Home. How intimate is your connection with your home? The nook which you designed, a wall you painted with your favorite right shade of magenta, your comfortable chair rightly placed in front of the window which passes the scent of lilies every morning. Your dad’s wardrobe you would sneak in once a week to take a shirt from. The one he hanged in the left corner of the top partition as a routine.
I seemingly have forgotten my first home. It’s balcony my mom tells me was my favorite place and it sure must be, for my little self stays captured as an album in all her shades beside the flower pot, amid the white pigeons and a rustic balcony.
I have been disciplined in designating places to myself in the next twelve homes we switched in the span of fourteen years. Once it was the perfect storeroom which housed tools and amenities one would need to build a spaceship. The other time I remember vividly this brick wall with Warli paintings spread over with white paint. My excuse? It was my first interschool event!
Aha, and the dressing table in my second last house, where I would love smearing expensive lipsticks over my hands, and lips, and cheeks and shush, my paintings!
I remember getting cranky each time we left a house to shift to another, such a hassle I tell you. I wasn’t supposed to leave my paintings on walls like that, I wanted to carry them with me. Each wall had with me a special connection, each corner a scent I still haven’t forgotten. And how unfortunate I was to have all memories in there.
Until I moved to our own home, not on lease like the last eleven. A home which feels alien even after six years of living in it. The thrill of smearing walls and annoying the next incomers was long gone now. This place, ours forever, hasn’t ever seemed to excite the urge to capture a corner. An eerie place, custodially mine, and strangely foreign. Maybe it could never make me feel home. Maybe I never tried to make it mine. Or maybe, I will realize its importance once I move away.
There are days when the paths of those early homes return to mind. Like any other memory, those divine scents of walls. And follows it is a thought that how fortunate I was to have all the memories in there, to have lived in not one but twelve homes, to cherish each, to remember it all, how fortunate I was to have experienced it all.
they say home is where the heart is.