Last November I went home on a short trip for my college reunion. It was the first time I was there without the children and it felt strange, too quiet. One morning I took my cup of tea to the swing on our terrace.
It was a cool morning and the sun felt good on my face. The tea was hot, with a hint of ginger, a little sweeter than necessary, just the way I liked it. Multihued bougainvillea bloomed cheerily in large planters at the far end of the terrace. The freshly watered plants gave off a delicious petrichor.
This wasn’t the house I grew up in. My parents shifted from our University home to this, their own bungalow, about a decade ago, when they both retired. And yet how easily I called it home. The children of course had known no other. This was their nani’s house. Each summer when we went to visit, they marked the room on the terrace as their territory, forbidding anyone to go there in their absence. Such was the sense of belonging. But me? I moved out long ago. I don’t have many memories in this house, there’s no history.
How has this house, where I spend just a few days each year, come to mean ‘home’?
Perhaps it is because of the sounds of the city that seep in uninvited – the North Indian lilt in the call of the vegetable vendor on the road outside or the maids exchanging gossip and greetings in a familiar language before they rushed off to their chores.
Perhaps it is the flowers that bloom in profusion no matter where my parents live. From our first home in the old city where together they sifted mud and gravel, adding just the right amount of sand to coax out the largest roses, to the carpet grass in our second home that they lovingly tended, spending long hours with gardeners discussing which seasonals should go where, to these gorgeous Bougainvillea here on the terrace, we’ve always had flowers.
Perhaps it is the odd pieces of furniture that have survived the moves, like this swing that I sit on, each creak familiar, each squeak telling a story, every languid move bringing with it a memory of long hours lounging on it mugging up for a Geology exam or solving Math equations.
Or perhaps it is simply the sense of space that ‘home’ has always had, the sense that I try to bring to my flat, hoping to make it a home for my children. I have always loved my home, no matter where I’ve been but it isn’t the same. I can never quite re-create ‘home’, perhaps because the feeling is only in my head.
Or perhaps it is the comforting presence of my parents as they sit talking, bickering vigorously about everything from why he shouldn’t travel so much to why she shouldn’t stay so long on Facebook.
Perhaps it is all of that.
Perhaps home is not a physical place after all but a feeling, a feeling that I belong.
Hello Tulika ji,
Your beautifully written post touches my heart! Even I have grown in different places and stayed in different houses at different periods of my childhood! The structure, the building is not the same – but old artifacts, furniture, paintings, photographs, kitchen utensils, etc. – all remind of the familiarity from childhood days. And parents bind all this memory and familiarity together.
Perhaps your concluding line sums it up in the best possible way.
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Thanks so much Kislaya for the warm comment.
Beautifully written, Tulika. It’s so hard to find what makes a place a home, and yet we know that feeling when it hits us.
Thank you. It sure does. I think for me, my parents are the anchors that spell ‘home’.
They do say “Home is where the heart is!”
Loved your musings on this Tulika – a space that lets you be and every sound, every action makes you feel secure – I guess that is Home!!
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Hey thanks Shalz. Yup Home is many things, most of all it is something intangible, a feeling.
This is a really beautiful piece of writing. I completely agree- home is a feeling.
Thank you visiting Noor. Glad you agree :-).
Beautifully penned piece Tulika. I do think home is a place where you belong and you can totally belong to a place. You don’t have to have roots there either or memories. Sometimes, it’s just what it is. That feeling.
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Isn’t it? What’s interesting is that the reverse is also true, sometimes the home of your childhood changes so much that it no longer is home. The place truly is incidental.
Home is definitely a feeling.. a feeling of comfort, warmth & belonging. Which is why people can be ‘home’ too. I know for me, my hubby is my ‘home’ in more ways than one. Even though I fully realize it sounds cheesy, and filmy, but it is also the truth.
That being said, I associate home with broader geographies too. For instance, India is home, so is US. Which is why I experience conflicting sets of emotions travelling between these two places. Whenever I am set for an India visit, I keep talking about going home. And while I am there I long to come back home (to US). But it all does make sense in my head, even though it sounds ridiculous & complicated to some people.
All that to say, home is definitely a feeling, subject to many interpretations. 🙂
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That’s exactly true Shantala. We can and do have more than one home. I end up torn between the two, just like you. Pune is definitely home to me but Lucknow shall remain my love forever.
You did a very nice job expressing emotions and questions that, I think, are common to many people. I like how you use flowers to connect all of her “homes”.
Thank you Jessica. Yeah, we’ve always had flowers no matter how small or large a garden we’ve had. That is definitely part of home for me.
What a lovely description of home, both the physical house and the concept.
Thank you Jen.
Or perhaps it is the comforting presence of my parents as they sit talking, bickering vigorously about everything from why he shouldn’t travel so much to why she shouldn’t stay so long on Facebook. <– so love this "old hat". People are "home". 🙂
Yup, the conversation and the arguments are part of home for me :-).
Oh, your writing made my heart go warm, Tulika. You are so talented in bringing that nostalgic feeling in one’s heart. I wanted to hug you after reading this. <3
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Aw Vinitha that’s the sweetest compliment. Thank you. I’m glad the post made you nostalgic, that’s exactly how I was feeling as I wrote it.
Love this! I just woke up in my hometown this morning and heard the same birds I woke up hearing most of my life and a flood of memories came back. There really is no place like home.
Thanks for dropping by Amber. The sounds are very much part of a place. We may not even be aware of them but they do remain in our memory.
Your descriptions are so beautiful. Makes me long for a place lost in time. Especially the odd pieces of furniture but. When we were young, we had always struggled to arrange our house in a proper symmetrical way, yet it is the most cherished place for us… somewhere we find peace and order. The ending is even more beautiful. Sigh!! how do you write like this!!
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That’s the thing about home it doesn’t need to be perfect. That’s what gives it character and that is perhaps what we love. Thanks a ton Raj for those kind words.
Aww! This is such a beautiful and a heartwarming post, Tulika. Evoked so many emotions and memories for me too! You should write more often and perhaps a book too!! 🙂
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Aw thanks Shilpa. That’s really sweet but a book is ambitious :-). I’m glad I get to my blogs a few times a week.
This was such a beautiful read, Tulika. It triggered so many memories and feelings inside of me. Home takes on such a different dimension at different phases of life, doesn’t it? Home is definitely much more than space. It is made of the people and memories, space too but how it feels to our heart and mind. Loved this post!
That’s right? Home is so many different things to different people. I hadn’t even realised that listening to a spot of Hindi in a North Indian accent could make me nostalgic.
I hardly spent a year or two in the place where my ‘Home’ is now. But how I understand each of that emotion that you have talked about. Such a heart warming post. This is going to remain with me for a long time Tulika.
Thank you Anupriya. Glad you liked the post :-).
So much to love about this piece. That there is no singular physical place that becomes home- but a feeling that makes it so.
This made for a lovely, nostalgic read and it’s strange, because although I have never been to this place or even met you, you just made it all come alive. Power of good writing. So well done.
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Thank you Shailaja. Perhaps being away from a place makes it dearer. I think all of us have a special place in our hearts for home.