The Long Way Home

12th May 2018

My writing desk is right next to the large sliding window--the view is dominated by a large teak tree that has decided to be the last stand against concrete infraction. Two other nameless trees across provide some aid in this endeavor, but it's the teak tree that is the hero. It's leaves and swatches of sky stand undefeated by the buildings that are closing in, providing nests to a multitude of bird families, and bird song and leaf-rustles for those who will listen.

A particularly brave lady-sparrow lands on the railing, sees me looking, and takes flight.
The owl shaped wind-chime tinkles a quite farewell.

My house, it is lovely. Small but airy. And resourceful. I know that is a strange word to use to describe a house, but nothing else captures the ingenuity that creates storage space and an additional bathroom, and makes room for all those pointless knickknacks that you know is technically clutter but is actually love. This house is caring. It goes out of its way to do all sorts of special things just for you without making you feel beholden. It makes room-- for you, and yours. Gives you private little corners to talk to yourself with impunity. Light, quite space that welcomes your music, your laughter, your sighs. Dark, soft edges to rest your head and nurse your heartaches. Cool soft shades to cushion your falls and failings and disappointments. This house is sanctuary.

Forgive me the digression. I was proud of this house.

This house was home.

It's barely half-way into the year but, there have already been so many good byes. To people, to places, and to homes.

One of the quirks of the NRI, and later the  hostel existence is that it lulls you into thinking that you are good at change. That your knowledge of inevitable leave-taking makes you impervious to the pangs of parting heartache. You are the champion of renouncement, the queen of disengagement. The flower that lets go of its fragrance with a smile. A pro at goodbyes, and quick, clean exits. Like the snip of garden scissors on a green stalk.

There is a certain fatalistic acceptance of the ephemeral nature of every home, but the wabi-sabi of the sentiment comes with it's unique brand of desperate, contrary possessive happiness. Love, even. Every detail becomes that much more. No, that's not right. It's more a sense of ripeness-- it is not a question of amplification, rather a sense of fullness, complete in and of itself. Everything is exactly as it should be.You have the tasted the fruit at it's sweet, ripe, best, saturated with the moment-- a perfection that comes from not trying. Savored, loved, remembered, and finally let go. The letting go is important. Anymore and the moment will fade, wilt, corrode. The traveler knows this.The wind knows this. That's why they only carry what comes along.

Unfortunately I am not the wind. And I have not traveled enough.
This house was home. And now it isn't.

The sun has set.
I cannot make out the leaves of the teak tree in the darkness. I suppose we all need to a take a break from fighting. The bird song has been replaced by cricket symphonies and the occasional skittering of some unknown being.A curious mouse, with a sense of self-preservation that signaled an early demise, pokes its nose into my room through the window, sniffs twice and makes a quick retreat, to both our relief.

The clicks of my keyboard echo in the room. The little knickknacks that I know is clutter (but is actually love) have all been cleared, packed, sent away. There is little here that reminds me of what was, and so the good byes are easier, friendlier, bloodless. The air is breathless with the heat that foretells a thunderstorm, and the window is the only respite from the oppression of the inside. The fan whirs vigorously, letting me know it's trying it's best to keep me breathing.

The writing desk is unchanged though.
Quiet and comforting, it stays like that friend who comes to see you off at that deserted station in the middle of the night. An unintrusive solace that tells you that you can go on and go in peace. A small mercy that lets you feel less alone as you step out into an indifferent universe.

This house was home.

Perhaps I could not achieve the perfect ripeness that would have made this parting painless, but this house is wiser than I.

The cab will arrive in a few minutes and the house has said its goodbyes.
I shut the last windows and close the front doors-- The Nun and the Slut as I call them, based on their willingness to open-- the chalk-board name plate I attached to the place catches my eye. The faded vestige of my name clings to it's dark face. Perhaps I am not the only one that will do the missing this time.


29th Sept, 2018

There's no writing desk in this room, but there is a large window. A lot more trees, a lot more sky. A firmament that is confident of it's unchallenged sovereignty. My cousin tells me Fall weather when it's not raining is the best. He is right. The Canadian geese make lazy glides across the platinum sky, assured of a swathe of welcoming wetland. The backyard is usually graced by grazing deer who have shelved their fear of mankind till the next hunting season. The little dog, who is pure love in a canine form, pops its snout into my computer screen, reminding me that my hands are for petting.
I listen with half an ear, to the chatter from downstairs, just so that I know when we are supposed to head out.

This house lets me think it is home.
It lends me its strength and nurses my bruises. It does not pretend to be anything more than it is. But it is so much more than it seems. It's not mine, but it's there for me.

There are as many homes as there are friends. As there are loves. As there are stars in the sky.
May be in time, I will find the wisdom to live this truth. But it seems there's still a long way to that place.