I ambled through the narrow lane between several fleets of bungalows and

chalets on either side cemented with an uneven stretch of glossy,

varnished cobblestones. I was visiting my old family mansion after seven
years and still the vicinity seemed untouched by the usual hustle and bustle
of the huge, polluted, metropolitan cities. The white stucco bungalows on
my sides were tinted with peeling lemon colored paint at the corners.
Several blotches and stains of coffee and brown colored sludge were
splattered over the walls. There were steep stone steps leading towards
the bungalows obstructed by lofty gate made of flaking rusty iron.
There were a few aged residents strolling along the stoned street
supported by wooden walking sticks, glasses slipping down the bridge of
their noses due to the greasy and slippery wet they were drenched in.
Behind them a crowd of teenagers chortled at some joke quoted by their
leader who was a well portioned boy with untidy hair wearing a T shirt that
read “Support Manchester City F.C.” and a pair of rugged levis jeans.
There were groups of small children playing around a fountain near the
heart of the vicinity while their mothers stood beside chattering loudly as if
no one was listening. After walking a few more yards i saw a cluster of tall
beech trees through which streams of golden light pierced through the
space between the leaves, and behind them stood the great white mansion
made of marble glistening in the sunlight making it impossible to look
directly at.