Tuesday, March 28, 2017

The House



Nobody understood why he had built a typical Kerala-style house next to his huge palatial mansion in the south of France.

He had specially ordered and hand painted several of the furniture. Curtains and cushions had been imported from Kerala.

 He stayed there on weekends, listening to old Malayalam songs, immersing himself in memories. Expecting to hear the sounds and laughter of his parents.

Fate had rendered him an orphan years ago. Greedy relatives had usurped their house. 
A French couple had adopted him.

Now, he often received calls from them, requesting their long-lost billionaire cousin to help survive poverty.

Word Count: 100


This post is part of Friday Foto Fiction being hosted by Tina and Mayuri 

3 comments:

  1. This is so true and so honestly written! An aspect of human relations which we usually try to ignore, perhaps because it is so much depressing and disgusting.

    But still he tries hard to keep the flame of love alive within himself. Perhaps he knows that if that flame is lost, it would be a great loss.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yes! Sometimes our past is the flame within that keeps us alive. It is always good to be grounded.

      Delete
  2. Wohhh... This is really a different and amazing take on this photo...

    ReplyDelete

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