The four of walls of my room speak to me. They listen to me. They close in on me. When i cry, they sound proof my room. When i laugh, they reverberate the echoes with me. When i jump with joy, they absorb the tremors. When i switch on the AC, they pull a blanket for me.  My walls are my closest friends, they never leak the secrets they hear. They guard my treasures, without any curiosity. They remind me of my past by housing picture frames from the days of yore. The chapped paint reminds me that we are growing old. The cracks on its nooks reminds me we are flawed. The scribbles on the wall remind me of my talent. The ceiling so high reminds me to dream the unachievable. The nail marks remind me of all the pain that I have inflicted on it.  Yet, they do not judge me. They guard me. My walls, my protector - shielding me from any ill the world has to offer.  My walls, my haven.

There is a guava tree in our backyard. It bears tiny juicy guavas every summer which we yearn to pluck with much pomp. Makes me wonder, trees are givers. They never expect anything in return. Neither do they discriminate - their fruits are available for anyone to feast on; squirrels, bats, rodents (including humans).  Every morning we scrutinise the tree to check for ripening fruits if any, as we sip on our cups of tea. It’s a race so as who would be the first to pluck them. Most likely it is Dad who wins and occasionally me, if i decide to address my boredom in between official meetings. On one such evening when i noticed my father intricately balance himself on a delicate branch which was already wobbling under the pressure of his weight, I yelled from my gallery asking him to be careful! In response, he gave me a earful and a lesson on basics even under these given circumstances. “The bark of a guava tree is one of the strongest!” he said as he looked at me with irritation and t...