What is a home? What does it mean to you beyond walls, rooms and roof? To me, its a refuge, a shelter. I think we all look for what we do not have.
Most of my childhood was spent in cramped spaces. I remember staring at awe, when we moved into an entire colony of apartments. It was the first time I saw an apartment. I imagined they would be huge places to live. Ours was a small place. Smaller still, it was, for a family of four. But, it was what we could make do with. I remember stepping into the balcony only to find that it provided more view of the neighbor’s bedroom than the blue sky outside.
I like(d) nature. Trees, sky, clouds, moon, stars, flowers, water, bees, butterflies, sparrows, they calmed me like nothing else could. So, I would step out into the balcony from time to time to catch a glimpse of the night sky with moon sometimes, and sometimes the stars when it was clear. The sky’s expanse reminded me to take deep breaths that somehow seemed hard to come-by in small spaces.
There was no corner of the house I could make my own. I did have two racks where I stored my books and toys. That was my whole world.
Privacy is hard to come-by in small homes. Silence is hard to come-by. So, I’d occasionally grab a book and climbed to the terrace and sit under the water tank, right above our flat. I’d gaze at the moving clouds, reminiscing words of Wordsworth. One day, I’ll go abroad, I told myself, either to Concord, or Lake District or Kansas and build a log cabin like Thoreau and sit outside in the mornings to observe the sky and rabbits hop by. That I’ll stumble upon a host of golden daffodils in my walks. Little house on the prairie, Walden, Wordsworth clearly held sway on me. They still do.
My home, my place of refuge would be a log cabin on a prairie.
Talk about dreams. Growing up, I guess, is the realization that some dreams remain dreams but yet finding a way to be hopeful. You may dream. But, you still have to live in reality.
The next place I stayed for a long time was in my grandparent’s house. Here I was given a whole room for myself.
My books, clothes, a desk with a computer and a dial-up modem. The computer table was where I operated from. My window into the vast world. That was my command center. That room and desk gave me an anchor. It was where I dug my roots. Felt settled. That room gave me privacy to think, to close the door on the world and retreat. I read, I entertained friends, I watched movies, I gazed out into the beautiful garden maintained by our neighbors from the window. In the rainy season, the sight of the drenched leafs, the smell of the wet mud and jasmine flowers wafted through the air filling the entire room with a sense of peace and calm. It was a place I could go back to, to rest after a tiring day. This was my first private space. This was the closest refuge I would have, to that of a log cabin.
After marriage, my wife and I moved into a small flat in the city, to cut out travel distance to work. We managed through, in it, for almost seven years. My desk here had changed. Now, I had a small one, that fit only the desktop. It was not ideal for anything other than using the computer. I did not have a decent chair that made long term sitting comfortable. And, when you don’t have decent tools at your disposal, your psyche unconsciously avoids using them. So, my desk and computer ended up gathering dust. Mobile phone, laptop, iPad replaced it’s usage. Now, I was operating from the bed with all these tools scattered around me. Not an ideal setup. But, I made do with what I had, occasionally dusting off the desktop and using it, till the day it decided to crash on me.
Now, there was a part of me that was like a dog. Just the way it would, at the end of the day, go round in circles, chasing its tail, before it slumped down to rest, I needed a place too. A corner in the house with a desk and chair that would become my goto place in the universe. The place I knew at the end of the day, I would return to, in my home.
Two years back we purchased a flat, which we moved into a year back. A beautiful place with plenty of sunshine and air. My wife even converted a wall into a library, to house all my books. I would pick a book from there, and walked around the house reading it. When a thought triggered, I’d go back to my bed, where all my notebooks and laptop were strewn around and get cranking. I needed a desk and a chair. But, I postponed investing in one.
So, the feeling of still being adrift remained. I needed an anchor. A quiet corner in the house, to reflect, to think, to write drivel, and to work.
Home, was a treacherous word for me. It had seldom been the refuge I wanted it to be. Sometimes it was because of the places, sometimes it was because of the people. My experiences had left some scars that made me very insecure. I feared and believed, I was destined to be homeless. I still have some such moments. So, I unconsciously avoided settling down.
I tried become more comfortable in my own skin, like a Buddhist monk. My body would become my home, I told myself. That way, I would never be evicted. But, I knew, though I did not acknowledge, that I wanted some space in a corner to crash. Everything in the house has a place. What, was my place? The bed? I had to address this feeling of being unmoored in my own home.
The push came through because of the lockdown. Continuous working from home lead to severe back pain. I needed a table and chair to support my back than for any fancy ideological need. So, when IKEA started delivering after relaxation of the lockdown, I jumped in joy and ordered. It took a week for delivery and installation.
I now, write these words, from a nook in our house, from a minimalist desk that I personalized with few quotes, music, a reed diffuser and a plant. The dog in me has finally found it’s place to rest. This corner of the house has become my personal space, my window to the world.
At the end of the day, I am among my loved ones. And I, ‘am in my cove of silence. I’m finally home.
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