A place called home - III
It was raining as we parked the car near a heap of road-metal. One would imagine the heavily pot-holed road(I refuse to call it so) will be repaired very soon, but the heap would remain there, for ever, till the last of the stones have disappeared, either going into the concrete mixtures of private construction sites nearby, or becoming insta-missiles in the hands of some really enraged/bemused school-kid. “That’s the way”, I said, pointing in the direction of what looked more like a stream than a walkway. Becoming a little skeptic myself, I could understand the bewildered look on my uncle’s face. I rolled up my trousers, and followed the rainwater-stream. So did my uncle, and aunt and children, preferred to stay in the car. The idea was to see me off at my new abode, where I was to stay in the first year of my engineering. Bachelor accommodations can be such hazardous places you see, and no sane woman would dare to set foot within half a mile of those ill-fated dungeons. The stream op...