I have spent a large part of my life in the Old Pereira house, my home.
It's hidden like a fossil, engulfed almost entirely by an overwhelming forest. Fat walls and ceramic tiles are worn and crumbling while scattered glass tiles on its high roof filter light into patterns onto the smooth red-oxide floor, perennially cool and slippery. Still, my memories of this space are both real and constructed from images and stories.
Today when I go back, I see myself reading in the large verandah with Coltrane playing inside and I'm not sure if that's a real memory; neither did I know what jazz was back then nor can I remember what I was reading. The two images in this piece complement each other - one being what I would imagine my home to be like; a perfect Goan house in the perfect evening light, and the other being how I actually recall it; negative colours and indistinct boundaries, strikingly vibrant and without shadows.
This house is currently under renovation and soon it's decrepit walls will smell of fresh paint and once again procure the love it deserves. However, it's haunting mustiness has been it's defining characteristic for many years and I had come to call that home.