When no one is watching, he goes close to a bungalow, a hut or an old ruin and opens a conversation. Some of them are shy, but others are thrilled and open out because he is the only human being who actually pays attention to them and wants to interact with them, not just use them for their benefit.
The small huts, cottages and old bungalows are quite forthcoming in talking about themselves, giving him insights into their history and how they were constructed, maintained and used. But the huge multi-storeyed buildings are quite arrogant and proud of their height and glory – they do not care much for people like Aab. They think they are immortal, though they are the first ones to collapse in earthquakes. Aab is an eternal optimist, so he does make attempts now and then, craning his neck to see the tall ones and asking about their well-being, but is often brushed off.
Thatched roofs are soft and loving, they give shade. Giant glass buildings frown and brush off with their reflected heat. Verandahs invite people into them like giving hugs, and Aab praises them for their warmth.
Since Aab is centuries old himself, he finds greatest connection with structures who also belong to the earlier centuries. Many of them are in ruins, some may not even have a roof over the crumbling walls. Some are gigantic, like the great forts, but many more are small, neglected and dilapidated half-structures ravaged by nature and human beings in succession. Yet each one of them has its own life experiences to talk about – and Aab is more than willing to listen.
He would like to share his learning with human beings, but he is apprehensive that if he admits that he talks to structures, he may be declared insane and put away in an asylum. So as usual Aab keeps his joyful learning to himself.
