The Dream House
He stood in his backyard looking up at the majestic tree which had spread out like a chandelier hanging from the deep blue sky.
“Do not forget to close your mouth. You may swallow the bird droppings falling from your beloved tree.” His wife snapped as she momentarily emerged from the house to throw kitchen waste into the compost pit.
He remained unperturbed. It was the first day of summer vacation. He had all the time of the world to stand and stare.
When all his classmates had chosen for corporate jobs, he decided to be a college professor. His uncle, who tutored him in his school days, had doubts about his decision; “Your friends will have suit-boot jobs, hefty pay packages, and foreign trips. What would you have?”
“Summer vacation.” His mind was always as clear as a bright summer morning.
How about settling myself in one of those thick branches!
After some struggle, he was up there.
From the top, the view of his backyard garden was relaxing. The assortment of random flowering plants he had planted during the pandemic had grown carefree giving equal opportunity to the weeds. Some had grown tall; some had chosen to remain dwarf. They resembled his wok-in-progress story ideas. They needed nurturing, so did his stories.
How about writing my stories up there! How about building a treehouse? Is the electric wire too close?
Descending from the tree, he declared to his wife, “I am going to make a treehouse for my study room.”
“What! Are you in your senses? Will that tree be able to sustain your weight and wights of all your dusty books? Have some mercy on that old fellow.”
He drifted back to the backyard with grabbing his mobile to connect to the family carpenter.
In the evening, at the dining table, his five-year-old daughter asked, “Dad, are you indeed going to live on the tree! I too want to go with you; it would be so much fun.”
“Shut up, Mini. For you both, everything is all about fun. We became humans from monkeys; this father-daughter duo wants to become monkeys again.” His wife chided.
That night, he dreamt of writing his stories from his treehouse. His daughter was playing with a butterfly which has sneaked into the tree house and helping it to find a way out. The famous writer Ruskin Bond was by his side. While patting on his back Ruskin Bond was whispering, ‘I too had a good view from my window’. Suddenly there was a strong wind. The house toppled and caught fire from a wayward spark from the adjacent electric wire. Ruskin Bond magically escaped through the window to the mountains. He saw his treasured books turning into ashes. His daughter vanished behind the flames.
He woke up with a jerk drenched in his own sweat. He found his Mini sleeping calmly while embracing him.
In the morning, he called the carpenter said that he dropped the idea of tree house.
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