part ways and find a home in places where they remain a mere possession
Possession of power, possession of passion.
Retracting from the trail, all this seems like a satirical play.
A satire to the world we have crafted around us.
A mockery to the world we would have wished to leave behind us.
A world where we value history in terms of its worth of money.
Where we confine art within our living rooms.
Where we worship idols that eventually end up in the messiest corners of stores with the costliest of tags.
What is petrifying is not just the fact that our craft or the beauty of our culture gets sold off.
But the idea that perhaps we would have nothing left to appreciate and unitedly claim as “ours”.
When the lifeless yet living antiquity become dead
that’s when the crisis of finding our identities gets questioned….
