the house on naala banda

We sat in the empty plot, surrounded by the ruins of what once was our childhood home. The house on Naala Banda was more than just a building, it was a memory, a feeling, a sense of security. My cousin, Ali, and I had spent countless hours playing in the streets, chasing each other, laughing. But now, the house was gone, demolished to make way for a new high-rise. Ali and I just sat there, not saying much, just looking around. We'd both moved away from Hyderabad, but this place was still home, still the place where our hearts were. I thought about all the times we'd had iftar together, all the times we'd played cricket in the streets, all the times we'd gotten into mischief. The memories were still there, but the physical place was gone, and it felt like a part of us was missing. After a while, Ali got up, and we started walking around the plot, looking for anything that might be left of our old home. We found a few bricks, a broken tile, a rusty nail. It was like searching for treasure, except the treasure was just memories, just feelings. We didn't say much, just walked, and remembered, and felt the weight of what we'd lost.