I walked past the house we lived almost 25 years ago. I thought of the many sad and sweet innumerable memories attached to this house.

I remembered the innumerable photos my parents have clicked, exchanging me on their laps, beside this huge pink Bougainvillea tree, that has stood the testimony of time. It still stands still by the gateways of this bungalow, witnessing the changes that had taken place with time.

I remember clearly how elated I used to be to pluck and prepare this big bunch of the pink Bougainvilleas and give it to the class teacher. It was fancy during our times, and it often felt as if we were the favorites of our teacher!

I recalled our landlord and his wife, they might not be the most amazing people, but they used to be pretty close to our family, even long after we moved to another city. She loved me and my sister dearly, I remember calling our landlady fondly ‘Zee’.

I came back to this city after a really long long time. Although I tried getting in touch with ‘Zee’ with whom my parents had lost contact after she secluded herself soon after her husband had passed away. It was late in the afternoon when I arrived here. I came to my home, which was rented out. My parents and sister live in a different city. Coming back to your old home, where you had grown up is really refreshing but it floods your mind with memories. I looked around the house, went up to the terrace, looked around the neighbourhood. Many buildings wore a changed look; some better and some worse. I swiftly made myself some lunch and sooner than ever, I headed for Zee’s house. I hardly had any difficulty reaching the locality, after all this was a place close to my heart.

I saw the rusted gates being locked with a huge brass lock. The paint had withered off, the window sills looked like it had sheltered numerous insects and bugs for years. I was surprised to hear that the home has seen a few changes of ownership, no one in the neighbourhood had an idea of ‘Zee’. The last time they saw her was when she was leaving for her native place Burdwan, after her husband’s death.

I searched high and low for her contact number or address, but seems like ‘Zee’ vanished. The Bougainvillea stood still, laden with the flowers, but nothing seemed gleeful. Thick layers of dust and dry leaves filled the lawns and courtyard. Millions or perhaps a zillion things flashed across my memory.

My phone beeped with the usual message alert, ‘hows Zee?’flashed a message from my sister. I looked around to have a one last look and later sent them a selfie with ‘THE BOUGAINVILLEA’.