THE YELLOW HOUSE

THE YELLOW HOUSE: an appreciation for an art
by Aman Mittal

STANDING beside the only lamppost on the corner of the street, I took a glance over with big Yellow House. It was as yellow as it could be but the surface looked as smooth as butter. Made in Victorian fashion, it was obvious the roof top would be either crimson red or dull red in colour but this one was crimson red. The windows were quite French, painted in green as was the interior. How could one see the interior, well the windows were always open at this time of the day. But I could never see any movement up there. Not a single soul. Neighboring that house, designed and structured in the similar fashion was another yellow house. The two only differ in their interior colours. This other one was lavenderish pink from inside. And there was a shop of some kind which I am not able to recall of what it was. If one look far, straight, where he would be dwelling currently, he would see a bridge on which a steam would pass exactly at noon. It was 11:58 a.m. by my watch so I had to wait for two more minutes to see elegant body. Though two minutes were still to be traveled, I could hear the distorting and disturbing sound of the engine and the general noise of the blowing horn. The steam would pass by as a black beauty would. There was some elegance in its blackness too, blowing out the contrasting white smoke. The smoke which came out gaps and one could see the blue sky in between the chunks and that blue sky would make those chunks of smoke appear as some white-gray clouds. There was some smoke in front of the yellow house too. An old man in his gray communist hat was puffing off his cigarette. His cigarette would never went off as his age would be someday. But if one concentrates on his face, it resembled a handsome man in past but now left with poverty, drip and dry skin, face swallowed by pain and his cigarette. As the soigne steam would continue to pass one can see to women coming in one’s direction and is able to judge they had been married quite along time. Carrying a basket each, one or the other, and talking gibberish. Maybe they are insulting each other’s husbands, but they would be bored by now. Or maybe they are just gossiping about one thing or the other. The sky is so blue that it makes want to follow it till I find a dark cloud but if the sky is this endlessly blue, I think I’ll never find a cloud.

The blue sky, the soigne steam, the French windows , the yellow house, whole image is so picturesque. It is captured in my mind so boldly that it would appear every morning I wake up and would tempt me to go out and have a look of this yellow house. But I wish I could, if it was real.