Memories of House No. 13 on Friday the 13th

In the orderly lanes of New Officers' Colony, Ambala City, every house wore its number with bureaucratic pride—12-A, 12-C, and in between, the mysterious 12-B. It didn't take much imagination to understand that it was House Number 13, camouflaged in decorum. Officially, the number didn't exist because superstition demands we tiptoe around certain digits as though they possess dark powers. But to us, it wasn't cursed. It was simply home.

- Ritu Kamra Kumar

My father, a man of reason rooted in quiet faith, shrugged at the taboo. "A number doesn't build or break a home," he often said. "People do." He stepped into that bungalow with unshaken belief, his truth louder than any superstition. And the house—sun-drenched, breezy, full of corners that clung to memories—welcomed us like an old friend waiting to be proven right. Its verandah, framed by bright bougainvillaea, saw birthday parties, board exam breakdowns, laughter loud enough to rattle windows, and silences deep enough to echo in memory.