By the railway a house that lay

As I enter the room the musky sent penetrates my thoughts, the color green floods my mind, it’s a unique sent, the smell of the first monsoon showers mixed with drunk rotting leaves on drift wood, the air is dense with moisture and absolute dejection. Its too dark for my eyes, the dull light of the sky doesn't stand a chance against the veil of sadness, I slip out my cigarette lighter the flick sounds louder than usual, must be the isolation of this place from the rest of society. The flickering, warm light, reluctantly illuminates a not too surprising sight the walls are plastered with fungus, the wood reduced to sponge, the old oil chandelier hanging dead four feet above my head, the ceiling yearning to cave in, most of the floor intact except for a small patch, which reveals a flooded cellar, almost how I imagined it would be. As I look around at this roughly 1000sq ft, one-storey+attic&cellar villa, I wonder some family must have lived here and died here for generations, unnumbered, yet all that’s left of them is this old dejected villa, all their past burnt away in the stone-brick hearth, left to the imagination of local soothsayers.
I pass by the villa almost everyday on my commute to work or collage and as my Churchgate fast speeds I get fleeting glimpses of this house and wonder about the life it experienced, it was a nice thought I dwelt in for about 5 minutes let me elaborate - gold yellow walls with a dark red roof, lush green grass and a lovely garden with a stray pup or two, few cats, an arm chair on the veranda, a few fruit trees and the sweet smell of mogra. Those thoughts haunted me every time I passed it by.
Now I find myself in that house looking for the life it sheltered. Regrettably this house has passed its time and I shall never know if it ever had a green past or the cute stray pup or the sweet smell of mogra. I came here uninvited an unwelcome guest, and I truly see this house naked for what it was. In the latter days it played home to a drunk and his miserable family, nothing more than a mistress of misery.
The old dusty bottles remain under the rusty iron cot, the walls unadorned, the wooden-wall-cabinets empty, the windows boarded up. Flashes of a terrible past grow in my mind…..arguments, abuse, drunk rages, the hurt the pain, he had a daughter she ran away, and was lost to the streets of old Bombay, the wife died of TB, he of drink, was found a month after by local boys looking for their lost cricket ball. It’s sadness begins to suffocate me I turn to leave as I near the door frame I see a rosary dangling from its rusty steel chain it falls apart as i touch it. I step out into the dull light it begins to drizzle mornefully, droplets of water fall from the old mangalore roof tiles, one catches the wall and as a lone tear slides down until it too is absorbed into the gloom of the house.
I take a last look at the villa its doomed to fall next month, the government claimed the land for railway development.
I spot the aged banyan tree, at its base are remnants of a iron swing, the iron was cast in flamboyant flowers, a last flash comes to me the laughter of a little girl mocking the tears.

I walk away lost in my thoughts until a voice calls out to me it belongs to the wrinkled faced and deep eyed lady with almost transparent hair, I ask her about the villa in my broken Marathi.