We lived in a home for over a decade of my two decade old life before moving to our present haunt. Yesterday, it was the first time that I visited my paternal grandparents after coming here, it was my third outing since the audacious yet invisible COVID proliferated in the environment and maiden commute to another city. I didn’t really set on the journey with much pre occupations or assumptions about the impending meet-up but there was one thing I was pretty sure about, I WOULD NOT CROSS THE THRESHOLD OF OUR HOME which was just a street away from my grandparents’. Partly because I had a nightmare just few days prior to this and partly because of reasons still too enigmatic for my small mind. The only poem which can articulate the thoughts in my mind is, I think “Questions on Travel” by Elizabeth Bishop.
Was it because of the dead and draining days I’ve spent there, the times I’d never wish on worst of my enemies, the anxiety, the frequent bouts of depressive episodes, the sickness and what not? Or was it because of hopeless duality of diurnal rhythm of life which once used to be something I looked forward to with enchantment? I spent my childhood there, made a billion memories, it was the ONLY place I could – one upon a time – call mine. Our homes are centres of our respective universes, no matter how far and frequently you travel, there is no place like home. The comfort of even a lousy bed which somehow succeeds in making you feel cozy on the coldest of days, the shade of curtains stained by your dog, the doors and windows, which even if screeching, never fail to offer you an off tune symphony made with memories. The walls full of happy and candid photographs of your family or your childhood captured in local costumes during vacations and posters of your favourite quotes to remind you of whom to be like, the same walls which have heard the loudest of your laughters and meekest of your cries, the dome which lets in the first rays of sunshine right at the centre of your lobby in the morning, the balcony where you sipped your coffee, the terrace where you cracked open peanuts in wintertime or went for solitude and stargazing, the charpoy where you laid trying to identify shapes of passing clouds and smiled when an airplane passed overhead while your mom applied coconut oil to your hair and the showers which never made fun of your singing.
Your home, the place where you woke up every morning with dreams, worked on them and walked out only to come back in the evening when they manifested and sometimes, to prepare for lost chances. The home where your parents are, the sibling is, the favourite plant you’ve been watering since years stands, the same home where you became the person you wanted to be even if for a milli second. The place where every corner has a story to tell, a perfect concoction to be sipped slowly containing bits and pieces of an entirely incomprehensible and invisible matrix of your life. The same place where you gravitated back, no matter what.
After a two hour long car ride with masks on and heavy migraine, I reached Ludhiana. The bougainvilleas of different shapes and colours on dividers of the road were enough to remind me I was back to where I once belonged. A huge metal board with LOVE LUDHIANA engraved on it in golden colour stared at me while I tried to click a photograph but couldn’t because of the speeding car. Maybe, the board knew I wasn’t as much in love with the place as before, after all. My place, the beautiful place. I stayed there for 6-7 hours with a deep desire to see my home which didn’t tally with what my brain dictated and I, the woman of principles lets her brain take over in most matters of heart after knowing what impulsive decisions taken by heart can do. I came back with an even stronger migraine but oddly enough, I have no regrets for not having visited the house because isn’t it what the difference between the home and house about?
The people inside the fragile structure of brick and mortar make it a strong and safe home. Ours was anyway made of ‘Ambuja Cement’. Lame, sorry! Everything in this world is fragmented : the atmosphere, the elements of universe and even the self. The only thing which is one unified whole is the love we have for each other, the love which is unbiased, not judgemental, the love that is not only the means but the reason and the goal too. If you live in an ultra expensive penthouse apartment with a toxic environment, believe me, it is not worth it. Whatever is toxic for your mental health is not good for you, stop believing otherwise.
But when you can’t feel at home in your own house, where would you go?
We are humans. We feel lonely. We feel anxious. We wonder why can’t we have someone to share everything with, someone who is as vulnerable and fragile like we are but enough for us to make the sense of why and whom we were searching for in the first place. I am very grateful for a few people who love me and those who keep on pinging and checking on me but there is still something left. A pet? A best friend? A Guru? Unfulfilled wishes? All of them perhaps. Had universe not exposed me to facets of life I didn’t want, I would’ve never known what to discard in the years to come. I would’ve never realised how important it is to have a space to call your own, solely your own, where each wall, every piece of furniture, every single atom belongs to you & supports you, your dreams and your ambitions.
Is it possible to let others in? Even the people you’ve spent your whole life with? Perhaps. But all I know is that the sizes and aesthetics of the house never matter in long run. What you are feeling inside it is what does. Believe me, I know what I am talking about. Just like our beautiful bodies of various shapes, sizes, colours but with different problems or the reality which no one knows about. Or the flat which remains the same but tenants keep on changing just like we change our bodies but soul remains the same, stronger and wiser with every different house/costume.
Eventually, even if a place (or people) which you love with all your heart becomes restrictive to your growth, you have to leave it. Even if life turns back to normal, the air at that place never stops haunting you. Sometimes, for your own good because for how long will you cling to something which no longer feeds your soul? After all, isn’t this what life all about? Moving on? Separation? In search of hope, of life, of love and of self? I am slowly learning to be my own home. For how long can we wait for others to heal us? I never relied on that, anyway! When Ram Dass said, “we are all walking each other home.” all I could think about were metaphors or returning to the absolute but I wonder how can we return to something which is always within us? We never left. We are always the self, the awareness, the reality, the Brahman. We are just a little lost, the goal is to break free of the path itself, let universe take you by surprises and yet not be surprised at anything.
I wish everyone reading this lots of love and light, not only inside your houses but yourselves. I wish you recognise your own light to guide you and embrace you when you feel defeated by this fleeting mortal journey, the light which gives you hope to persevere, work a little harder and brick by brick, wall by wall make this house a home again because it is what matters the most.
Love,
P
🎵: Today’s strings attached : Hindi / English
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